In the dark underbelly of humanity, a demon sits. The skin of a pale, fish-white belly is stretched thin from its relentless appetite.
It feeds on our sickness, our hunger, our hate. It feeds until the stomach splits open and pallid children wiggle out in a flood of red.
The children spread. They feed. They sate themselves on a diet of pain and misery. Like animals, they eat far past what their flesh can stand. Until they, too, split and release a flood of pale, squirming children.
They die and multiply from over-consuming our senseless violence. Not one knows the pain of an empty belly.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
"Nobody Helps Me"
Stop! No! You're all making a damn terrible mistake! Don't you feel them?! Jumping! Jumping!
Ping!
And they scream in my ears and burrow under my skin and into my eyes! You can see the tunnels on my arms, can't you?! They're as plain as day!
You can't see them!? You goddamn. FUCKING BASTARD! No-no don't go don't go. You don't understand. So many times I've been told not to worry. I have cause to fucking worry! Daniel- fucking Danny- that shit-stealing brat of mine was the one who caused this! Fucking cocksucker brought birdseed into MY house like a dipshit!
They came so fast. So fast and so quick. I can see them if I close my eyes.
The dog had to go- it was the only necessary course of action! I had to kill him! And of COURSE I had to gut the mutt like a hog- I needed the evidence- the bugs buggies bugs gbugs.
My wife divorced me soon after. She tried taking my Danny away from me. I had to kill HER, too. Not just for me or for Danny but for the whole world- she was damn full of those buggies! And she never helpedSHE NEVER FUCKING GAVE A SHIT! I know she tried, but she was too occupied with her job and her needs and RICKY. RICKY that little manwhorefucker she was still interested in him if I was RICKY she'd go to the ends of the fucking Earth for RICKY but I'm not RICKY SO I'M FUCKING SORRY I COULDN'T BE YOUR PRECIOUS RICKY FOR YOU SARAH... she CLAIMED she never spoke to him after the proposal but I knew. Oh I KNEW. So I shot Ricky, too.
So I tried using herbal remedies- sebben dust, Cat's Claw, Bentonyte Clay and MSM, but nothing worked. So I went to the doctor fucking pharmaceutical lapdog whore and asked for help but the doctor was a dirty big bucks Pharisee whore so I killed him. And then I tried killing myself but I realized how to make the bugs stop. Forever.
I tied Danny to a chair and doused him and myself in kerosene and lit a match. I was glad the house was burning and Danny that little shithead was up in smoke for what he did to me but the cops grabbed me before I went up and they-
oh. Sorr, but that's all the scoop you're gonna get. Maybe now they'll know why and what I was feeling. Hey, is my poison needle ready, Governor? The bugs probably chewed my veins up so be careful stickin it ha ha ha ha
oh
oh God.
Ping!
Ping!
Ping!
And they scream in my ears and burrow under my skin and into my eyes! You can see the tunnels on my arms, can't you?! They're as plain as day!
You can't see them!? You goddamn. FUCKING BASTARD! No-no don't go don't go. You don't understand. So many times I've been told not to worry. I have cause to fucking worry! Daniel- fucking Danny- that shit-stealing brat of mine was the one who caused this! Fucking cocksucker brought birdseed into MY house like a dipshit!
They came so fast. So fast and so quick. I can see them if I close my eyes.
The dog had to go- it was the only necessary course of action! I had to kill him! And of COURSE I had to gut the mutt like a hog- I needed the evidence- the bugs buggies bugs gbugs.
My wife divorced me soon after. She tried taking my Danny away from me. I had to kill HER, too. Not just for me or for Danny but for the whole world- she was damn full of those buggies! And she never helpedSHE NEVER FUCKING GAVE A SHIT! I know she tried, but she was too occupied with her job and her needs and RICKY. RICKY that little manwhorefucker she was still interested in him if I was RICKY she'd go to the ends of the fucking Earth for RICKY but I'm not RICKY SO I'M FUCKING SORRY I COULDN'T BE YOUR PRECIOUS RICKY FOR YOU SARAH... she CLAIMED she never spoke to him after the proposal but I knew. Oh I KNEW. So I shot Ricky, too.
