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Illustration by Jim Krewson

THE SATANIC MODEL OF PSYCHOSEXUAL DEVELOPMENT - PART 2

By Gus Visco

Witte slept deeply and did not dream. She woke to the sound of the nursery entrance opening and slamming shut. William Jr. came running. Behind him was Williamston.

“Momma, Momma,” said William Jr.

“Hey, little boy. Did you have fun at school?” Witte picked him up and set him on her lap.

“I missed you. I wub you,” said William Jr.

Witte laughed with joy. “I love you too, so much. I love you so much.” She held William Jr. close.

“You’re settling in well,” said Williamston. “That’s good.” He sat down across from Witte.

Witte looked down at William Jr. in her arms. “I want to talk to the lieutenant general for a moment. Can you go wash your hands?” William Jr. jumped out of her lap and waddled to the bathroom.

“I want to ask you about William Jr.,” said Witte.

“What about him?”

“You said he was a machine. He’s not a machine.

You’re either lying or mistaken.” Witte paused, expecting Williamston to respond. He said nothing. She continued. “What is he? Where did he come from?”

Williamston smiled. “He’s a weapon,” said Williamston. “There’s a temple. In this temple there are creatures. Some of these creatures are good and some are bad. They’re all very different from each other.”

“Is William Jr. one of these creatures?” asked Witte.

“He was,” replied Williamston. “All that remains of the creature we used to create William Jr. is feathers and skin.”

Witte understood. He wanted her to imagine William Jr. being murdered, or in pain. She believed Williamston was insane, and evil. She believed he was responsible for the toys in the nursery. “You’re lying,” said Witte. “You’re sick in the head.”

Williamston ignored her accusation. “We have a terrible new enemy so we need a terrible new weapon. We asked one of these creatures

for help, and we got it.”

“What creature?”

“A giant snake,” said Williamston. He studied Witte’s reaction.

“How giant was this snake?” Witte was making fun of him, but Williamston didn’t flicker.

“The length of this room and as thick as you are tall.”

“Fuck you,” said Witte, but her voice was weak and fearful.

“I’m being honest with you,” said Williamston.

“And where did these toys come from?”

“The snake brought them. He brings new toys every week. They’re gifts for William Jr.,” said Williamston. Witte was silent. Terror swelled up inside her. She now felt certain that Williamston was dangerous, and she was his captive.

“Do you know anything about robotics?” asked Williamston. Witte did not respond. He continued, “There is no way we could have ever created something as sophisticated as William Jr. on our own. Not even close. The snake told us where to find the creature we used to make William Jr. It told us how to kill it. It told us what parts of the creature to keep and how to destroy the parts we didn’t need. It gave us schematics on how to build the machine inside. There was new data on material sciences, chemical engineering, quantum computing—most of the time we were simply following instructions we didn’t understand, and out came William Jr.”

Witte said nothing. She refused even to look at Williamston.

“The snake gave me your book,” said Williamston. “It was the snake’s idea to bring you here.”

Witte was offended. She responded with anger. “I don’t believe you even own a copy of my book.” She picked up the nearest toy—Dead Burnt Lesbian—and threw it at Williamston. It missed completely and fell to the floor. “Everything here is sick. You’re sick.”

Williamston unclipped a communicator from his belt and held it to his mouth. “Thomas, I want you to go into my office. Third shelf from the bottom on the bookshelf behind my desk is a book written by a Dr. Patricia Witte. I want you to bring it to the nursery, immediately.”

“I’m on my way, sir,” replied Thomas. Williamston returned the communicator to his belt. He was about to speak when William Jr. returned from the bathroom and climbed into Witte’s lap. Williamston stared intently at Witte as she cradled William Jr. in her arms. After a moment they heard someone enter the nursery. Thomas approached carrying a copy of Witte’s book.

Thomas was tall and chubby. His crooked haircut covered his ears. With the exception of the uniform, he looked more like part of a prison work-release program than a member of the military. Williamston received the book from Thomas. “Thank you, Thomas,” said Williamston. “Now go pick up that doll.” Williamston pointed to Dead Burnt Lesbian on the floor.

“This doll?” asked Thomas.

“Yes, that doll, Thomas. Pick it up.”

Witte watched as Thomas knelt and placed his hand on the doll. When he rose his head was missing from his shoulders. Witte looked down into her lap. William Jr. was gone. Instead she found Thomas’s head. His expression had not changed from when she had last seen it attached to his body. The headless body fell to the floor with William Jr. at its back.

