It stank. Foul and tepid, it oozed from a seep that led deep down and beneath. Freakish thrills, closed doors and chains called me further than I'd ever expected to slide.
It had been a man. Some might try to argue it still was. It did breath but it did barely so. The gag sees to that and to silence. Cords wind round it and the ladder. They hang from the joists in the garage and they sway to the lash in hand.
Electricity is good but knives are proving better. The look in the eyes says it all. There is terror sure, but there is more. Submission, sickness, and wretched existence and now the eyes call to death in siren songs. "Free me! Stop my torments and take me from this hell." They speak exactly what one wants them to speak.
The stereo plays loud enough, just enough to be unavoidable. White Zombie agrees with me. "I Am Hell" is our song, don't you think? Try to stay with it for a little longer. You were such a strong boy when you called me all those things in front of the others. Now lets buck up and see what you're really made of.
This had been Grandmother's. It's a pickle fork, she had said. It looks like an eagle's clawed foot but small and grey in its stamped steel coolness. The cut is deep enough and bleeds sweetly. There it is, left of the navel by two and a half inches just through the fat and then the muscle, struggling muscles tangle against the Old Chicago Cutlery and fight to stop the steel's edge as it cuts them in two. An odd sensation shudders through the handle as living tissue is parted and shrinks from the keened sharpness buried within it.
The eyes close and open wide and close again. The spine moves in spasm and the throat, long dry, rasps a shrill sound. Urine flows again.
"You know you deserve this! You gave me shit every time you could. This is my shit! How do you like it?"
The pickle fork is small, hard and long. Ten-inch shaft of steel and the little hand of claws on its end, all of it calling to be used. It passes the skin; blood seeps down the shaft. Fat's next, then the fibers of muscle squirm to resist our little darling's evil intrusion.
One hand on the ropes to pull and the other to shove the pickle fork deep. Look in the eyes, knowing there is no hope. There shall certainly be no mercy.
Deeper, dive deeper in little hand. Now pull up, up and back and stop. Now there's something. It feels soft and it's in our sharp little hooks. Now, we twist the pickle fork, the little clawed hand full of soft things deep and dear. Twist tightly and wind it about, careful not to loose hold of what's found out.
Do we pull slowly or fast? Slow hurts real bad; fast might just pull free. Slow it is then. Soft things suck as they slide out taught and squirming through the cut we've opened for their exit and out into the open air. Pink, white, blue, and certainly red, so many different colors.
The eyes blink and then vomit seeps from behind the ball. Another cut, another pull with Grandmother's pickle fork. More fun for me. More pleasure than I can remember. Eventually, it's time to wrap this up. Throw it in the truck. Drive out to the creek and tie it up in tarp with a bow.
Gasoline is the amateur's usual choice, but some still prefer kerosene; kerosene and a highway flare. It's a good fire. It should stop kicking soon, it's already stopped screaming. No one really cares about doing these things well anymore. It's pitiful how so many amateurs grab attention with work less artistic, less fully realized in their statements, not caring enough how well they are made. This one, however, is a good one by anyone's standards.
Three fingers down the throat, what does it mean? Teeth pulled and put in a pocket. The genital mutilation is the key though. This is more statement for statement's sake and it is time consuming, more so than most would care to expend in order to accomplish it with any kind of style. Here too, they will wonder why remove them before burning? Why remove them at all? Wonder on, my prey, wonder on.
"Hey there, are you listening?" Eye's blink in slow cycles of our resurfacing consciousness. "What? Sorry, I must have nodded off while you were talking. Please continue"
Faces turn, eyes narrow and more than one sneers. "You, Loser, try to fit in!" That's their message, and especially his.
Kerosene, and a highway flare, Grandmother's pickle fork,
let's wait and see shall we?
© 2003 M.E. Stucky, all rights reserved
appears here by permission
This is a simple exploration into the darkening of character and as such is an entirely new direction for me.