So I tried using herbal remedies- sebben dust, Cat's Claw, Bentonyte Clay and MSM, but nothing worked. So I went to the doctor fucking pharmaceutical lapdog whore and asked for help but the doctor was a dirty big bucks Pharisee whore so I killed him. And then I tried killing myself but I realized how to make the bugs stop. Forever.
I tied Danny to a chair and doused him and myself in kerosene and lit a match. I was glad the house was burning and Danny that little shithead was up in smoke for what he did to me but the cops grabbed me before I went up and they-
oh. Sorr, but that's all the scoop you're gonna get. Maybe now they'll know why and what I was feeling. Hey, is my poison needle ready, Governor? The bugs probably chewed my veins up so be careful stickin it ha ha ha ha
oh
oh God.
"Flash Me the Winning Smile"
In 1942 Adrian Botwovski was acquitted of all charges. He was arrested for five homicides in which he slowly dismembered and disembowled five female Polish immigrants who lived in the same neighborhood. His winning smile somehow lead to his full acquittal to the shock and anger of the families of the deceased.
Amateur. Brash and brutish. Going STRAIGHT to the gutting!? Bah. It has none of the flourish and true artistic beauty that comes from tenderly grasping, caressing, revering and almost worshipping each organ as you remove it. And he forgot to remove the eyes.
In 1967 Michael Sorton was somehow miraculously acquitted by unanymous vote of the jury even though he stood ground for one charge of assault and one charge of murder. HIs infamous blinding of Lucinda Forrester with binoculars that had blades in the lenses and his even more infamous killing of Margaret Doyle with a bear trap set in the pillow will have to face no repercussions. The jury foreman was later reported talking about his winning smile.
Subtle, and treating the kill or the torture more like a true art form, a find Rembrandt (that, in a literal sense, the Lucinda girl will never have a chance to enjoy again). But too impersonal. And he burst the Lucinda girl's eyes instead of removing them with dignity and grace! Does the fool not know the beauty of a freshly harvested eye!?
In 1988, Allistair Cheney was arrested for the manipulation of fifteen girls into the ritualistic murder of eight other girls; he is also suspected of the rape-murder of 28 young boys in his hometown of Shenuba, Georgia. He was aquitted, surprisingly and to the shock and hatrid of the American public, his winning smile won the hearts of the jury in a manner similar to the Botwovski and Storton cases of the 40s and 60s.
This man! This man disgraces all serial killers everywhere! What happened to the kids aside--though I prefer to leave the canvas that is the body of my victim untainted with foolish disgusting portrayals of lust and power other than the work of my knife--but this person has the gall-! Having others do the killing for you! Switching between a set group of targets and modus operandi!? Where's the uniformity!? Where's the art?! The pizzazz--it's like carving one of Shakespeare's sonnets into a man's back and he's treating it like Dr. Seuss's Book of Masochism! I would kill this man and make him eat his own testicles had he not been shot by an angered and vengeful police officer not one month later!
How any of these men call themselves "killers" is beyond me, and the worst thing of it all is they get off with a paltry, insignificant mortal smile! Oh... oh I assure you My smile is a lot better, and my methods, well, you know my methods by now, don't you? Well, most of them.
Come on now--don't whine, nobody can hear you under that gag and you couldn't see your way out either--let's see if I can't turn carve skin and flesh into a magnum opus of true beauty.
Amateur. Brash and brutish. Going STRAIGHT to the gutting!? Bah. It has none of the flourish and true artistic beauty that comes from tenderly grasping, caressing, revering and almost worshipping each organ as you remove it. And he forgot to remove the eyes.
In 1967 Michael Sorton was somehow miraculously acquitted by unanymous vote of the jury even though he stood ground for one charge of assault and one charge of murder. HIs infamous blinding of Lucinda Forrester with binoculars that had blades in the lenses and his even more infamous killing of Margaret Doyle with a bear trap set in the pillow will have to face no repercussions. The jury foreman was later reported talking about his winning smile.
