After Seth collected his thoughts, he looked at him. “Soon all will be revealed.”
Dicky held his head down and kept quiet as Seth reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He noticed it was empty. “I feel inspired to introduce you to Bill next, but first I’m going to go grab a new pack of smokes from upstairs. Do you need anything thing while I’m gone?”
“Some nourishment please.”
Seth laughed as he was leaving the room. “I’ll bring you a Spanish Pear.”
The Indestructible Monster
Later that evening, Seth walked up to Dicky as he was sitting on the floor. He tossed a rusted metal object at his feet. “There’s your Spanish Pear.”
He had a concerned look on his face as he stared at the medieval-looking torture device.
Seth grabbed the rusted bars and leaned in. “That’s for later. First I want to introduce you to Bill.” Seth walked over to a man who was bound inside of a cage, or gibbet, that was hanging from the ceiling. The cage was made of steel and it was about six and a half feet tall and just a little larger than the diameter of an average sized person. The man was skin and bones and what was left of his body was covered with severe scarring. His arms and right leg had been cut off. The severed limbs were hanging on the sides of the cage, and his dangling right arm was still holding a long wooden shaft that was covered with blood. His penis and balls had been cut off and they were also hanging from the bottom. The man’s left leg was supporting his body, and a 2x4 piece of lumber was secured to it with rope, appearing to help keep it straight. His leg was extremely deformed—possibly from having to endure years of supporting his body in the cramped torture device. His crotch had a small plastic hose coming out of the scarring, and the end of it was hanging out of the bottom of the cage. The man was wearing a medieval-looking mask that was almost hidden by his long shabby hair.
Seth removed a torch that was mounted on a nearby wall and started burning the bottom of the man’s foot, causing him to move around and make grisly noises. Dicky gasped with horror—he had presumed the man was deceased due to his appearance.
Seth hung the torch back on the wall. “This hanging piece of shit is Bill, and years ago, I lived with him and his wife Sara on a farm where they ran a foster home. Over those years, I witnessed cruel and inhumane acts that were done to the kids. Bill was a very cruel man who worked us like slaves on the farm from dawn to dusk. I can still remember like it was yesterday how he would say we were worthless pieces of shit and we should have been killed when we were born. The verbal abuse was bad enough, but the beatings and unusual punishments would haunt all of us for as long as we lived. He would lock kids in the storm shelter or chain them in the barn for weeks with very little food and water. When he got drunk he would beat any one of us that was in his nearby vicinity. He was a very abusive person, but that wasn’t the worst of it. It wasn’t enough to break the kids of their spirit, but he went so far as to rob them of their dignity and any chance of ever having a normal life. Fortunately, Bill didn’t have an interest in me like he had with some of the other boys. He never touched me, but over those years I felt helpless as I heard others crying in their beds late at night, saying how they wished they were dead. I waited a long time to bring justice to all the kids who had lived on that farm at one time or another. I wish I could have done something sooner, back when I lived there, but I was just a scared little kid that saw Bill as some type of indestructible monster. His blood wasn’t the first to christen the chamber, but it wasn’t too much longer that his blood covered that blood.
It was a long time ago when I made the long journey back to the hellish farm of Bill and Sara, but this time I was like Freddy Krueger on steroids that was created from all the earth’s fury. It took two full days of driving to reach North Dakota. It was around nine o’clock at night when I finally reached a gravel road in the middle of nowhere. It was the last stretch of road that led to Bill’s farm. I could feel the anger building up inside of me with every jar from the potholes as I drove down the narrow gravel road. To be cautious, I parked my car in a wooded area slightly down the road from the house, then snuck to the barn. I knew there wouldn’t be any dogs around to alert Bill—he hated them more than the foster kids. The inside of the barn hadn’t changed in all these years; it had the same horse shit odor that reminded me of all the hours I was forced to clean out the stalls. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up when I heard Bill yelling from inside the house. The sound of his voice angered me so severely that I wanted to storm into the house and rip his tongue out with my bare hands, but I refrained—there could have been kids around and I didn’t want them to get hurt, so I stuck with my original plan. I climbed up a ladder and into the loft of the barn, then sat down next to the wall where I could see the farmhouse through the cracks in the old wood; it was my old hiding place. I sat and waited patiently to see if he would come out to the barn to check on the horses like he used to do every evening.
About an hour later, he finally came out of the house and sat on the porch. The porch light was dim, but I could see the fat bastard rocking in a chair as he was drinking a beer. After a short period of time, he went back inside, and after I watched through the crack for a little while longer I realized he might not come out to the barn, but it didn’t take long for me to think of a way that might entice him. I climbed down from the loft and dug through a box of toys I had noticed earlier until I found some bait. When I got back up in the loft, I took a ball and started bouncing it against the wall of the barn. Minutes later, I heard the screen door slam open, and then shortly after that I heard the barn door squeak. I knelt quietly beside some hay, and as I hid, I could see the light from Bill’s flashlight as he was sneaking around the barn looking for the little intruder. I bounced the ball off the wall to get his attention.
A voice echoed out from below. “I know you’re up there. You better come down if you know what’s good for you.”
I remained silent.
