When the judge cooled down, I cut his head off with an axe I had found in the back yard by a pile of firewood, and after I washed the blood off the axe, I added the woman’s fingerprints to it, then put it back where I had found it. I also took all the money from the safe and stuck it in the trunk of the woman’s Porsche. It was a few hours until sunrise, so I loaded the judge’s head, the camcorder tape and all my stuff into the trunk of my car. There were still ten or twelve vehicles remaining from the party next door, so I was good there. Before I left I did a final walkthrough of the house to ensure I wasn’t leaving any evidence that I was there, which was a good thing because I had almost forgot about the cut window screen.
I was sitting on the beach fifty miles away when the sun finally arose. While I relaxed, I thought about how any decent crime scene investigation crew would find most of the evidence I had planted and think that the judge’s wife tried to cover it all up. I’m sure I will read about it in the paper one day. Regardless of the outcome, I’m sure the judge’s missing head will always be a mystery unless they find the tiny tattoo of my mark on the woman’s back.”
Lighter Side of Things
Seth stood up and stretched. “The judge’s files kept me busy for years as I punished the worthless individuals he should have taken care of.”
Dicky spoke up with a sarcastic tone. “How are you any better than them?”
Seth walked over and grabbed the rusted bars. “Being any better would depend on the opinion of the parent whose child was molested or abducted, the woman who was raped or beaten, or the mother or father of a murdered child. The victims and victims’ families are always left without justice because of our weak and pathetic judicial system.”
Dicky put his hands over his face as he started crying.
“Come on, pal. Don’t be such a wimp. You have to see the funny side of my stories also. Here, I have one for ya that will make you laugh—it’s on the lighter side of things.”
Seth sat down to get comfortable. “Years ago, I frequently went to storage building auctions. I enjoyed the gamble of finding unique things—you never know what somebody has buried deep inside a packed storage unit. I had been doing it for several years when some jack wagon started trying to push everyone else out of the game by running up the bids on purpose. This fucker was relentless. He was showing up to every auction and biding on every unit, even the ones he didn’t want just to raise the price. There was a show on TV that had come out years later about storage building auctions with the same kind of asshole; the ‘yeeep’ guy. That fucker reminded me of the asshole I had to deal with, but unlike on TV where everyone just dealt with his shit, we got even. I laugh every time I watch that show because it reminds me of back in the day when I was doing it. This prick had moved here from New York where he apparently made a living at buying and selling stuff. He would run his mouth and brag how he’d been doing it for years and that we were nothing but a bunch of dumbass rednecks.
After several months of having to deal with this guy’s bullshit I came up with an idea to teach him a lesson. Most of the regulars had stopped coming and the newcomers couldn’t compete, so there wasn’t any competition left for him. To get even, I disguised myself and rented a small climate controlled unit in one of the storage facilities that regularly held auctions. I filled the unit with about forty small to medium boxes. Each box was filled with trash and I taped the shit out of them so no one could open them easily. On each box, I used a large marker to write different firearm types, manufactures, calibers and quantity. I positioned them so they could be read from the door. I also took one of the boxes and purposely left the top open so the contents could be seen. It was filled with layers of newspaper, and on the very top I laid a partially covered non-functional display type revolver that looked like the real thing. I labeled the box as antique revolvers. Without examining it up close it appeared to be legitimate, and the box appeared to be full. I stopped making the rental payments. Four months later, I received a notice in one of my post office boxes that the contents of the unit were going to be auctioned off so the owner could recuperate his expenses. When auction day approached, I was excited to see the jack wagon had showed up. I had purposely not shown up to the last several auctions, and for this one I was wearing a disguise and a fat suit that made me look like a white professor Klump from the movie The Nutty Professor. I did have a backup plan in case he didn’t show up. I was going to simply call in a bomb threat, causing it to be rescheduled. This would give me another chance for him to show up and I could repeat it if necessary.
About an hour into the auction they finally cut the lock and opened the door to my unit. There were around twenty people and everyone immediately started whispering and eye fucking the contents. The rules stated no one could enter the unit and they only had a minute or so each to look, and the winning bidder had to pay with cash before they were granted access. One of the strategies that the jack wagon used was to plant a couple of his employees into the crowd so they could eavesdrop on the bidders. I knew who they were, so when one of them walked up next to me I flipped open my phone and pretended like I was talking to a business partner. I was making comments how the contents of the unit were worth a fortune and I was going all out on this one. I had calculated the firearms being worth around sixty thousand and I would be comfortable going up to twenty-five thousand. I made a comment about how old Red had died off while in the process of relocating his gun store. I was holding a newspaper in a way that the guy could see an article regarding the death of Virgil ‘Red’ Thompson, of Red’s Gun Shop.
A few minutes later, I nonchalantly made my way over to the jack wagon while he and his minions were talking. I noticed he was looking at his phone, reading an article about Red’s death. It was a bullshit article that I had created before the auction. The newspaper I had been brandishing was also bullshit. He fell for it. He was excited as he quickly inventoried the boxes while typing on his calculator.