Subtle, and treating the kill or the torture more like a true art form, a find Rembrandt (that, in a literal sense, the Lucinda girl will never have a chance to enjoy again). But too impersonal. And he burst the Lucinda girl's eyes instead of removing them with dignity and grace! Does the fool not know the beauty of a freshly harvested eye!?
In 1988, Allistair Cheney was arrested for the manipulation of fifteen girls into the ritualistic murder of eight other girls; he is also suspected of the rape-murder of 28 young boys in his hometown of Shenuba, Georgia. He was aquitted, surprisingly and to the shock and hatrid of the American public, his winning smile won the hearts of the jury in a manner similar to the Botwovski and Storton cases of the 40s and 60s.
This man! This man disgraces all serial killers everywhere! What happened to the kids aside--though I prefer to leave the canvas that is the body of my victim untainted with foolish disgusting portrayals of lust and power other than the work of my knife--but this person has the gall-! Having others do the killing for you! Switching between a set group of targets and modus operandi!? Where's the uniformity!? Where's the art?! The pizzazz--it's like carving one of Shakespeare's sonnets into a man's back and he's treating it like Dr. Seuss's Book of Masochism! I would kill this man and make him eat his own testicles had he not been shot by an angered and vengeful police officer not one month later!
How any of these men call themselves "killers" is beyond me, and the worst thing of it all is they get off with a paltry, insignificant mortal smile! Oh... oh I assure you My smile is a lot better, and my methods, well, you know my methods by now, don't you? Well, most of them.
Come on now--don't whine, nobody can hear you under that gag and you couldn't see your way out either--let's see if I can't turn carve skin and flesh into a magnum opus of true beauty.
"The World Died..."
When the world came to an end, it was a grand, dramatic affair. The seas ran clear with ichor, smoke and flames filled cities ravaged by war, the screams of the masses were like the most beautiful singing, and ice coated the world.
People turned on each other, guided by invisible strings, cutting swathes through crowds in a macabre dance. People stepped through doors only to disappear off the face of the planet. A horde of shadow-men attempted to organize everything back to the way it was at the beginning of time, tearing down buildings so as to bring nature back into dominance.
A slender man stalked the land, impaling all he could find on his many tentacles. Every insect was a monster, every bird a storm.
When it was all over, all was silent for a while, almost as if a moment of silence upon the death of an entire species. Suddenly, from all around, came a grotesque applause. As if a host of abominations beyond understanding had just seen the greatest entertainment they'd ever known.
The world died on the silver screen.
People turned on each other, guided by invisible strings, cutting swathes through crowds in a macabre dance. People stepped through doors only to disappear off the face of the planet. A horde of shadow-men attempted to organize everything back to the way it was at the beginning of time, tearing down buildings so as to bring nature back into dominance.
A slender man stalked the land, impaling all he could find on his many tentacles. Every insect was a monster, every bird a storm.
When it was all over, all was silent for a while, almost as if a moment of silence upon the death of an entire species. Suddenly, from all around, came a grotesque applause. As if a host of abominations beyond understanding had just seen the greatest entertainment they'd ever known.
The world died on the silver screen.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
"Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies"
The children jumped rope and skipped down the hopscotch squares and sang a song that went like this:
Nobody knew what the song meant. They had all heard it from someone else. If you lined up the children in a chain and asked each one where they had heard the rhyme, they would point to each other and if you were to somehow untangle, to reach the endpoint, you would find that the first child had heard it from somebody that wasn't there, someone they had met on the way home.
But nobody asked them where the rhyme came from. The children played tag and hide-and-seek and when the bell rang, they slumped their shoulders and dragged their feet back to class where the teacher taught them that two times two is four and four times four is sixteen, but any number times zero is always zero.
There were never any snow days, but whenever winter rolled around, the children always wished there were. They wished for a day when snow would fall like in the movies, when they would be able to see a snowflake that wasn't made of white paper, when they could build real snowmen and have snowball fights and when they got tired, they would go inside to drink hot chocolate. Nobody asked the children what they wished.