He started stomping around in the dirt as he shouted and cursed for me to come down from the loft. His crude persuading didn’t pay off, so he started up the ladder cursing with every rung. When he reached the top, I surprised him when I came leaping from the dark. Before he had a chance to speak, I kicked him in the face. He screamed as he fell to the ground. I quickly climbed down, then waited beside him as he regained his composure. The fat bastard looked up at me with confusion as I said, “This is for Chip.” I started beating him with a shovel as he rolled around in the dirt. I beat him on his back, sides and stomach, and when he tried to get up, I broke the handle of the shovel across his face, knocking out a couple of his front teeth. His face was covered with blood and he was lying on the ground moaning when Sara came running into the barn to see what all the commotion was. She never saw me coming at her until the pitchfork had already stabbed her through the stomach, and as she screamed, I pushed her backwards with the tool until she was bound to the wall of the barn by the long forks. While she gasped her last breath of air I leaned in towards her ear. “You had your chance years ago. You knew, but did nothing about it.” Five minutes later, I was driving away from the farm, leaving Sara hanging in the barn and the indestructible monster locked in my trunk.
When I got back home I restrained Bill to a table and gave him nutrients, antibiotics and steroids through a peripherally inserted central catheter in hopes it would help him recover from the injuries he obtained in the barn. I was kind of irritated at myself—I thought he was going to die from his head injury. Unfortunately for him, he came around two days later with a severe headache. Over the next few weeks I let him watch in fear while I would strangle the black asshole in the stockade. I wouldn’t say a word to him, ignoring his pleas of who I was, why he was here and what was I’m going to do to him. I continued to ignore him as the months passed, and as each day went by he became more and more aggressive. He couldn’t stand being ignored and would curse and scream at me whenever I was around.”
&
nbsp; The Carjackers
Seth walked over to the rusted cage and leaned against the bars. “Bill was a real piece of shit and I needed to get something special for him. I thought I was going to make a quick trip to the electrical supply store, but I ran into a snag on the way back. I was stopped at a red light on the shitty side of town when I noticed two Hispanic punks were in the process of carjacking a woman at knife-point. It’s hard to watch bad people do bad things to good people and just do nothing, but for the moment all I could do is watch because I had some incriminating items in the trunk. One of the thugs, who was covered in tattoos, noticed I was the only other car at the intersection and he could see I was watching, so he stopped in his tracks and pointed his hand at me in a way that resembled a gun. I wanted to show what I had, but showering the fucker with 5.56mm rounds in the middle of the street would draw way too much attention. For now, I was just going to wait and see if I needed to step in—I am willing to sacrifice my identity if I can help an innocent person. Luckily, I was wearing a fat suit and a fake beard, so I wasn’t worried about being identified in case I decided to help.
Over the next couple of minutes I just sat and watched as the two ass clowns attempted to steal the vehicle. Every time they would drag her out of her car, she would run back and begin fighting with them. She would either try to grab the keys out of the ignition or climb into the back seat. During her attempts in whatever she was trying to do, the driver was punching her in the face and head. For some reason, she wasn’t backing down. At this point I didn’t have to step in because she was handling herself pretty well. Eventually the two punks became more aggressive and threw her on the ground and started kicking and stomping her all over, so I stepped out of my car and chambered my short-barreled AR-15 that was equipped with a thirty-round magazine. It was obvious these two jackasses were from the hood because they heard the bolt close eighty feet away and knew the shit was fixing to hit the fan. They forgot about her and jumped back into the car. Right before they had a chance to drive off, the woman had jumped up and climbed into the back seat again while frantically screaming. At this point I was back in my car sitting with my mouth wide open. I couldn’t understand why she was risking her life for a vehicle. The lady was in the backseat and the man on the passenger side was leaning over the front seat hitting her in the head with his fist. The small car was rocking side to side as the passenger and woman fought. The driver took off, but stopped again after a short distance. I was wondering what the hell they were doing as the driver quickly got out and dragged the woman back onto the ground. When the car finally sped away, the lady stood up and ran to the curb holding an infant. At that point I knew I was going to have to make these two assholes pay for what they had done even though it was in my town where I don’t like to draw attention to myself.
It was winter time and the days were short, so I felt comfortable following them while using the darkness to my advantage. I followed the car at a safe distance using night vision goggles so they wouldn’t see my headlights. The two punks were making a lot of turns and taking short cuts through alleyways as they were apparently trying to avoid the main streets. That was also a good thing for me because I was driving without headlights. Around fifteen minutes later they stopped at a house on the ghetto side of town. I pulled to the side of the street a little ways behind them. The tattooed passenger quickly got out and went inside a house. The street was dark and the only light was coming from a few porch lights across the street. Without any planning, I jumped out of my car and grabbed a plastic gas can out of the trunk, then walked down the sidewalk towards the stolen vehicle. I put on leather gloves and wiped down my Zippo lighter with a rag as I walked quickly. Right when I was approaching the car, the punk came jogging out of the house, so I walked on by as if it was a hunky-dory evening. When he passed me on the sidewalk he saw I was carrying a gas can, and as he was getting back into the car I heard him laughing and making fun of me in Spanish. As soon as I heard the car door slam shut, I looked around to see if anyone was watching, then quickly walked back towards the car. I walked straight up to the driver’s window, and without a warning I shoved my razor-sharp sickle against the driver’s throat. “If either one of you move, I will cut this fucker’s head off.”