When the time came to bid, the jack wagon had a serious look on his face. He didn’t run his mouth like he usually did in the past—he apparently didn’t want to start a pissing contest on this one, but that was exactly what I had planned.
The auctioneer whistled to get everyone’s attention. “Two thousand dollars”.
I nodded. “Four thousand.”
The jack wagon did his normal “hey” sound when the auctioneer blurted out five thousand.
I quickly nodded. “Six.”
A lady raised her finger. “Seven.”
Over the next several minutes there were about five people bidding, and as soon as the auctioneer went to the next higher amount the jack wagon would quickly blurt out his famous “hey” to show his dominance. When the bid finally reached twelve thousand me and the jack wagon were the only two left bidding, and as soon as I nodded my head for the next bid amount he wouldn’t hesitate to “hey” at the next increase. At nineteen thousand I started slowing down and hesitating with my bids, but he didn’t with his aggravating, “heys”. At twenty-six he hesitated, then nodded his head to say yes, so I raised my hands in defeat.
He gripped his fist and shook them as he raised his arms above his head. “This is my game, boy! No one can run with the big dog!”
He was smiling like a possum eating shit as they closed and locked the door. He didn’t bid on the remaining units—he quickly left instead. Around the time the auction was coming to an end he came back with the money so he could pay the storage facility and gain access to his treasure. There were still around ten to twelve people left and we all wanted to see the contents of his unit. We were standing around while he removed the lock.
He tossed the lock on the ground, then turned and faced us. “You all need to leave.”
Someone in the back of the group yelled out. “You don’t own the hallway.”
He slung the door open. “That’s fine. Stand around and gawk at your losses.”
He had an arrogant look on his face as he picked up the revolver fr
om the top of the open box, then it changed to a what-the-fuck look as he realized it was a twenty-dollar fake. A sick feeling overcame him when he found the remaining contents of the box to be newspaper. Without hesitating he ripped open a box that was labeled ‘Smith and Wesson, 40 cal., Semi-autos, 15 pieces’. Horror overcame him when he found it was full of random trash from a dumpster. He threw it on the floor, then grabbed another box that was labeled ‘Glock 9mm, 20 pieces’. When he opened it and found it full of trash, he began to panic. The next box was full of trash as well. By now everyone was laughing. He became very upset and started throwing the empty boxes out of the unit as he dug through them one at a time like a crazed savage. When he came to the last box and found it was full of water pistols, he charged out of the unit and started yelling how he wanted his money back because someone had set him up. We watched as he hurried to the office. A few minutes later, he burned rubber out of the parking lot. Apparently, he didn’t get his refund.
Several weeks later, I was surprised to see him at the next auction. He was pissed and running his mouth how he was going to get even with the one who set him up. He was eye fucking every one of us as we stood around waiting for the first door to open and the bidding to begin. He set out to make a point as he ran the bids up while talking trash. He won the first three units. In the fourth unit, there were a lot of shop tools sitting in the very back. I could see a drill press on a stand, table saw, two router tables, band saw, radial arm saw, several large roll-around tool boxes and a mig welder. There were numerous boxes with labeling that read Hand tools and power tools. I really wanted this unit, and when the bidding was over the jack wagon had outbid all of us as usual. He had gone up to four thousand dollars, which I thought was a little steep and knew he had done it to keep any of us from getting it. He quickly whipped out the money and paid the auctioneer. He wanted to flaunt his winnings while we were all standing there. He looked at us and did a little dance as he smiled like a possum eating shit. “Read ‘em and weep, fuckers!” He was still running his mouth as he walked in the unit, but then I heard him yell out, “fuck!” the same time the drill press came flying out of the unit and across the concrete drive. Carl, one of the regulars, walked over and sat up the drill press. He came back over to us and said it was made of papier-mâché. The jack wagon was screaming and yelling and throwing things around from inside the unit as I walked over to take a closer look at the drill press. I was amazed as I stood there and noticed how someone had done such an outstanding job. I had been fooled as well. All the shop tools turned out to be fake and the boxes were filled with halite blocks. The jack wagon was so pissed that he jumped into his car and took off.”
Seth laughed. “I didn’t screw over the jack wagon with the papier-mâché tools. Someone else must have been irritated at him. They couldn’t have got the idea from the fake guns because there hadn’t been enough of a time-lapse. Mine took three or four months from when I stopped making the rent payments to the time of the auction. Or maybe the owner of the storage facility did it. I might not ever know who it was or the reason, but it was definitely funny as shit. I still can’t believe how realistically those items looked from the door. They had been crafted and painted to perfection. And by the way, that was the last time I saw that asshole.”
Dicky had a don’t-give-a-shit look on his face.
Seth stood up. “All right, you fucker! Apparently, you don’t have a sense of humor.”
“It’s not funny. Everything you do is fucked up.”