William Jr. ripped an arm from the torso and threw it across the nursery. There was a splatter of blood. He beat on the torso until the chest caved. Then he stopped and, as calm as if nothing had happened, returned to Witte.

Witte thrust her hips to throw the head from her lap. William Jr. took its place. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in the feathers on the top of his head.

“William Jr. is a weapon,” said Williamston. “He appeals to an instinct. He can get close to anyone, gain their trust, and then betray it without hesitation.”

“William Jr., would you ever hurt me?” asked Witte.

“No way,” replied William Jr. “I wub you, Momma.”

Williamston huffed. “William Jr. would pull your tits off and punch them through your heart if I commanded him,” he said. He spoke with sadistic confidence.

“William Jr. would never hurt me,” said Witte. She buried her face deeper into his feathers.

“You hypocrite,” replied Williamston in disgust. He stood, still clutching her book. “Let’s see what Dr. Patricia Witte has to say on the subject.” He opened to a dog-eared page and read:

“If the collective unconscious is a library of dormant memory shadows inherited from our ancestral past, we may ask, ‘How is it organized?’ In the mythos of humanity will we find the Serpent’s book of the tomb shelved next to the Lioness’s book of the womb? What commonalities will we find between our ancestral mother’s love and the bloodlust of the ancestral predator that stalks us? Can these forces at odds emanate from the same foundation? And if so, of what form is the creature that unites the two?”

Williamston closed the book and let it drop at Witte’s feet. Witte did not look up. “Well,” said Williamston, “say something.”

“I don’t remember writing that,” said Witte.

Her response sent Williamston into a rage. He knocked William Jr. from her lap and grabbed her by the shoulders. “You’re dead, you cowardly whore. We’ll let the snake decide how you die.”

“Don’t kill me,” screamed Witte.

“I’m not going to kill you,” said Williamston. “The snake will do that.” He pushed her to the floor, unbuttoned her pants, and pulled them off by the cuffs.

“William Jr., help me,” she sobbed, but William Jr. sat motionless on the couch.

“William Jr. is my namesake,” said Williamston. “He honors me. All my children honor me.” He ripped her blouse and pulled it over her head. “I’ve fathered hundreds of children, all sons, and all by force.”

“William Jr., please help me,” pleaded Witte.

“William Jr. won’t help you,” said Williamston. He knocked her unconscious with a boot to the base of her skull.


Witte was naked on the floor when she regained consciousness. Next to her was Williamston. His head was missing from his body. William Jr. was still on the couch. Witte struggled to her feet. “Did you do that to Mr. Williamston?” asked Witte.

“We need to go, Momma,” said William Jr. He climbed down from his seat.

“William Jr., where is Mr. Williamston’s head?” asked Witte.

“We need to go,” said William Jr. He was getting farther and farther away. Naked, Witte ran after him.

“Where are we going?” she asked. William Jr. did not respond. He scurried to the farthest corner of the nursery. Witte followed.

In the corner, to Witte’s surprise, the walls did not connect. Instead there was a gap that formed a doorway leading into an even larger section of the nursery. The ceiling was higher, the walls further apart, and still a clutter of children’s toys covered every surface. Witte marveled that there was still more to the nursery, and there was so much more. She followed William Jr. to the new farthest corner, and again the walls did not connect. Astounded, Witte followed William Jr. through another doorway into a still larger section of the nursery. She stayed close to him as they navigated their way across the nursery floor and around mountains of toys. When they reached the farthest corner Witte was shocked to find that the walls, again, did not merge. They passed through a massive arch into a space so immense Witte could not see the enclosing walls. Gigantic toys littered the horizon. She needed a rest, but William Jr. would not slow down.

“I’ve followed you into a dream,” said Witte. William Jr. did not acknowledge her. He continued forward.

Eventually a break in the sky appeared on the horizon. Another section of the nursery, she wondered. In time, they passed through the break into a new space. The ceiling was a night sky filled with starlight. The walls were an encompassing horizon that smoldered from distant fires. She perceived its immensity. She was walking on sand. It shifted between her toes. Wonders were all around her, silhouetted against the distant fires. Monuments of antiquity, thought Witte. Structures beyond Witte’s imagination towered on the horizon.

