“Then tell me why you’re so cruel to helpless people.”
He took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”
I stood up. “That’s not an answer.”
He hung silently and didn’t make a sound as I was checking his back for infections. His flesh was extremely swollen at each staple and a few places had become infected. He remained quiet until I poured alcohol onto his back. He went from beat down and silent to absolutely hysterical. I just stood silent as he angrily shouted, “I don’t know what to tell you! But what y’all have done to me is wrong! I hope y’all burn in hell,” and then he tried to kick me.
I walked back in front of him. “Maybe you are retarded.”
He spit some blood at me, and as snot dripped off his face he shouted in a very angry voice, “Fuck you and those sniveling white cocksuckers! Their own families forgot about them and left them to rot. They were just waiting to fucking die! I hated them racist white motherfuckers! You can just kill me now because I don’t give a shit! I did what I did, and fuck all of you white cracker motherfuckers!”
During his hate the white man tirade, I grabbed a couple of spikes and a hammer. He didn’t even know what I was up to as I kneeled next to his left leg. His bitching turned to screaming as I pounded a spike through the old wound in his foot and into the concrete. When the spike was fully driven in, I continued to pound his foot with the hammer until I broke some of the bones in his foot and toes. I waited a few minutes until he began to calm down, then pulled his right leg away from his left leg and nailed it to the floor. The spikes forced his feet apart about thirty-six inches. This was very uncomfortable compared to the way he was originally standing. To make it worse, I untied the rope that was supporting his waist so he wouldn’t be able to rest his legs. He didn’t say shit as I stood in front of him and stared at the detestable sight that he had become. His stretched-out face was covered in blood, snot and tears, and the remaining staples were causing so much swelling that his skin had torn around most of them. His mouth was abnormally swollen and his lips were beginning to tear from the pressure. The needle in his eye was causing so much swelling his eyeball was bulging from its socket.”
Seth laid his hand on the stockade. “This is an extremely uncomfortable torturing device because it forces its victim to stand and lean forward as their head and hands are bound. Brian had already been in the stockade for almost a week and his body was getting exhausted. He was also having a hard time standing because of the severe pain and swelling in his feet due to the spikes and broken bones.”
Seth walked over and sat in a chair next to Dicky. “Brian’s back was very red and puffy from the hundreds of staples that were buried deep into his flesh, and it looked as if he was starting to get an infection where portions of his skin had torn from the swelling. They needed to be removed, so I used two sets of needle nose pliers and began pulling them out. They were box staples and they don’t go straight in. The stapler actually folds the penetrating pieces back against the outside piece, so I had to bend the staples around to get them out. He screamed as each staple tore out a little bit of meat and skin. It took about three hours to remove hundreds of them from his body, face and head. Some of the staples that I shot into his sides were embedded into his ribs and were very difficult to remove. I had to use a small pry bar and the needle nose pliers together to leverage them out. Some of the staples in his face and head had also been very difficult to remove because they had penetrated his skull. Over the course of pulling out the staples he had vomited several times and screamed until he made himself hoarse. He finally calmed down, breathing heavily and panting like a dog as I scrubbed his wounds with soap and water.
I do try to prevent infections as much as possible. The staple gun and staples had been sprayed with alcohol before they were used, and all the weapons and instruments I use are sterilized as well. Brian was kind of a stinky person, so the bacteria that was causing the infections was most likely from him. If I would have sprayed him down with alcohol before I shot the staples into his flesh he probably wouldn’t have had such a reaction, but that’s what he gets for being fucking nasty. I needed to kill as much of the bacteria on his body as possible, so I filled a bug sprayer with an iodine solution. I started with his back, and as soon as the chemical came in contact with his skin he started frantically squirming as his puncture wounds began to burn. He started screaming and yelling profanity and making threats when the solution ran down his legs and onto the wounds in his feet. When I was finished, I walked in front of him so I could start cleaning the wounds on his head and face.
He was pumping his fists as he yelled, “You’re a horrific son of a bitch!!!”
I squirted some of the solution into his left eye. “Now I’m a horrific son of a bitch.” The iodine immediately began to burn his eye, especially around the needle, and as he screamed he was blinking his eyes as fast as he could in a faint attempt to flush it out with tears. The blinking only pushed the solution into his socket and behind his eyelid and within a few seconds it really began to burn the shit out of his eye as he was yelling, “Please wash it out. Please wash it. Please wash it out!”
Instead of washing it out, I grabbed a hammer, a large spike, a roll of fishing string and fifteen fishing hooks off a nearby table, then sat down on the floor behind him. I drove the spike into the floor between his legs directly below his ball sack, then tied twelve long pieces of fishing line to twelve fishhooks. Brian quickly forgot about his eye when I took one of the fish hooks and stuck it into his ball sack. The bastard farted as the second hook pierced his left testicle. “If you shit on my head, I swear I will shove a table leg up your ass!”
“Oh fuck! Stop!!! You’re killing me!”
The show was on as I tried to stick another hook in his sack. He was frantically throwing his ass around while shouting, “Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! Stop! Stop! Stop! Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!”