Seth walked off and came back with a strange looking cluster fuck. He threw it on Dicky. He grabbed it, and when he noticed it was a whole bunch of human hands dangling from a rope, he tossed it across the floor. Dicky screamed out as he wiped his body frantically.
“I was going to tell you about that one, but you apparently want to hear the more gruesome shit. I think I will tell you about Andrew instead. He…”
Dicky interrupted. “I can’t take this shit anymore! I beg you to stop. Please just stop.”
Seth walked up and stood at the bars and gave him a death stare while remaining silent.
“Please stop. I beg you.”
Seth walked out of the chamber. The lights went out.
The Predator
The lights came back on three weeks later. When Seth walked into the chamber, Dicky was hysterical. He was very filthy. His supply of dog food was almost depleted and he had been drinking water from where it pooled in the corner of his cell—he had emptied his water bowl a week earlier. Seth stood at the bars and stared at him. Dicky tried to open his eyes, but they were sensitive to the light—he had been in the dark so long. He squinted as he tried to focus on Seth. “Why the fuck did you leave me in here so long?”
Seth turned and walked out of the chamber. The lights went out again.
Six weeks later, the lights came back on. Dicky was covered from head to toe with feces and filth. There were rat parts all over his cell where he had eaten them—he had run out of dog food. His tongue was very raw and swollen from where he had been licking the wall where water seeped through the stones—the pool of water had been depleted. Seth walked up and stood by the bars.
Dicky crawled over to him while holding his eyes closed. “I’m sorry. I will listen to your stories.”
Seth picked up from where he left off. “…was a real piece of shit.”
Seth turned and walked over to a man suspended in the center of a rusted cage that was sitting on the floor. The cage, which was shaped like an old-fashioned birdcage, was several times larger than the man. His body was being suspended in the center of it by hundreds of individual pieces of stainless steel wires that were secured throughout the bars of the cage. Each strand of wire was tied to a fishhook that was buried deep into his flesh. He had hooks covering his entire body from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. Medium sized fishhooks were driven through the nail bed of each finger, forcing his fingers and arms to be pulled outwards from his body. While his arms were forced out horizontally, tiny hooks lined the top and bottom of them, stretching the top of his skin towards the roof of the cage as the ones on bottom pulled his skin downwards towards the floor. The skin on the sides of his arms were being pulled away as well, and his legs were being done in the same gruesome way as his arms. Small hooks completely covered the top of his head and pulled his skin upwards. Hundreds of tiny hooks were inserted in his face, stretching his flesh in all directions. His face was so horribly deformed from his skin being tugged that his eyeballs were buried deep inside his head. The flesh throughout his entire body was being so grossly pulled in every direction that he didn’t appear human, but more like a large piece of bloody Play-Doh. Most of his skin was discoloured from massive bruising and dead flesh. His bottom lip had been ripped off, exposing his rotting lower teeth and gum. His nut sack and dick had been cut off; they were hanging from his neck by a leather necklace. The man’s tongue was being pulled from his mouth by wires, and it had been stretched to about twelve inches.
Seth leaned against the bars of the large cage. “This worthless sack of shit is Andrew, who I call the Predator because he stalked young kids for his sick sexual entertainment. I learned about him, as I mentioned earlier, from the sorry judge when he was undergoing his microwave therapy. Andrew had kidnapped an eleven-year-old girl from a park and molested her for several days until she escaped. At first, she was scared to say anything because he had told her he would kill her family and pet dog if she did. The thirty-four-year-old predator was finally arrested when she described him and his car, and afterwards she picked him out in a line-up.
The judge had all the documentation, including pictures and tape recordings of his private meetings with Andrew and his father. The judge kept incriminating evidence against his clients, as I had stated earlier, so they couldn’t come back and try to blackmail him, or so he could blackmail them if needed. Andrew’s father was a local thug who ran several illegal businesses like gambling, prostitution and loan sharking. The judge�
�s tape recordings had Andrew confessing to the abduction and molesting of the young girl, and it also had his father and the judge discussing large amounts of money in exchange for the judge to tamper with the evidence. The documentation, as well as old newspaper articles, showed Andrew’s case had been thrown out when his DNA and hair samples couldn’t be used in the trial because they had become contaminated. The articles also stated Andrew had a past record of indecency with a child years prior.
What really pissed me off was the judge placed a higher value on monetary gain than the victim’s justice. Andrew was allowed to continue on with his life like nothing had happened and most likely sticking his dick in other children. During my research, I had also found out the parents of the eleven-year-old girl had filed a civil suit against Andrew after she killed herself at the age of sixteen. The old court records stated she had been in and out of the hospital for mental issues related to her molestation. The court had sided with her family, but for some reason shortly after they withdrew their case. The judge had enough evidence against Andrew, so I didn’t have to do further research besides locating the worthless sack of shit. He and his father had moved out of state years ago. I simply did a pervert search and found he was registered on the State of Arizona’s sex offender website—the fucker fondled another kid.
The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore Page 19