II
Revenge
2
The First Little Piggy
I woke Mark up first. I wanted the other two to hear his screams as he was tortured. I wanted them to wake up wondering what was coming for them. To writhe in anticipation of the horror that they knew was imminent. Mark was still drugged and snoring loudly four hours after dinner. It gave me plenty of time to get everything prepared.
He was stripped naked and put in old-fashioned stocks. I had a jail cell built just for him. Old-timey bars like Sheriff Andy Griffith’s jail in Mayberry. It looked like the set of some bad western from the nineteen sixties. Alone, ball gag in his mouth, facing the wall with his ass to the door Mark Harris exploded awake with a scream as I punched him in the balls full force. I could hear his cry even through the ball gag. Delightful.
“Mark, do you know who I am? Do you know why you are here?” I asked him in a monotone voice that showed neither anticipation nor guilt.
The fat piggy shook his head no. I put on a set of brass knuckles and walked around to the front of him and removed his ball gag. Before he could talk, I smashed his jaw, giving him that brief moment of hope that he could speak before breaking the mandible. Several teeth flew out and hit the wall, and Mark wailed in pain. I caught him a couple more times in the mouth, knocking him out cold again. I put the gag back in his mouth and slapped his cheek to wake him up.
“Mark, I am one of your victims. You and your buddies abused and tortured, neglected and RAPED me. In nineteen ninety-seven. It has been twenty years and look at what you made me into! After that trauma, I turned my life around. I became the famous writer that you know today. I earned four hundred million dollars so that I could fuck you up; so that I could torture, mutilate and kill you and your friends. Revenge is all that has kept me sane all these years and today, with the help of the fucking mayor of San Francisco I will finally have it,” I said as plainly as I could. I was genuinely having fun with him. He began to cry and started to pee.
I shook my head and thought how pathetic he was. He could dish it out, but he couldn’t take it. I pulled my cock out and began to urinate on him. If he were going to piss on my floor, then I would piss in his face. I could tell the hot urine stung his bleeding lips. He tried to shake his head, to fling beads of piss off in every direction as I finished and zipped up. He got some drops on my shirt, so I broke his nose with the brass knuckles. It exploded in an eruption of blood. Good.
“Now Mark. I am going to kill you quickly because you were the least shitty of the three little piggies. Well, not exactly quick, but the quickest of the three of you. That is for sure. Well, maybe not. Honestly, it really isn’t for you to know.”
He began to cry. I walked over to a table I had set up slightly beside and behind him so that he could not see what was on it. I found a dull kitchen knife, rusty and old. I carved the word pig into his forehead, slowly and deliberately. After the first letter, he stopped fighting me and just went with it. He was crying a steady stream of tears. I put the knife up and brought a container of table salt from the table over to him and displayed it. He whimpered. I poured a handful and smeared it into the letters that I carved into his forehead. He screamed in bloody agony. Great! That inspired me to pour vodka on his face to wash the salt off. He cried again. I had to take the gag off of him; the screams were getting too good.
Next, I brought a map gas torch out and lit it up. The kind that plumbers use to solder copper pipe. I thought about taking it to his nipples but couldn’t resist going for his balls again. I singed the hair off, being careful to not touch the flesh at first. Just when he couldn’t take the anticipation any longer, I applied the tip of the torch right to his scrotum. The poor piggy yelped and squirmed. Oh, it was getting fun!
I spent the next hour cutting off his toes one by one. Then his fingers. I cauterized each wound as I went with an old-fashioned iron. It looked much like the iron that came in the Monopoly game, a relic from the nineteenth century. I kept it red hot with the map gas torch easily enough. Now and then I would take the entire iron and set it, red hot, on his back. It took vast swathes of skin and melted it away instantly. He lost consciousness several times.
Feeling a little creative, I shoved a few of his missing digits up his ass. I only needed a bit of lube, which I had brought to the under-basement dungeon by the gallon. I figured that by the time I was done with the third piggy that a gallon might not have been enough. But did he deserve any lube at all? Ultimately I decided yes. I’m a civilized human being. Not an animal like them. Not like the three bad little piggies.
I gave him a half hour to rest after taking both of his thumbs. I remembered him saying how much he was going to jack off to the pictures his wife took of me when I was being sodomized by Samuel McBride. Thinking about it made me want to do something out of character for me. It made me want to pull my cock out and beat off in front of him. So I did. I walked around to the front and put my dick inches from his face and pounded it. When he looked away I would punch him, so he mostly watched. I occasionally stopped to take a Polaroid on an ancient camera. Flashbulbs weren’t easy to find anymore, but with the kind of resources I have anything is possible.
