“Now what?”
“You know what.”
“No, and I don’t want to know.”
“Come on, don’t be like that.”
“Honey, I’m just not interested.”
“You be givin’ that good time lovin’ to everyone else. What’s wrong with ol’ Tony? I ain’t good enough?”
“Don’t start.”
“Fuck you then. I didn’t want any of that old saggy shit anyway!”
One of the men who had been playing pool looked towards Curtis. “Leave her alone.”
Curtis laughed in a smart-ass way as he spun around on his barstool and faced the man. “Shut the fuck up, boy, before I bitch slap you!”
The man shook his head and held his hands up to state he was backing down. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Curtis threw a peanut at him. “If you can reach down between your legs and find some balls, stand up and be a man and do something about it.”
After Curtis threw another peanut, the man put his head down in a cowardly way.
Curtis looked around the almost-empty bar as he grinned like a possum eating shit. When he saw me, he stopped grinning. “You wanna say something, ass fuck?”
I look directly towards him with a serious expression. “Listen here, Curtis, you woman beating rapist. I’ll knock all your fucking teeth out of your mouth!”
His eyes got real big, and as his face turned red he stuttered, “My name ain’t Curtis.”
I stood up. “Yeah it is. You’re the one who beat, stabbed, burned, and raped that real estate agent, and then her husband shot your sorry ass, which supposedly made you retarded.”
Everyone in the tavern looked shocked, and as some of them were whispering to each other, Curtis turned another shade of red. While everyone was staring at him, he got off his bar stool and walked outside. I tossed some money on the table and followed him. He was waiting for me as I walked outside, and when I approached him he held his hands out as if saying stop. “Hey man, I’m sorry. I don’t want any trouble. Just leave me alone.”
He started walking away, so I followed him. “What’s wrong, pal? Mad that someone found out you’re more of a piece of shit than they had originally thought?”
I walked closely behind him as he was trying to flee, and when I got closer he started walking faster. “What the fuck do you want, man?”
“I need to find out if you’re really a retard so I can determine if you need to be tortured in the most horrific and unnatural way that a sick and twisted fucker like myself can conjure up.”
Curtis took off running towards his car as I pulled out a gun, and as he grabbed the door handle I shot him with a tranquilizer. He shouted out, “Fuck,” a few seconds before he hit the ground, and as he laid in the dirt, I dug through his pockets and found his keys. My car was a half a mile down the road hidden in an old abandoned building, so I pulled him into the backseat, then took off in his car. There were a few wetbacks in the parking lot that had witnessed the incident, but they weren’t going to say anything because they were illegals. Also, they were so drunk that they probably thought they were still in Mexico. The people in the tavern would never be able to recognize me because of my disguise. If the police were called and did an investigation, they would find fingerprints I had left on several beer bottles and the fork, but they weren’t mine. I had planted false prints using stamps I had made, which replicated Richard Terryhole’s fingerprints. A few minutes later, I pulled into the abandoned building and quickly loaded Curtis into the trunk of my car, and before I hauled ass, I planted Sandy’s fingerprints inside of his car. When I got back home, I threw him into this small confined room. I knew he wasn’t retarded, but I did want to know if he remembered what he had done, so I decided to leave him in the small chamber where he couldn’t see any of the horrifying things until I could figure out how to get that info from him.
Several days later, I opened the door and tossed him a big Chief tablet and a box of crayons. He rushed the door, so I slammed it in his face, then opened a small inspection door. He was hysterical. “What the fuck man! What are you doing? I demand you release me! Hey, do you hear me? This is cruel what you’re doing. You better release me at once. Do you hear me?”
I shut and locked the small door.
A week later, I opened the inspection door again, and before he had a chance to speak I said, “If you say a word I’ll leave your ass in here for a month.”
He quickly ran up the door. “Get me the fuck…”
I slammed and locked the small door.
A month later, when I opened the inspection door he didn’t say a word. I shined a light at him. “If you want to leave this room, I need you to write down exactly what you did to the lady you raped. If you leave out one detail I will cut your throat. Your only chance of getting out is the truth.”
He remained quiet as I shut and locked the door.
Three days later, I opened the inspection door. “Do you have my document?”
He eased up to the opening and softly spoke, “Sir, please listen. I had used the tablet for toilet paper and I ate the crayons. I didn’t know that’s what they were for, and you didn’t give me time to explain the last time.”
“Why the fuck did you eat the crayons?”
“I was hungry. The only thing you’ve given me for nourishment was some dog food and bottled water.”
I shined a light into the small chamber and lit up some rats that were running around. “That’s what the rats are for. The dog food was to attract them.”
“I didn’t know.”
I tossed another big Chief tablet and a box of crayons into the small chamber. “You have two days. And I promise you, if it’s not accurate I will not open this door for a year.”
“I can’t see to write.”
“Use your instincts,” I said as I locked him in the dark.