Nobody asked the children anything.
And then, one day, it did snow. It was not like the snow in the movies—it was not pure white, but a shade of blue. They did not see it come down from the sky, but rather it already covered the ground when they woke up. They woke up and their dreams had come true.
There wasn't enough snow for school to be canceled, however, so each child was dutifully dropped at school and each one trudged to class, their gaze looking out at the snow-covered playground.
At recess, they hurried outside to play in the snow, but the sun had already done its work and most of it had melted, leaving only puddles and wet grass.
And then they heard the rhyme:
When the bell rang and none of the children returned, the teachers all went outside and found there was nobody there. There were manhunts and rewards and tearful pleadings, but none of the children ever came back.
If you stand in the playground in the dead of winter, however, and listen carefully, you can hear singing:
He is near and he is far.
Closest house and furthest star.
No more sadness, no more fear.
He is far and he is near.
Nobody knew what the song meant. They had all heard it from someone else. If you lined up the children in a chain and asked each one where they had heard the rhyme, they would point to each other and if you were to somehow untangle, to reach the endpoint, you would find that the first child had heard it from somebody that wasn't there, someone they had met on the way home.
But nobody asked them where the rhyme came from. The children played tag and hide-and-seek and when the bell rang, they slumped their shoulders and dragged their feet back to class where the teacher taught them that two times two is four and four times four is sixteen, but any number times zero is always zero.
There were never any snow days, but whenever winter rolled around, the children always wished there were. They wished for a day when snow would fall like in the movies, when they would be able to see a snowflake that wasn't made of white paper, when they could build real snowmen and have snowball fights and when they got tired, they would go inside to drink hot chocolate. Nobody asked the children what they wished.
Nobody asked the children anything.
And then, one day, it did snow. It was not like the snow in the movies—it was not pure white, but a shade of blue. They did not see it come down from the sky, but rather it already covered the ground when they woke up. They woke up and their dreams had come true.
There wasn't enough snow for school to be canceled, however, so each child was dutifully dropped at school and each one trudged to class, their gaze looking out at the snow-covered playground.
At recess, they hurried outside to play in the snow, but the sun had already done its work and most of it had melted, leaving only puddles and wet grass.
And then they heard the rhyme:
I am here and I am there.
With snow and skies and frosty air.
Let's go where it snows all year.
I am there and I am here.
When the bell rang and none of the children returned, the teachers all went outside and found there was nobody there. There were manhunts and rewards and tearful pleadings, but none of the children ever came back.
If you stand in the playground in the dead of winter, however, and listen carefully, you can hear singing:
They are cold and they are here.
With all their friends so near.
Always young and never old.
They are here and they are cold.
"Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair"
My true love's hair is thick and coarse and black. Sometimes his hair feels soft, like feathers; sometimes, each hair is as hard and as sharp as a needle. Sometimes I wonder if his hair symbolizes his mood—but then I realize it's useless to wonder about my true love's mood or motivations. They will forever remain a mystery to me.
My true love's teeth are yellow and his tongue is pink. At night, he will crawl into bed with me and lick my face and I will whisper, "Good boy. That's a good boy." My true love's breath smells of meat and death.
I first met my true love when I was twelve. He followed me home one day after school and I asked my mother—begged, really—to keep him. She said no, but my true love followed me home the next day and the next and eventually I wore her down.
The first time my true love disappeared, I was distraught. My mother tried to console me, told me that it was bound to happen, of course, but I was inconsolable. After five days of crying, though, my true love returned to me. I was so excited, I barely even noticed the police cars and ambulances down the street. Not my problem—I had my true love back and I would never let him go.
Of course, it didn't work out like that. My true love would disappear for days on end and then come back to me. Sometimes he would be covered in dirt or dried blood, although I could never find a cut or wound on him. But I didn't care—as long as he came back to me, I was happy.
My mother grew suspicious of my true love over the years. "He looks the same," she would say. "He looks like he hasn't aged a bit." I would just shrug—I had noticed that, too, but it didn't matter to me. It just meant my true love would stay with me longer.