I was getting bored. I wasn’t going to be able to ejaculate on his face as I thought. I just ain’t attracted to pigs. I figured that I would save it up for his wife. Hell, I might even rape that bitch. Why not? It wasn’t like she was going to live through the night anyway.
“Well Mark, I’m bored with you now,” I said as I put my dick away. “It is now time for you to die.” I got a twenty-two caliber handgun off of my table of implements and lubed up the end of it. It slid easily enough into his ass, despite it having been filled with fingers and toes.
But something overcame me, and I then decided to let him live. I removed the gun and filled his anal cavity with superglue. After putting several tubes of it into his asshole, I knew that he would die slowly as his digits rotted inside of him. Good. One little piggy went to market. I’d make sure that the butler kept him fed enough to prolong his agony.
3
The Second Little Piggy
Next, I went to the cell down the hall, adjacent to Mark’s. His wife was there, bent over a stool with her wrists and ankles handcuffed to each other. God my butler rocks. I tell him something, and he gets it just right, down to the minute details. I walked right in and punched her right in the face. Not hard enough to knock her out and not with the brass knuckles. I took a picture with the Polaroid. Well, the second Polaroid. I had my butler set up a table full of implements in each of the individual cells.
“Your husband is dying. He has been shot. I shoved a gun up his ass and pulled the trigger a couple of times. I used a twenty-two. It should take a while for him to die. A slow agonizing death. I have much worse planned for you bitch,” I said to her. She took her situation much better than her husband and tried to remain stoic about her captivity and torture. “Oh, no reaction. Well okay. How ‘bout this? I thought about shooting him, but cut off his fingers and toes and shoved them up his ass to rot. He’ll go septic and die eventually.”
That seemed to get a reaction from her as she whimpered a bit in anticipation of her own wretched demise.
I noticed a pair of handheld garden clippers on my table. They were the first thing that called to me. I started with Linda’s left ear. Slowly squeezing until I took the lobe off. She screamed, a banshee wail that pissed me off, so I backhanded her. She tried to bite at me defiantly. I wasn’t having any of it. I saw a pencil on my table and decided it was just right for the task at hand. Grabbing her by the hair, I stuck it into her eye, slowly, yet forcefully. I applied just enough pressure to make it pop and blind her, but not enough to put it through the eye into her brain. Again she let out the banshee scream. Again I backhanded her.
Next, I took the garden shears to her nipples. I clipped them both off, quickly. Snip, snip. Her chest became a bloody smear. I thought she had unattractive breasts before, but after
my alterations, they were truly hideous. Bent over the stool as she was, basically hogtied over it, her tits were flopping towards the floor as she twitched. Globs of blood splashing beneath her like red milk.
It was time to rape her. I had just the instrument in store for her, a floppy rubber dildo that had several razor blades inserted into it. I dipped it in my big vat o’ lube and rammed it right into her. She whimpered. I laughed at her as I worked the dildo back and forth, in and out, as rapidly as I could. I paid no mind to the razor blades and pretended that it was any ordinary dildo and any normal sexual situation. I laughed at her mockingly, cursed her for taking no pleasure in my masturbation of her.
I fucked her with the razor cock for ten minutes or so. It left her pussy a mutilated mess. Chunks of her insides clung to the death-dong as I sat it back on the table. She was barely conscious. It was time to take more Polaroids. I shot several, showing her each. She gasped as best she could at the sight of her destroyed genitalia.
I was growing bored again. Linda Harris wasn’t going to get much more of my attention. It was time for her to die. I had something special planned just for her. A quarter stick of dynamite, a little lube, her ass. I showed her the explosive, and she looked at me with pleading eyes that let me know she didn’t care how she went, she just wanted to go from this world. I shoved it up her ass, lit the long fuse and went back out into the hallway. The butler had suggested not doing it, but we compromised. I had him put in a blast door that I could close with the touch of a button. I got out into the hallway and found the control panel. I thick steel door came down from the ceiling and closed her in. A couple of minutes later and I heard a loud popping sound like a bag of popcorn left in the microwave too long. Whoever cleaned that up would definitely be getting a significant bonus come Christmas.
