The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore

by Garrett, Wade H.

  Wyatt was cringing because of his needle phobia. “So, what happens then? Do they get the needle out?”

  “The needle is the least of their problems. The embalming fluid immediately starts killing living tissue while preserving dead tissue. It also starts sealing anything it comes in contact with, restricting blood flow to that area. There is enough fluid to fuck up someone’s entire arm if they don’t get to the hospital in time.”

  “Is it painful?”

  “I’m sure it is, but I’ve never tested it on myself.”

  “Then how would you know?”

  “I’m just going by the reaction of the assholes that get stuck. They usually run around the street hysterically while holding their hand and screaming at the top of their lungs. So, yeah, I would guess it’s painful. And in the end, they will either get their hand or arm amputated or die from a blood clot or infection. It’s a win-win for everyone.”

  “That’s fucking gross. And who in the fuck wins?”

  “First off, I do. It’s fun watching these assholes run around the street in pain. Society does since there are fewer thieves. And don’t forget about the hospitals and morticians—they make money off these assholes as well. Not to mention that I’ve already started the mortician’s job if one of these fuckers did die.”

  Wyatt laughed. “What about the amputated hands. They could be used in a school for science class.”

  “I wish, but unfortunately it doesn’t work that way. They have to be destroyed right along with the rest of the medical waste.”

  “That sucks. All we ever got were frogs to dissect. A hand would have been awesome.”

  “I know how you feel. I’ve always felt that criminals on death row should have their organs harvested to give back to society for the shit they have done.”

  “Not quite what I was thinking.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want a part in me from some scumbag.”

  “What if you daughter needed a heart transplant?”

  Wyatt thought for a second. “You’re right. Fuck ‘em.”

  “In fact, that should be a part of our punishment process; if you commit a crime you should have to give up some of your parts. That way, if you keep fucking up you will eventually run out of organs. The more heinous crimes equal more parts, less for petty shit.”

  Wyatt laughed. “Damn! Too many strikes and you’re out.”

  “That would be the point.”

  “So, how many wallets have you had stolen?”

  “I’ve lost count. If I had to guess, around three hundred.”

  Wyatt’s eyes got big. “That’s a lot of one-armed assholes running around. Do you think Jim knows that you’re responsible for that?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Why?”

  “The police department released a bulletin a few years ago with a photo of me disguised as a cowboy. It warned people of what I was doing. Fortunately, they thought the person was just some random psycho and never knew it was me.”

  “Do you still do it?”

  “Not dressed like a cowboy. The last time I was disguised as an elderly lady with a purse full of agony.”

  “That’s fucked up that someone would steal from an old person.”

  “What’s fucked up is the damn cops were more worried about me fucking up some lowlifes than the people that were getting their shit stolen.”

  “What about the exploding tool boxes and boom boxes? Do you do them in New York as well?”

  “I do them everywhere, but I have to be careful with those to keep kids from getting hurt. I leave a toolbox in the back of my truck, or a boom box in the front seat of a car for easy pickins. They have a tracking device, so I can follow the asshole that steals one of them. Once I can ensure they are alone, I detonate it.”

  “Does it kill them?”

  “I use smaller charges, so they usually only lose limbs. Except for this one time; a punk was walking down the sidewalk with one of my boom boxes sitting on his shoulder and the explosion blew off his head.”

  Wyatt started laughing. “That’s fucked up.”

  “Not really—he never knew what happened. He got to skip the pain before the cane.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “I don’t want to kill these fuckers—I want them to suffer, then be a gimp. That way they will be reminded everyday of how they are a piece of shit.”

  Wyatt shook his head. “That is so fucking twisted.”

  “Death is too easy. If you kill someone, they usually don’t know it. I like to rack ‘em up, fuck ‘em up, and make ‘em wish their time was up.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a saying from back when I was in the chamber. I would secure a lowlife to a table, wall or rack, then torture the fuck out of them for days, weeks, or months, making them long for death.”

  “That’s mighty white of you, pal. You definitely have a knack for the sadistic shit.”

  Seth laughed. “I haven’t told you a sadistic story in quite a while.”

  “I think these are fine for now. I’m feeling a little nauseated anyway. Go ahead and tell me about the booby-trapped cars?”

  “They’re kind of boring.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t want to hear about anything too bloody before going to bed anyway.”

  “Of course, there will be blood.”

  “You know what I mean? No guts and stuff.”

  “There will be that as well.” Seth laughed. “Maybe you need something less gruesome like how I tarred and feathered this fucker.”

  “That seems interesting. Who’d you do it to?”

  “This fucker named Buford. He was a crooked cop. He violated this guy’s second amendment rights. CJ was illegally arrested for open carrying a rifle. The crooked ass city covered it all up. I pulled Buford out of his bed early in the morning, poured hot tar all over his ass, then covered him with feathers from his own pillow. I dumped him off at the front door of city hall to make him an example to the rest of the city crooks.” Seth sat looking at Wyatt.