“Where are we going? William Jr., please tell me,” cried Witte. William Jr. ignored her. She could only see his backside moving away from her. She wondered why he didn’t respond. “Did I say that out loud or only think it?” asked Witte. “Am I talking or only thinking?” She wasn’t sure. “How long have we been walking, William Jr.?” Time was distorted in her mind. “Years or minutes?”

“Follow me, Momma,” said William Jr.

“Did you say that, William Jr.?” asked Witte. “Are you speaking or thinking?” She looked at the back of her hands. “What were we talking about again?”

Witte imagined she was a ghost having a dream. She no longer felt the sand between her toes. She moved without effort. Then she woke up.

“Get up, Momma. Get up,” said William Jr. He was standing over her. She was asleep in the sand.

“Where are we William Jr.?” asked Witte. She rose from the sand and found herself at the steps of a temple.

“Follow me, Momma,” said William Jr. He climbed the steps. Witte decided she would not ask any more questions. She followed William Jr.

The temple horrified and delighted Witte all at once. The facade was carved from white marble and dark wood, and ornamented with the faces of thousands of creatures, some she recognized—a bear, a horse, a bull—and some she did not.

They passed though the temple doors into a dimly lit hallway. The walls were lined on either side with rows of masks—a bear mask, a horse mask, a bull mask, and some she did not recognize. The rows of masks extended into the darkness.

William Jr. led Witte down the hall. He stopped midway.

“Put on that mask, Momma,” said William Jr. It was the mask of a duckling. Witte obeyed. She lifted the mask from the wall. It fit perfectly. It made her very aware of her naked body. She felt unshapely, unattractive.

They continued to the end of the hall. Before them was an altar surrounded with bowls, some filled with blood and others with bones. A carpet of pure white animal fur was draped over the altar. Nothing about it seemed unnatural.

Hanging before the altar were two masks, one of a lion and one of a snake. Witte approached. She lifted the lion’s mask from its hook and a voice spoke to her.

“Fill in the grave,” said the Lion.

As Witte inspected the mask for the source of the voice, William Jr. climbed over the rail that surrounded the altar and into a hole in the floor.

“William Jr., get out of there,” commanded Witte.

“Fill in the grave, Momma,” said William Jr. He lowered his head to the bottom of the hole.

“Come out of there,” Witte cried. She stepped over the rail and looked into the hole. The walls and floor were exposed earth.

“Fill in the grave,” said the Lion.

“Fill in the grave, Momma. Please fill in the grave,” said William Jr.

“I won’t. What are you talking about? Come out of there, William Jr.,” said Witte. “I love you.”

“I wub you too, Momma,” said William Jr. “I wub you so much. Please, fill in the grave.”

“Do what is natural,” said the Lion. “Fill in the grave.”

“I won’t,” said Witte. “I love William Jr.” She threw the Lion’s mask.

“Don’t resist,” said the Lion. She could still hear the Lion’s voice in her head. “This is natural. Only your fear is out of place. Fill in the grave.”

Sobbing, Witte reached behind her. Her hand met with the handle of a shovel. Next to the shovel was a mound of fresh earth. Witte scooped earth onto the shovel.

“Fill in the grave, Momma,” said William Jr. “I wub you. You don’t need to be sad.”

With shovel in hand, Witte stood trembling.

“You don’t need to be sad,” said the Lion. “Fill in the grave and everything will be as it should.”

Witte emptied the shovel into the hole. With one scoop of earth the entire hole was filled. Witte dropped the shovel and lay down on the grave. She fell asleep.


When she woke she was at home, naked in her bed. It was dawn. The rising sun provided just enough light for her to find her way across the room. She reached her bookshelf and from it removed The Satanic Model of Psychosexual Development: Dynamics of Deviant Sexual Behavior In Adolescents. She opened to a dog-eared page and read:

“We’ve dissected our child subject’s psyche and, where least expected, found the blood lust of the ancestral predator. Are we righteous in our surprise? Can we liken this flaw to a hole in the child subject’s psyche, implying a hole in the fabric of the womb in which the fetus formed? And if the woman’s womb and the solar lion are one, will we find a hole in the facade of the solar lion, our source of all life? Could this hole be the forgotten origin of the sacrificial fire? And would filling this hole be the metaphoric act of sacrifice required to literally repair the womb and thereby repair the damaged adolescent mind?”

She closed the book and rejoiced at the thought of the new life growing inside her.


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