The guy on the passenger side started to get out until his buddy shouted, “Hang tight Holmes! This vato is serious.”
The punk was holding as still as a sculpture as I held the sickle to his throat, and as he eye-fucked me I asked, “Whose vehicle is this?”
He replied with a smirk, “It’s mine.”
I shoved the blade harder against his neck. “One last chance for the truth. And something you need to know. I’ve been asking Santa Claus for a greasy Mexican’s head for the last several years and all I ever get is a fucking sock full of coal… So, I really, really want you to lie again.”
“I stole….”
“We’re borrowing it.” Interrupted the passenger.
I slightly pulled back on the blade and sliced his skin. “No, no, we stole it dude. We stole it from some lady.” He turned his head a little and caught a glimpse of my clothing. “You’re that dude from the intersection. What, you some kind of cop or something?”
“Do I look like a fucking cop? Would a cop be holding a medieval-looking weapon to your throat?”
The passenger was getting a little antsy like he wanted to get out of the car and I didn’t want him to jump out without any notice, so I made them put their seatbelts on.
The passenger did a ‘what the fuck’ hand gesture at me. “Now you gonna call the cops. My juvenile ass will be out in the morning. And when I find you it’s gonna take a lot more than a seat belt to stop me from cutting your fucking heart out, motherfucker!”
“Juvenile. Juveniles don’t have a tear drop tattoo under their eye. You must think you are some kind of killa?”
The punk threw a gang sign at me. “Seventeen bitch! That’s all it takes to get my ‘get the fuck out of jail free card’, motherfucker. Just like fuckin’ Monopoly, except in this game you die, bitch.” The dude pointed under his other eye. “Right here gonna be your tear drop, bitch.”
While the dude was grinning like a possum eating shit I threw gas on his face. He immediately covered his eyes and screamed.
“Ya gotta, ‘get the fucking gas out of my eyes card’?”
Even though his eyes were burning he reached over to unlatch his seat belt, and about the same time he pressed the unlatch button, I reached in and sliced his left hand almost in half. Tendons were the only things that prevented a full amputation, and as he screamed he tried to hold it together with his other hand. The driver started to move, but I quickly shoved the sickle back to his throat. While the two thieves were preoccupied with their pain and fear, I sloshed gas all over the inside of the car and on top of their heads while keeping the blade against the driver’s throat. The container was plastic, so I chunked it into the back seat. By now the passenger had partially regained some of his sight and noticed his seat belt was loose, so he started to open the door with his right hand, and as he was debating if he wanted to run, I lit my Zippo. “I wouldn’t move if I were you.”
The guy looked at the flame. “What the fuck man, are you fucking crazy?”
“No… Not really… Maybe just a little. I’m just tired of seeing pieces of shit like you harm innocent people.”
The thug on the driver side started crying, and as a tear ran down his cheek he said, “Sir, I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever you want.”
I started laughing. “I want you to grow some fucking cojones. I had you figured for a tough guy from the way you handled the woman and her little baby earlier.” I looked at his partner. “Did you know Holmes here is a bitch?”
The driver started getting mad. “I got your cojones, motherfucker! You’re the one holding the fucking knife!”
“Let’s see how tough you are.” I released the tension from his throat.
His eyes were full of hate. “Fuck you, Holmes!
”
I waved the flame in front of his face. “You move, you burn. So fuck you.”
The guy didn’t move as I took the sickle and ripped open his shirt. He remained quiet and gritted his teeth as I started cutting into his chest. He was fighting the urge to scream—he was now in badass mode. I was almost done with my artwork, a rival gang sign, when he grabbed the blade with both hands. Within a blink of an eye his fingers on both hands had been severed. He had blood squirting out of each of his stubs as he was waving his arms around hysterically. The tattooed passenger was terrified while he watched in horror—blood was spewing all over him and the car. Panic overcame the passenger and he started getting out. As soon as he put his foot on the ground I dropped the lighter. Before I could take my first step, the gas vapor exploded and a fireball almost knocked me down. My adrenaline rush was causing me to laugh as I ran down the sidewalk back towards my car. About halfway down, I saw the passenger was on fire as he was running parallel with me down the road. After a short distance, he turned and ran back towards the other direction. I knew I couldn’t just take off and leave him as an eyewitness, so I pulled out into the street and drove slowly as I looked for him. When I drove passed the burning car I could see the driver was being burned alive as he was frantically trying to unlatch his seat belt with no fingers.
A half a block down I saw smoke coming from a yard. When I got closer, I could see it was coming from the clothes and hair of the punk. Before I had a chance to stop, an old man came out of the house and ran over to him, so I drove on by. I parked my car down a dark alley, then quickly ran back towards the yard.
I hid in the shadows so the old man helping the punk couldn’t see me clearly. “Hey!”
The old man stood up and looked in my direction. “Who’s there?”
The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore Page 8