  Wyatt motioned with his hands. “Is that it?”

  “Yep.”

  “What happened to Buford?”

  “He died.”

  “Why? Did you do something else to him?”

  “No. Tar and feathering someone isn’t like it is in the movies. The hot tar causes third degree burns and it sticks to the skin, causing infections.”

  “I didn’t know that. I thought it was done to humiliate someone.”

  “It is. That’s the purpose of the feathers. They’re being humiliated before they die a painful death.”

  Rollin’ Torture Wagon

  “Okay, tell me about the booby-trapped cars since the tar and feathering story was kind of lame.”

  “Rigging up a car with booby-traps involves a lot more planning and hands-on fabricating compared to the wallets or exploding boxes. I’ll tell you about this one particular story; it was kind of an experimental project to see if I could turn a car into a drivable torture chamber. I called it my rollin’ torture wagon.”

  “What do you mean by experiment?”

  “I modified the car’s booby-traps to be fully automated. If it worked, I was planning on building more of them. That way I could be in more than one place at a time; kind of like cloning myself.”

  Wyatt laughed. “That’s funny. So, what kind of car was it?”

  “An older Mercedes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they seem to be a magnet for low-budget assholes.”

  “Oh.”

  “I had put a lot of thought into designing and modifying it to get the most out of my efforts. When I was done, I parked it at a mall in Dallas where vehicle theft was out of control, then headed back home. I had installed cameras in it that linked to a wireless Internet connection so I could watch the outcome. This was back when I was still spending a lot of time in the chamber. I had the video feed connected to a large TV that was mounted on a wall.”
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  Wyatt looked confused. “Why would you have a TV in the chamber?”

  “So, the assholes in there could see what they were missing on the outside.”

  “You never cease to amaze me.”

  “You’ve said that before, but thanks again. The next day two white trash punks with tattoos broke into it. The asshole that got in the driver’s side was a big guy, had a bald head and a thick goatee. The other dude was skinny, had hair past his shoulders and a full beard. They were wearing tank top shirts, worn blue jeans and high top shoes. After they jimmied the ignition switch and took off, I remotely activated the system by calling a cell phone that was connected to it. This was a precaution to keep a cop, tow person, or a kid that was with an asshole, from getting hurt. Within seconds a seat belt buzzer started going off. I purposely designed it to be very loud and annoying, and it worked as planned—they put on their belts. Unknowing to them, the seat belt latches and mounts had been modified, but before I went to the next step, I called another cell phone that I had left next to the center console. The first few times I called they ignored it, but the passenger finally answered. “What do you want?”

  “You steal my car?”

  He looked at his buddy. “Hey, Tommy, it’s the owner. He’s asking if we have his car.”

  Tommy started laughing. “Tell that stupid fucker to go get fucked. It’s ours now.”

  “Hey, go fuck yourself.” He hung up the phone. I was watching the punks laugh and act stupid on the TV. A few of the assholes in the chamber started shaking their heads, knowing something fucked up was going to happen. Two of the assholes were yelling at the TV as if they were watching a movie, calling the punks dumbasses and telling them how to drive.”

  Wyatt raised his hand to get Seth’s attention. “Who was yelling at the TV?”

  “Mark and Jack. Mark was hanging on a nearby ceiling support post and Jack was bound in a rack.”

  “Wait a second. I’m confused.”

  “About what?”

  “I thought the ones you had in the chamber were being tortured.”

  “They were; in the most gruesome and sadistic ways that not even your worst nightmare could conjure up.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Then why would they be acting that way?”

  “You would have to be there to understand.”

  “Try to explain it. I’m confused.”

  “It’s a combination of things.”

  “Like?”

  “When a person is subjected to mental and physical suffering for a long duration, their reasoning and mind set can become irrational and they can do some strange and unpredictable things. Remember, we talked about this a while back?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, that’s part of it. They had been in the chamber for so long that normal reasoning had slipped away. They had also become extremely bored and any kind of activity outside of torturing them got them excited. They were also the clowns of the chamber.”

  “Bored? How can someone be bored in a torture chamber?”

  “From being restrained or confined for a long period of time without any interaction from me or anyone else; basically, treating them as if they were invisible, ignoring their pleas of why they were there and what was going to happen to them.”

  “How long are you talking?”

  “For some, years.”

  Wyatt’s eyes got big. “No shit. You actually did that?”

  “Yes, but not to everyone though, just the assholes that had ADHD.”

  “Why?”

  “Once I found out that a scumbag had ADHD, or any kind of phobia, I would implement that into their punishment. Torture and confusion of the mind is sometimes more painful than the torture of the flesh. I always mix the two, because fear after the adrenaline rush is over creates more pain.”

  “What about Mark and Jack. How long had they been in there?”