He stayed with me during college. He stayed with me when I went to my first party. I remember the drunken frat boys with their hands pawing at me. And I remember the next day when my true love came to me with their hands in his mouth. "Good boy," I said as I patted his head. "That's a good boy."
After college, I moved back home and found a job. Something to keep myself occupied while my true love is away. He is away for longer and longer times now. Sometimes I go months without feeling his fur between my fingers.
But it still does not matter. He is my true love and he will stay my true love until I am an old woman with gray hair. And as I lay upon my death bed, he will come to me and open his jaws and I will finally give away my heart to my one true love.
My true love's teeth are yellow and his tongue is pink. At night, he will crawl into bed with me and lick my face and I will whisper, "Good boy. That's a good boy." My true love's breath smells of meat and death.
I first met my true love when I was twelve. He followed me home one day after school and I asked my mother—begged, really—to keep him. She said no, but my true love followed me home the next day and the next and eventually I wore her down.
The first time my true love disappeared, I was distraught. My mother tried to console me, told me that it was bound to happen, of course, but I was inconsolable. After five days of crying, though, my true love returned to me. I was so excited, I barely even noticed the police cars and ambulances down the street. Not my problem—I had my true love back and I would never let him go.
Of course, it didn't work out like that. My true love would disappear for days on end and then come back to me. Sometimes he would be covered in dirt or dried blood, although I could never find a cut or wound on him. But I didn't care—as long as he came back to me, I was happy.
My mother grew suspicious of my true love over the years. "He looks the same," she would say. "He looks like he hasn't aged a bit." I would just shrug—I had noticed that, too, but it didn't matter to me. It just meant my true love would stay with me longer.
He stayed with me during college. He stayed with me when I went to my first party. I remember the drunken frat boys with their hands pawing at me. And I remember the next day when my true love came to me with their hands in his mouth. "Good boy," I said as I patted his head. "That's a good boy."
After college, I moved back home and found a job. Something to keep myself occupied while my true love is away. He is away for longer and longer times now. Sometimes I go months without feeling his fur between my fingers.
But it still does not matter. He is my true love and he will stay my true love until I am an old woman with gray hair. And as I lay upon my death bed, he will come to me and open his jaws and I will finally give away my heart to my one true love.
"After the Ball was Over"
After the ball was over, all that was left were ash and cinders.
I was just a servant. My job was to be as quiet and invisible as possible as I refilled the guest's goblets and wine glasses. I saw so many guests, all dressed in their brightly colored finery; princes and dignitaries, duchesses and regents. Twenty boars had been killed and cooked for this ball and their apple-stuffed faces looked at me as I passed them by.
I, like the rest of the servants, was nobody. Just someone trying to earn an honest living. The servants were all dressed in black, with the same black half-masks, so everyone would know who we were. The guests, on the other hand, had a variety of masks to choose from—everything from small diamond masks to elaborate face masks made from porcelain and gold.
Everyone noticed when she stepped into the room. How could we not? She was the most beautiful among them. Her dress was a golden yellow and her hair was a deep red.
But though she looked like them, she did not act like them. I later learned that she was a simple servant girl from a different house who scrubbed and cleaned. How she had managed to make such a gorgeous dress I do not know—perhaps it was magic. Perhaps whatever entity possessed her that night made it for her.
In any case, she tried to fit in, but could not. It was plainly obvious to the rest that, despite her beauty, she wasn't one of them. In fact, her beauty caused them to be more cruel in their whispers, creating more lies for their rumors.
If this was a fairy tale, the night would end with her dancing with a prince and losing a shoe. But this is not a fairy tale. The night ended when one of the guests—perhaps he was a prince, I do not know—got a bit too drunk and decided that he wanted her and tried to take her.
She resisted and pushed him away, but the damage had been done already. More whispers, more cruel lies surrounded her. As she tried to slip away, someone grabbed her dress and ripped it. She looked down at the rip, her mask slowly slipping from her face.