I finally became irritated and pulled down on the fishing strings that were connected to the hooks in his scrotum. “Stop moving around.”
He quickly bent his knees and lowered his ass. “Oh my God! Stop! You’re fucking killing me!”
While he squatted down to keep his ball sack from tearing, I tied the strings off to the spike in the floor. Now he wasn’t able to move as much. I took another hook and jabbed it into his sack, piercing his right testicle.
He howled like an animal for a few seconds, then shouted, “You’re fucking killing me! Please stop! I’ll do whatever you want!”
Over the next thirty minutes his screams and begging echoed throughout the chamber as I shoved the rest of the hooks into his sack. After I tied off all the strings to the spike, I walked in front of him. “Now I’m really a horrific son of a bitch.”
Brian was struggling to hold himself in the squatted position. The desperation in his facial expression was making my nuts ache. To prevent tension on his scrotum, he had to hold a partial squat. This was causing his leg muscles to tremble. If he squatted any more he would hang by his head in the stockade, causing him to choke. His facial expression was getting more intense with each passing second and I wanted to show some of the others in the chamber what it was like to perform ball squats in the stockade, so I went and grabbed my camera. When I took a picture of his face, he glared at me with a painful expression. “Why are you doing this? Please help me…. I can’t hold this position much longer!”
“Tell me why you like to harm helpless people… And don’t give me any of that racial bullshit.”
He quickly responded. “White people have it made. Their whole life they took what they wanted. So I took what I wanted. You know. Survival of the fittest. Now cut me loose!”
When I started walking out of the chamber he shouted out, “I told you the truth and you said you weren’t going to hurt me anymore!”
I stopped and turned. “I never said that. And besides, I’m not going to hurt you…. You are.”
In a panic-stricken voice, he shouted out, “My nut
s are going to be ripped off if you don’t help!!!”
“Shit, I better stay then. That might be better than watching reruns of Star Trek.” I grabbed a chair and slid it towards him. He screamed profanity at me as I smoked a cigarette and relaxed. Within a short period of time, the pain in his legs became very agonizing as he squatted, and in an attempt to relieve the burning sensation in his muscles, he started bobbing his ass up and down. A look of desperation came over his face. “I got a fucking cramp! I got a fucking cramp! Ohhhh shit!!! I got a cramp in my fucking leg!”
Sweat was pouring from his face and body as he desperately screamed for someone to help him. By the time I finished my second cigarette, his adrenaline rush and the pain in his legs had overcame his fear of ripping off his sack. I was leaning forward in my chair and holding my nuts as he was pumping his fist and gritting his back teeth while attempting to stand up. With all his strength, he was trying to fully extend his legs, but his sack wouldn’t tear and the fishing strings wouldn’t break. It was a grotesque sight. I had no idea someone’s nut sack could stretch as much as his was. In a panic, he started bouncing his ass up and down as he tried to break free. His violent upward thrusts were now causing the hooks to tear gashes in his skin. His eyes looked like they were going to pop as he resembled a weight lifter who was doing squats. It was so barbaric that it was causing me to get nauseous. Suddenly, his sack tore wide open and his testicles fell out, and as his balls bounced around by their vas deferens tubes, I started gagging and laughing at the same time. A few seconds later he passed out.
I injected him with a tranquilizer, then removed him from the stockade. Over the next two hours as he slept, I removed the hooks and sewed his nut sack back together so he could do the ball squats again another day. Before I left the chamber for the night, I put him back in the stockade and retied the rope to his waist so he wouldn’t choke to death.
Over the next few weeks I would choke him unconscious a couple of times a day. I had to give him a lot of antibiotics to reduce the infections around his neck and wrists where the stockade held him, and from the rope where it had started digging into his flesh. Eventually I got bored with Brian, so one evening I released one of his hands and gave him a butcher knife before I left the chamber for the night. I told him if he had had enough it was time for him to end it. Instead of making a smart decision he tried to stab me, so I kicked him in the mouth and took back the knife. It’s a rare chance someone gets to die on purpose in here. I usually do everything I can to prevent death. Death is the easy way out. Unfortunately for Brian, he didn’t take that opportunity. After a few more weeks of choking the shit out of him and another set of ball squats, still swollen and stitched up, ravaged ball squats, he was begging for the knife back. But instead he was forced to hang in the stockade for years and suffer a choking every few weeks. He also had to perform an occasional set of ball squats. Eventually I had to amputate his family jewels—it became un-repairable due to ripping it apart so many times. He originally thought that was a good thing until he started performing ding-a-ling squats. Fortunately for him, he got a severe infection I wasn’t able to control in his lower abdominal area. Instead of letting him die from it, I gave him back the knife, only after dulling it as sharp as a butter knife.
The next day when I came back into the chamber I found a surprising sight. It looked like he had desperately tried to cut his neck—it was covered with hundreds of little gashes and scratches—but he was apparently so weak he didn’t have enough strength to do any real damage with the dull blade. His arm was resting on top of the stockade as he held the knife, and when I walked up to him he looked at me with an exhausted look. “Please kill me.”
