The Fallen Archangel Mammon – A short story

A story about how the Fallen might act should they ever walk the Earth.


Here it was, fifteen million people spread across nearly five thousand square kilometres. Streets and houses filled with desperate individuals, all clawing for survival in the ruins of the old and the horrors of the new. Already, the very fabric of society had shattered, leaving the citizens at the mercy of a power that was here to terrify the world.

Mammon, one of the Fallen, had been busy. He had waited a long time for this moment.

The body he had chosen was a parody of human beauty. The hapless soul whose flesh he rode had been tricked into saying yes to Mammon’s angelic possession. It was a body perfect for the vengeful archangel to shape into his own vision of how a man should be. Obese in human life, the host’s flesh had now swelled with a grotesque display of blubber that Mammon kept on proud, naked display. Mammon had no need for finery, preferring to show off his pale and sore ridden meat for all to gaze upon. His brothers liked to adorn themselves in silks and tailored suits, cut to fit muscular legs and torsos, but not Mammon.

His body grew in size with each passing day.

When Mamon walked, which was seldom the case, it was said that the very ground quaked with his gargantuan presence.

Most of the time, Mammon rested on a throne he had constructed with the power of his thoughts. Whereas his brothers flitted here and there on futile errands, Mammon spent his time resting, the regime he was constructing bending to his overpowering will. The seat of his power was fashioned from ancient bone, each piece collected from the graves that this city had in such abundance. A whole legion of unwilling serfs had been tasked with digging these remnants from the ground, all to create the first throne of many.

Welded together by a power no human could comprehend, the skeletons of the dead were a warped and jagged construction that creaked with the weight inflicted upon them.

The present home for Mammon’s despicable seat of power was the grand chamber of the Congreso de la Nación Argentina. Whereas once the humans of this proud nation had passed their flawed and corrupted laws here, now Mammon was the only arbiter over this land. This was where he presently ruled, all while gorging himself on the food brought to him by those who wept and cowered in his presence.

There would be similar thrones in the days to come, all spread across the continent. Only when a city was dead would Mammon move on, leaving his architecture of death behind. These seats of power would be a constant reminder to all that heard of them, a teasing promise that Mammon would one day come to the city they lived in. And when he appeared, miraculously out of the blue, the torment of the ages would begin in earnest.

There were so many cities in so many countries that Mammon could have chosen to begin his great extinction, but Argentina was where he began his eradication of the human species. He had no time for games or elaborate theatre. Instead, while he forced food into his desperate maw, he would chuckle to himself as his swarm of demons made short work of the defenceless human population.

Already humanity was turning on itself, violence unleashed freely by those whose souls were already lost.

Mammon would feast while this city died. And, when the last human breath was plucked from screaming lungs, he would leave this place, only to take his seat on a necrotic throne in the next city.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

It was good to finally be free of Hell.

It was good to have humanity in his grasp.

In this place, Mammon decided who lived and who died, served by the demonic throng who chattered for his approval. Each of the black-eyed fiends was charged with bringing death and torment to the hairless apes who once thought their lives to be so precious. At their side, human collaborators, those whose souls were ridden with the stench of trauma and bubbling evil, worked tirelessly to outdo each other in the atrocities they could perpetrate.

Humanity had been created to be pure and noble, so Mammon took great satisfaction when desperation and sadism made them the worst examples of what men and women could represent.

Those who killed were rewarded with another day to relish their depravity. Those who refused to save themselves through fealty and wretchedness could only hope that the hour at hand was not the tolling announcement of their end.

Mammon demanded the suffering of the masses, and with close to forty thousand people a day finding the merciless fingers of death caressing their hearts, Mammon hoped the next three decades would move at a snail’s pace. It was right and just that people died, but more than anything, Mammon wanted the people to suffer.

He wanted to savour what he was building here.

He wanted to make this anguish last, and he knew that humanity was possessed of a tenacity that kept them forging on, even in the bleakest of times. For every one that took their own lives, ten would try to fight and scratch away to keep a grip on their pitiful existence. The human spirit would give Mammon his greatest entertainment.

He would concentrate on one city at a time, the rest left virtually alone until Mammon was ready for them. Through his power, he would keep the flow of demons from Hell in check, leaving the vastness of the continent to wait in dreaded anticipation for his arrival.

Mammon wanted to taste as many wretched cries as he could.

Each city would see a monument to Mammon’s hatred for humanity. As the capital of Argentina, Buenos Ares would be the first major population centre to see the artistry he had ordered constructed, and his only fear was that he might weep at the glory of what he was creating.

Outside, in the Plaza del Congreso, a huge mound was being constructed. By the hour, a constant convoy of open back trucks brought the corpses of those tortured and shredded. Each body delivered was added, naked and broken, to the pile of the damned that was being erected.

It was a beautiful sight to behold.

How high would a mound of fifteen million people rise? And how much scaffolding would be needed to ensure the pile reached its highest peak? To help with this, Mammon had ordered that five men with the skills needed to construct his despicable tribute be kept alive and well fed. They had little choice but to accept their new calling, their tortured minds kept placated by a free and plentiful supply of alcohol.

Mammon could have created his inglorious monstrosity through the power of his will, but where was the fun in that? He wanted to be able to watch as the vermin of this world did the work for him.

Happy days.

To Mammon, the stench that rose up from the cadaver pile, that filled his nostrils with its constant presence, was like the finest lavender. Not so for those forced to erect this huge, and ever growing, sombre assembly. Some might pity those who were forced to work constantly around the smell of death, and it amused Mammon to think of the unwilling workers out there gagging, knowing that someday soon, they too would be added to the horrifying mound of flesh.

Never had Mammon known such joy at his own deviousness.

Worse was Mammon’s strict instructions that the perimeter of this great work be always marked by the faces of those lain there. He wanted to one day slowly walk around what had been built and see nothing but skulls and lifeless eyes, for by then, the flesh would have rotted from many, leaving only bones.

Just as it should be.

How high could the corpses of these millions rise? Was such a construction even possible? If human ingenuity failed, then Mammon would be there to ensure that the laws of physics were broken.

By his reckoning, Buenos Ares would be stripped of all human life within the year, and then Mamon would vanish, only to reappear in the next metropolis

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