4
The Third Little Piggy
The last little pig sat alone in the last cell, trying his best to be noncompliant, despite the extremely compromised position he was in. My butler had again followed my instructions perfectly. The large man was restrained in a similar way to the other two, naked and exposed. The only difference was that he was standing. He was chained up from the ceiling, his wrists handcuffed. The chains weren’t long enough, so he hung there with the handcuffs cutting into his wrists. Samuel's mouth was sewn closed yet he struggled to make an audible noise. I had the butler do that for me. I didn’t want to hear a sound from this last little piggy. No, not a single peep. His feet were only able to reach the floor if he stood on his toes. It was the only way to relieve even the slightest amount of pressure from his wrists. That is why I had asked that his toes be nailed to the floor.
I spent hours making small cuts all over mister McBride with an X-Acto knife and then rubbing lemon juice into the wounds. He couldn’t squirm too much without tearing his toes away, which he did on a few occasions. From behind, I grabbed his cock in my hand and squeezed it as hard as I could, knowing it was bruising. I took the X-Acto and made a few hundred tiny cuts all over it. The last of his toes went. His feet were bloody stumps, barely dragging the floor.
“Mister McBride. Samuel. Can I call you Sammy?” I asked, rhetorically, as he cried and tried to look at me over his shoulder. I was glad his mouth was sewn shut. I didn't want to hear from such a shitty little piggy. Not one peep. “I am going to let you live for months. In fact for thirty-six months, which was my sentence at San Quentin if I had fucked up the probation that I was put on after my release from SF County. During that time I am going to torture you. I am going to rape you. Or at least my Lexington Steel dildo hooked up to a pneumatic actuator will. It will not tire. It will not come. It will not stop unless I tell it to. Do you understand? I will do everything that I can to make sure that you stay alive. You will be fed through a tube, straight to your stomach, a gruel of maggots and grubs mostly. It will keep you alive. And don’t worry, we’ll take you down soon. You won’t be hanging from your wrists for too long. I wouldn’t want you to die on me.”
And I left it at that. An eighteen-inch dildo, which I was kind enough to slather with lube because I am not a monster, slamming into his ass nearly twenty-four hours a day. I pretty much just let my butler handle it. I left it on autopilot. Often I would consider it as an indoor gardener would consider their crop. The hydroponic system keeps the plants watered, and the lights are on timers. You don’t have to check on it every day. It pretty much takes care of itself most of the time. That is precisely how it was for me with “Sammy.”
I let the scumbag pig rot in my under-basement, fed on maggots and continuously robot-raped. A month into it I castrated him. Gotta trim the hedges! Now and then I would break a bone. An arm, a leg. All of his fingers were eventually shattered. If he still had possessed toes, I would have smashed them too, with the same ball-peen hammer. I had never thought in my wildest imagination that somebody could suffer as he did.
Three years passed. By the end of it, he had no fingers, toes, nose, ears, lips. He had been entirely mutilated. His anus was distended and smashed, his guts hanging out of his asshole. His legs contorted into strange directions as every bone in them had been shattered several times, and his knees seemed nothing like a human's; more closely resembling the legs of a goat, since they bent backward. It was apparent his sanity was gone entirely. At a certain point, I realized that I was no longer torturing the man who had raped me. I was merely torturing his shadow.
He was broken, body, soul, and mind. It was beyond time to let him die. My butler and I took him out in the dead of night when there was a thick fog. We took him out a few miles into the Pacific, straight under the Golden Gate Bridge, on one of my yachts. We went out past the Farallon Islands, into shark-infested waters, where I shot Samuel in the head at the prow, and we threw him overboard. I had my revenge. Still, after so long, it felt hollow. I was still damaged. Probably more than ever. I had done horrible things. Things not even they could imagine. And piggies have some fucked up imaginations. The boat ride back to the marina was without pleasure. What would I do without my little piggy to play with? I stood at the prow in the thick fog looking on at the city lights. San Francisco at night is a magnificent sight. In fact, it was intoxicating, and I finally felt liberated from my past suffering. Or did I? In the moment I couldn’t really tell. The world seemed to be spinning. I was drunk on my final victory, over the slaughter of my three little piggies.
I heard a loud bang from behind me and felt a hot, singeing pain in my back that quickly spread through my chest. I turned, grasping at the rail as I fell to the deck. The last thing I saw was my butler’s face as he rolled me over the side and into the frigid bay. Something about it reminded me of Mark Harris.
As I drowned, already gagging on my own blood, it dawned on me. Harris. The butler’s name is Tom Harris.
Note from the Author
This story was originally published under the pen name Justin Tense and was entitled Triggered! an Extreme Horror.
About the Author
Aleister Davidson is an emerging author of horror, science fiction, and fantasy. He loves skateboarding, astrophysics, punk rock, bowling, and most of all writing. Sign up for his mailing list at www.aleisterdavidson.com for news on upcoming releases and occasional free stories.
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