I pulled some hooks and string out of my pocket. “Today you’re going to do anal-cavity squats.”
He started crying as he pulled his arm from the stockade, and as tears ran down from his face, he started sliding the knife across his throat in a desperate attempt to end his suffering. A few minutes later as I was standing beside him he began to make a weird sound, so I walked back to the front of the stockade to see what he was up to. I was surprised to find he was taking the knife and pushing it into his left eye. He had to wiggle and twist it as he pushed so it would go in deeper, and as he worked it around, intraocular fluid and blood was running down the blade and dripping onto the floor. When the blade was several inches in, he let go of the knife and threw his exhausted arm back on top of the stockade. He held his head down and cried as the knife stuck out of his eye socket. Brian lived several more days until he died from the infection in his abdominal area.”
Seth looked at Dicky. “Just for the record, all of the ones in here that yelled at the old woman for help got shot with the staple gun for being stupid.” Seth stood up and grabbed the bars. “I only bring the worst ones here. There are many more that I’ve left on the streets.”
Dicky had a grimace of terror. “Why are you torturing me with these horror stories?”
“You’re the one who inspired me to do such things.”
He looked shocked. “What have I ever done to you?”
Seth thought back to the dreadful day at the cemetery when his parents were being buried. He was kneeling next to his parents’ graves as he watched the gravediggers cover their caskets. The only words he could mumble out as he cried were, “Please don’t leave me.” Seth’s mom and dad were buried next to his older brother who had died just a few years earlier.
While Seth sadly watched as his parents’ graves were being filled in with dirt, a lady approached him. “It’s time to go, Seth.”
He looked up while crying. “Go where? I have no one left.”
“You’re going to live with a nice family for a while.”
On the drive to his new home, the lady told him he was going to live on a farm and there were other kids who lived there. She told him most of them had lost their parents as well. Seth asked the lady why the man in the car hit his mommy and daddy. The lady looked over at him with a sad look—she knew he would be too young to understand. She tried to explain the man didn’t do it on purpose. She said sometimes adults do adult things like drink alcohol, and it causes them to do bad things they don’t mean to do.
Hours later, they finally arrived at a two-story farm house way out in the country. When Seth got out of the car, an older man wearing coveralls and a woman wearing a large sun hat and a flowery dress were waiting to greet him. He held his head down because he didn’t know what to say.
The man squatted down. “Hi there. My name is Bill, and this is my wife Sara.” Seth thought they seemed very nice. Within no time, he made friends with some of the other kids and a stray dog he found and named, ‘Chip’.
Several months went by and everything seemed normal until one stormy night. Loud thunder and bright flashes of lightning had awakened Seth. It was raining as he looked out the window from his upstairs bedroom. He could see far off in the distance as the lightning lit up the dark. From the flashes of light, he saw Bill walking across the yard. Seth wondered if Chip or any of the other animals were hurt and needed help, so he ran downstairs and outside. He stood in the dark and looked for Bill from the porch. He finally noticed the barn door was cracked open as it was letting out a faint amount of light. Without hesitating, he ran through the rain to the barn, and when he walked inside he saw Timmy, another boy who lived on the farm, lying on some hay. Seth ran up to him. “Are you helping the animals too?” When Timmy rolled over, Seth noticed he had a bloody nose and he was crying. “What’s wrong, Timmy?”
Suddenly Bill came out of nowhere and threw him onto the ground. Seth was scared as Bill held him down on the dirt floor by his throat. “You have been a bad boy!”
Seth could hardly breathe, gasping for air.
Bill threatened to do horrible things to him and his dog if he said a word to anyone about what he had seen. Bill released his throat and stood up, then kicked dirt on him. “Get before I hurt you, boy.”
Seth ran back up to his room, and
as he laid in his bed he cried—he couldn’t understand how someone as nice as Bill could turn out to be so cruel.
The next morning Bill came into Seth’s room and stood at the end of his bed. “It’s time for breakfast and you will be on time!” Bill walked to the door, then turned around. “Remember what I will do to you and your dog if you say anything.”
When Seth came downstairs, Timmy was sitting in his usual spot as if nothing had happened. All during breakfast Bill stared at Seth as if he wanted to kill him.
A few days later while Seth was playing with Chip outside Bill came up to him. “I want that damn dog gone by tonight or I‘m going to bash his head in with a shovel!”
“But he’s my best friend,” pleaded Seth.
Bill walked up and kicked Chip in the side. “Bad little boys should be seen and not heard.”
While Chip yelped, Seth ran into the house and up to his room as he cried. That night he took Chip way out into the nearby woods, and as he held him he said, “You’re my best friend and I will never forget you.”
It seemed Chip knew what he was saying—after Seth stood up he took off running, and before he got too far he turned around for a few seconds and looked back at Seth, then disappeared into the woods to never be seen again. A short time later, Seth went to live at another foster home. He moved from home to home as the years passed; some were better and some were much worse. Eventually he moved to an all boys’ home when he was sixteen.
Seth was still thinking about when he was a boy when Dicky quietly spoke, “You have me confused with someone else.”
The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore Page 7