Someone must have recognized her—perhaps someone from the house she cleaned was at the ball, I do not know—for the whispers intensified.
I thought perhaps I should do something then, perhaps lead her outside, to protect her, to shield her. But I did nothing. Sometimes I wonder if I should have stayed and become ash with the others. I deserve it, for doing nothing.
Her mask was gone and her face was a vision of beauty and sadness and pain. She looked around at the various guests and then looked up. "You were right," she said. "You were right."
Then her face looked down upon us and her sadness had transformed into something else: anger. She was someone else at that point. Her body glowed incandescently, as if she was hot metal on an iron. She raised her arms, her hands upturned, and sparks flashes from her fingertips. The sparks caught on her dress and it went up in flames. She laughed and twirled around, the fire spreading out from her like waves. She was beautiful and deadly. Those closest to her burned first, then the rest. The fire seemed to be alive even as we ran. It caught those behind me with tendrils of flame.
I do not know exactly why I was able to leave and the others were not. Perhaps she wanted someone to spread the story. Perhaps she simply did not care enough to kill me.
All I can remember as I ran is the heat and the sound of her laughter. And after the ball was over, when all that was left were ash and cinders, as the smoke curled around me, all I could do was shiver.
I was just a servant. My job was to be as quiet and invisible as possible as I refilled the guest's goblets and wine glasses. I saw so many guests, all dressed in their brightly colored finery; princes and dignitaries, duchesses and regents. Twenty boars had been killed and cooked for this ball and their apple-stuffed faces looked at me as I passed them by.
I, like the rest of the servants, was nobody. Just someone trying to earn an honest living. The servants were all dressed in black, with the same black half-masks, so everyone would know who we were. The guests, on the other hand, had a variety of masks to choose from—everything from small diamond masks to elaborate face masks made from porcelain and gold.
Everyone noticed when she stepped into the room. How could we not? She was the most beautiful among them. Her dress was a golden yellow and her hair was a deep red.
But though she looked like them, she did not act like them. I later learned that she was a simple servant girl from a different house who scrubbed and cleaned. How she had managed to make such a gorgeous dress I do not know—perhaps it was magic. Perhaps whatever entity possessed her that night made it for her.
In any case, she tried to fit in, but could not. It was plainly obvious to the rest that, despite her beauty, she wasn't one of them. In fact, her beauty caused them to be more cruel in their whispers, creating more lies for their rumors.
If this was a fairy tale, the night would end with her dancing with a prince and losing a shoe. But this is not a fairy tale. The night ended when one of the guests—perhaps he was a prince, I do not know—got a bit too drunk and decided that he wanted her and tried to take her.
She resisted and pushed him away, but the damage had been done already. More whispers, more cruel lies surrounded her. As she tried to slip away, someone grabbed her dress and ripped it. She looked down at the rip, her mask slowly slipping from her face.
Someone must have recognized her—perhaps someone from the house she cleaned was at the ball, I do not know—for the whispers intensified.
I thought perhaps I should do something then, perhaps lead her outside, to protect her, to shield her. But I did nothing. Sometimes I wonder if I should have stayed and become ash with the others. I deserve it, for doing nothing.
Her mask was gone and her face was a vision of beauty and sadness and pain. She looked around at the various guests and then looked up. "You were right," she said. "You were right."
Then her face looked down upon us and her sadness had transformed into something else: anger. She was someone else at that point. Her body glowed incandescently, as if she was hot metal on an iron. She raised her arms, her hands upturned, and sparks flashes from her fingertips. The sparks caught on her dress and it went up in flames. She laughed and twirled around, the fire spreading out from her like waves. She was beautiful and deadly. Those closest to her burned first, then the rest. The fire seemed to be alive even as we ran. It caught those behind me with tendrils of flame.
I do not know exactly why I was able to leave and the others were not. Perhaps she wanted someone to spread the story. Perhaps she simply did not care enough to kill me.
All I can remember as I ran is the heat and the sound of her laughter. And after the ball was over, when all that was left were ash and cinders, as the smoke curled around me, all I could do was shiver.
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