Two days later when I opened the inspection door, Curtis was waiting and instantly pushed the tablet through the opening. “What you’re doing to me is wrong.”
“That all depends on your statement.”
“You have no right to….”
I shut the door and locked it, then went upstairs so I could compare his chicken scratch to the court records. Curtis nailed the event as if it had taken place yesterday. He had lied about not being able to recall what had happened after the shooting incident. He wasn’t mentally slow either, because his spelling and grammar were perfect, not to mention that he was in the dark when he was writing, which would have prevented him from proofreading and correcting his mistakes.
The next morning, I opened the larger door so he could come out of the small chamber, and as soon as he poked his head out he went back in and closed the door himself. I opened the inspection door. “What’s wrong? I thought you wanted out?”
He sat in the back of the small room and didn’t say a word.
“If you don’t fucking speak I am going to drag your ass out of there and skin you alive!”
“I’d rather be in here.”
Later that evening, I came back with several large plastic containers. I removed their lids and threw them into the dark room. I shut and locked the door, then looked through the inspection door. “I hope you’re not afraid of rattlesnakes, because I just tossed three of them into your little comfort zone with a whole bunch of scorpions and centipedes.”
He started screaming and banging on the door.
Later that evening as I was messing around in the chamber, I was thinking about Curtis, wondering how terrified he was from being surrounded by snakes and stinging bugs. Then it dawned on me; being in the dark with them was probably not that bad since he couldn’t see them. I went back over to the inspection door and tossed him a flashlight. I watched as he was freaking out while frantically shining the light around. The snakes were curled up in the corner, but the insects were crawling all over the walls, ceiling and floor. He was slapping the bugs away and screaming like a little bitch as he tried to find a safe place
. Before I shut the inspection door I said, “You better conserve your batteries. You don’t want to be in the pitch dark with all those critters.”
I left him in the room for weeks before I checked on him again. I knew he was alive as long as I could hear him screaming, begging and cursing. As far as nourishment, I knew he would eat the bugs before he would starve to death, and he had a water supply where it was seeping through the walls.”
Seth sat down next to the cell. He noticed Dicky had an expression of curiosity on his face, so he asked, “What’s on your mind.”
“Did the snakes not bite him?”
“Of course, they did.”
Dicky looked troubled.
“The snakes were venomoids.”
He’s facial expression changed to a confused look.
“A venomoid is a snake that had its venom glands removed. They were given to me by a friend because the fangs had grown back and he wasn’t sure if the venom glands had grown back as well and didn’t want to risk it. I definitely like the fangs, but do periodic checks to see if their gland is functional. So yes, the asshole was bitten quite a bit, but outside of maybe an infection and the initial pain of the bite, he experienced more mental torture than anything else.”
Raped by Royalty
Seth propped his feet up on the bars of the cell, then slouched in his chair to get comfortable. “Around this time, I read about Fabian on the Internet. I remember the headline read Raped by Royalty. The article was from a group of university students who were fed up with the politics and special treatment of students whose families were wealthy and powerful. They wanted to let the world know how there had been an injustice at their university and they wanted someone to do something about it. Their wish was granted.
Fabian was a fraternity boy at a prestigious university where the library was named in honor of his mother’s family, which in return gave him a reputation that was impeccable and creditable. To make a long story short, he had been accused of raping a freshman, and because of his family’s reputation, the girl didn’t stand a chance, and even worse, some had turned against her stating she was falsely accusing him. The girl committed suicide shortly after. A year later another girl came forward, and the same thing happened, but instead of killing herself, she dropped out of school and moved back home. A few months later when I followed up on the story again the university had shut down the website, stating the tape recording that had been recently posted was confidential and legal action would be taken if it was reposted. I dug through my records and found the email of one of the students who had been responsible for the original article. I sent an email from an untraceable account and asked for a landline number where I could discuss the issue privately. A few minutes later I received a number. I called using an untraceable cell phone, and when a girl answered, I told her I didn’t want to know her name or anything about her, and if she truly wanted help, she would have to send me whatever evidence she had. She felt comfortable enough to move forward because I didn’t ask anything about her, so I gave her the address to my post office box I had registered with false information.
Several weeks later, I drove to Louisiana to see if she had sent anything. I’m always cautious when I have to check one of my PO boxes, which I’ve scattered throughout the states. You never know if they’re being watched, so I usually pay a homeless person to check them for me. I only use post offices that are in the crappy part of the city so I have a large selection of homeless to pick from.
When I entered the section of the city where the post office was located, I parked in a parking garage, then walked several blocks to where the homeless lived under a bridge. I picked out a woman that was off away from the others, and I told her if she would check my box for me I would give her a hundred-dollar bill. She agreed, so I gave her my key. The lady frowned as she looked at the extra-large key fob. I told her it was large because I have a bad habit of losing my keys. I handed the lady a large metal box with a handle, which looked like a small tool box, and I told her to put the contents of the PO Box into it when she was done. I then told her when she got back to the bridge to put the box and key in the cloth grocery bag that would be next to the red trashcan, and her money would be taped under a rock on top of the bag. She smiled as she took off down the sidewalk.”
