The Cult of Bad Bunny

Bad Bunny at the sacrificial altar

The chamber glowed in candlelight, and ropy fumes searched out the far corners for empty spaces to occupy. Bad Bunny faces, dozens of them, peered through the haze with heavy eyelids. The investigator — also Bad Bunny — tugged at the hood of her robe and tried not to tremble. If any of the other Bad Bunnys noticed the fear in her jaw, they would know she was not a Bad Bunny who belonged here.

Smoke curled upward, thick as paste, carrying the sweet stink of resin. Above, the curved dome of the ceiling ebbed in and out of focus as the lights flickered and flowed, creating a stormy strobe above the assembled cultists in their bleak and stolid robes.

The circle of Bad Bunnys chanted. Their voices reverberated off the stone walls and became their own percussion. Words shifted into tones, syllables smearing together until the music of it was less language than atmospheric pressure, pushing outward against what was visible. The investigator kept her voice low, lips moving just enough to mimic the rhythm. To fail to sing would be to reveal herself.

In the center, on an altar, lay the sacrifice: Bad Bunny, skin mottled by the fickle light, chest rising and falling slowly. He was drugged and bound in ritual knots, hair spread like ink, moustache and goatee untamed. He smiled faintly in confusion, whispering sounds none of the other Bad Bunnys could hear.

A Bad Bunny stepped forward, this one wearing an amulet and headdress signifying leadership. From his robes he produced an elegantly carved dagger and lifted it slowly and dramatically so all Bad Bunnys present could see. The blade hungrily absorbed every flicker of candlelight. When the tension had reached a peak, he spoke the demon’s name. The chant swelled: Bunny, Bunny, Bunny.

From the cloudy dark above, something began to unspool and descend. Tentacles. Slick, shifting, and wet… each one ending in the same familiar face. Bad Bunny tentacles. They pawed blindly at the air until they found the flesh of the victim, then slowly began to engulf his gently squirming body.

The investigator Bad Bunny felt the sweat beginning to bead on her forehead. She pressed her open hand against her robe to feel the bulk of the recorder in her pocket. Would it capture this chorus of selves, this infinite self-worship? Could sound alone convey the madness of this debauched cult and their demon master?

A stone bowl was passed from Bunny to Bunny across the darkened chamber. Each Bad Bunny dipped his fingers into it, then smeared it across lips and tongue. When her turn came, the investigator peered down at what appeared to be sparkling grains of starlight in a coal-black powder. With no alternative, she tasted the drug. It entered her like a bassline, vibrating her very bones. She steadied herself, trying to ignore the slurping sounds of the feasting demon.

Now the chanting changed, its rhythm speeding up as excitement and pleasure rolled through the evil cultists' Bad Bunny bodies. Their shadows undulated and their heads twitched as euphoria and hunger rose up in waves.

The investigator summoned the courage to raise her eyes to the altar and realized that the Bad Bunny sacrifice, though in the grip of the great beast, still lived, still struggled. She watched as the leader lifted the ceremonial knife higher. This, then, was mercy. What was still visible of the pitiful offering breathed out, long and slow, and at the tail of the breath, the leader plunged the knife into the victim's chest once, twice, a third time. The chanting gatherers accompanied each thrust with groans and coos, not just complicit in but engaged in the orgasm of death. The demon's tentacles calmly pursued flowing blood down the sides of the marble dais.

Maybe it was the effect of the drugs, or maybe the horror of what had unfolded had broken her mind, but the investigator began to understand a shift in the chamber. The robed, ethereal figures that filled the room, flickering in musical patterns, had begun to shift their stances. They were no longer focused on the altar and the gory ritual that had played out as it had so many times over the centuries. They seemed, at this point, to all be facing her. And the investigator — Bad Bunny among Bunnys — realized she might never leave. Perhaps she had always been here, chanting her own name to herself, waiting for her turn.

Outside, solemn, silent blackness pressed silent against the curtained windows. Inside, the Bad Bunnys intoned their ancient mumble rap into the long and dreary night.

Neil Oldman for the Daydream Misfit blog

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