It was in the anteroom to the cell system, beneath the Ku Klux Klan compound, that Clive's father spoke of Clive's next rite of passage. “The leaders of the order have decided it's time for you to become a banif.”
The thought of becoming a banif excited Clive. A younger klansman had said that they were the only ones allowed to have the red heads, but when Clive had asked his father about it, he'd been told to continue refining his iron butterfly technique. Clive had been practicing the iron butterfly technique on sausages at least once a week for a while now.
Clive's father added, “If your technique is deemed good enough you'll be given the anlace of the banif and ordered to remain silent about the privileges you obtain from being a banif.”
“What's an anlace?”
“It's a ritual dagger.”
An astral police officer led Clive to a cell along the corridor where the males were stored and told him to check the cell where Clive had performed his first genital torture.
Clive opened the peephole to the cell and stared at the naked Asian male, restrained in the chair. It was the same victim that Clive had given his first fistula to. He found it fitting this would be his first iron butterfly victim.
When Clive entered the cell, he saw the CD player plugged into a socket along one of the walls. He brandished his concealed butterfly knife in front of the victim, feeding on the fear in his eyes. He hadn't even taken it out of the handles yet and the chink was already terrified.
Clive put the CD player on repeat and pressed play. The instrumental music of the Iron Butterfly theme song pervaded the dingy cell with its eerie guitar riffs, organ music, and effeminate moaning. The song was enticing. Although he generally detested hippy culture and music, Iron Butterfly was an exception. Not only was the theme song entertaining, but the songs about girls were very good for sex.
“Blood isn't the only thing that's red,” hinted one of the astral police officers.
An overwhelming grin spread across Clive's mouth as he approached the Asian male to stand in front of him.
“There's a reason why they're called the Asians of Caucasians,” added another astral police officer. “They are the cream de la crème of the Southern Confederate slave trades.”
The victim's eyes widened in sheer terror as Clive deftly flashed open the butterfly knife with his right hand, revealing the blade. It made him think of all the wannabes, who had learned to do that with a butterfly knife just to look dangerous. They would never know the occult secret of the iron butterfly.
Clive reached out for his victim's penis with his left hand and stuck his blade against the opening of the urethra, causing his victim to jolt with just the slightest touch. Then Clive pressed deeper as he'd been taught with pieces of salami. The victim screamed out in shock and Clive opened a wound from the urethra to the line where the foreskin meets at the bottom of the penis, running his blade all the way down to where the penis met the testicles. He positioned the mutilated penis upward against the stomach to display his handiwork. It was a perfect cut.
“Spread your wings and fly, chink,” said Clive, wistfully. The victim was passed out cold with his head sunk down against his chest. “It was nice torturing you.”
“He's wasted goods now,” observed one of the astral police officers. “Your reward is in cell one thirty seven.”
The fervor of expectation flooded into Clive's veins over a godlike elation as he left the cell to find his prize.
In cell one thirty seven, there was a cute red haired girl with an insatiable lust for orgasms. Clive soon learned that the other klansmen hadn't been exaggerating. They truly were the Asians of Caucasians.