Seth pulled a key fob out of his pocket and held it up. “This is what I gave her.”
Dicky noticed it was a large cross. It was around five inches tall. “Why are you showing me that?”
Seth stuck it back in his pocket. “Because everything isn’t as it seems. Always remember that.”
“It’s just a large cross. Whoop-de-doo.”
“No, you fucking smartass, it has a built-in microphone and transmitter so I can be warned if the police or someone else catches the person I’ve sent.”
He looked down.
“I might seem a little paranoid, but if my mailbox was under surveillance, the police or whoever was watching could catch my gofer and force them to point me out. That’s why I take these precautionary steps. When the lady came back, she put the box and key into the bag, then she grabbed her hundred-dollar bill from the rock and took off. Another homeless person walked up to the trashcan and grabbed the bag, then he walked several blocks through different alleyways until he met with me. After I gave him a hundred, I took off myself. When I got back to my car I didn’t hesitate for a second. I quickly drove off and left the city. Time is important when someone might be staking you out. The one minute that it would have taken me to examine the box, it could have cost me my life. The content really isn’t that important.
When I got back home, I took the box into a very small room and shut the door. The room is lined with lead panels, and the box I use is lined with lead as well. This is another precautionary step I always take just in case my mail has been tampered with. Someone could easily hide a tracking device in a piece of mail, which would lead them directly here, and like I said before, I will take every possible step to keep from being caught. When I opened the box, there were several pieces of junk mail and a manila envelope. I opened the envelope and found a CD. I went upstairs to the laptop I keep strictly for offline use. Again, being cautious—someone could have installed a virus on the disk, and if I was connected to the Internet, untraceable or not, it could pinpoint my location, especially if the hacker was skilled, and this could take place without me being the wiser.
The CD had a recording between Fabian and his psychiatrist and another between him and his best friend. It also contained a photocopy of several pages from a journal that he kept, the identity of his last rape victim (a girl named Emily), and the police report regarding the incident.
It seemed someone had gone to a great deal of time investigating him. I can see why the university removed the contents from the website, especially the conversations between Fabian and his psychiatrist. The conversations are protected by doctor-patient confidentially and they are illegal in any trial, except for mine. As I examined the records, the first thing that got my attention was why in the hell did a young rich boy like Fabian need a shrink. Isn’t life perfect for an asshole like him? I also noticed the dickhead was in his last year of law school; go figure. I stayed up all night listening to the conversations between him and his psychiatrist. There were hours of discussions about his sexual thoughts and fantasy about rape. The psychiatrist would state Fabian’s sexual desires and thoughts would classify him as a power-assertive rapist, and if he didn’t continue to get help he might act out his fantasies; I think the psychiatrist was a day late and a dollar short. When I finished listening to the loony bin section of the recordings, I listened to a phone conversation between Fabian and his friend. Fabian pretty much confessed to his buddy about raping the freshman who had committed suicide, and he even made a comment stating the bitch deserved to die because she was a sorry fuck. The photocopy of his journal was real interesting. It pretty much repeated the same shit as what he had told his psychiatrist, except in his journal he did
mention he had forced sex with both girls that had accused him of rape. Instead of him using the term rape, he called it ‘taking low-income pussy’. His writings went in depth on how he liked to prey on weaker women and overpower them. After reading through the pages, it looked like there were three women that he had raped and another four that he had drugged and raped. I’m not sure why he would keep such incriminating evidence, but I think it was for several reasons. One, he most likely thought he was untouchable and it was a power trip. Two, he probably got off every time he read it. And three, he was an idiot. This guy seemed to be a real piece of shit and I was actually drooling as I thought about the different types of torture I wanted to do to him, but before I jumped the gun I needed to be sure the information I had was correct. I needed to be sure Fabian was the one speaking in the recordings, so I called his frat house to see if I could get him on the phone. The smart ass that answered wouldn’t give me a direct line to Fabian’s room or his cell phone number, so I told him I was a friend of Fabian’s from back home and I needed to talk with him. After I gave the guy my cell phone number he said he would relay the message the next time he saw him.
Since I didn’t receive a call after several days, I tried again, but this time the guy that answered the phone popped off and said he wasn’t an answering service. Before I called again I did a little more research on Fabian and his family. I found out which of the law firms he would be most likely interested in, and when I called his frat house for the third time I said that I was with Wyatt, Carter and Associates and I wanted to set up a time to meet with him to discuss his future plans. The girl that had answered the phone informed me he wasn’t there; I figured he was probably too busy raping someone, but she said she would give him the message. I left a fake name and a phone number to a different cell phone so Fabian wouldn’t notice the numbers were the same and get cautious.
The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore Page 28