  “Only a short while, less than a year I think. They were an odd pair and kind of dumb, in a hillbilly type of way. They were friends before I brought them to the chamber, and all they did was argue with each other. That’s why I called them the clowns of the chamber.”

  “What did they do to get in there?”

  “Tortured and killed some animals for starters.”

  Wyatt had compassion for animals. “I hope you fucked them up.”

  “I think I’ve told you what I did to them. They’re the ones that I had removed their bones and made a cradle with them. The guys who I learned the dick jokes from.”

  “Oh yeah. You didn’t mention their names earlier.” Wyatt flipped the pages in his notebook until he came to the section regarding Mark and Jack. He wrote their names on the page. “I remember, they killed cats that were at an animal shelter.” Wyatt cringed as he read his notes. “I forgot what you had actually done to them.” He looked at Seth. “I take it they were watching the car thieves on TV before you did all that to them.”

  “Yes and no. I had already removed the bones from Mark’s arms and legs; that’s why he was hanging on the post.”

  “Continue on. This is interesting”

  “After the punks told me to go get fucked I activated a winch that was connected to their seat belts, causing them to tighten down. They tried to unlatch them, but I had modified the latches to lock together once there was pressure. There were four cameras in the car. One faced the driver, another faced the passenger, one out the front so I could see where they were driving and one out the back. The TV screen was sectioned off in four blocks, showing all the cameras at once. I was sitting in a recliner next to Jack as he was being forced in an awkward position by the rack. He had to hold his head back while stretching his neck to see the TV. Mark was comfortably hanging on the post as he watched.”

  “How in the fuck was he comfortable? His bones had been removed.”

  “His limbs were pretty much numb from being shocked by an electric fence controller.”

  “I’m not even going to ask.”

  “So anyway, the punks were now fighting with their seat belts and bitching at one another. I called them back to see if their attitude had changed. The passenger answered it again. He was panicking. “Is this the owner of the car?”

  “Well, yes, it is. Is there a problem?”

  “Your car’s seat belts are acting up. They’re squeezing the shit out of us and we can’t get them off.”

  “Put me on speaker phone.”

  I heard some shuffling around for a bit. “Done.”

  The driver spoke out. He was pissed. “What the fuck is this shit!”

  “It’s part of my security system.”

  “I’m gonna sue your ass, buddy.”

  “Really. You’re the one who stole my property.”

  “Fuck you, dude. I know my rights.”

  “In my world, you have the right to suffer before you die.”

  “Fuck you, tough guy. You ain’t gonna do shit.”

  “You need to know the car is programmed to…” He hung up on me. I set the phone down and started eating popcorn as I watched the assholes on TV. The passenger pulled out a knife and cut his shoulder strap in two. He also cut a wire that I had sewn between the layers. To his horror, two sharp rods with barbs came ejecting out of his seat, piercing him through each of his thighs. A few seconds later my phone rang. “Angel of Death speaking, how can I help you?”

  The driver was now panicking. “Who? What did you say?”

  “You heard me, fucknuts. What the fuck do you want? I’m busy.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “If it was, would it be funny?”

  “Huh? I don’t know what you’re asking. I called because we need help.”

  “Help with what?”

  “Dude, stop playing around. Josh is hurt bad.”

  I looked closer at the TV. “Not that bad. The rod that was supposed to take out his nuts didn’t deploy.”

  “What? What rod?”

  “Are you fucking retarded?”

&n
bsp; “Whatever, dude. We’re going to find some help—he could bleed to death.”

  “Not likely. The rods are perforated and filled with a clotting agent.”

  I could hear Josh crying in the background. He was worried about the rod that didn’t deploy. “Sir, this is Josh. Please help us. We’re sorry for stealing your car.”

  “There’s nothing I can do. The car is in automatic torture mode now. And besides, I’m busy.”

  Tommy was getting aggravated. “Fuck you dude. I’ll find a cop.”

  “You do that. And by the way, if any of the car doors are opened or one of the hidden sensors is tripped, your nut stick will deploy. It might also jar Josh’s loose as well.”

  “What the fuck are you blabbering about? What the fuck is a nut stick?”

  “The sharp rod that is designed to rip through your nuts. It’s hidden in the bottom of your seat somewhere, lurking around, just waiting to pop up and bust through your nuts.”

  Tommy cringed as he thought about it. “Okay, okay. What do you want me to do?”

  “Suffer before you die.”

  Silence fell on the phone. Tommy had muted it. I turned up the volume of the TV so I could hear what they were scheming. As I figured, they were contemplating if I was bluffing. A few seconds later Tommy unmuted the phone. “Hey, I think you’re full of shit. We’re going to go find a cop.” He hung up. I sat back and watched them as I smoked a cigarette. I could tell they weren’t sure what to do. They pulled into a convenience store and parked. Tommy started to open his door, then changed his mind. They sat there for a few minutes discussing what to do. Suddenly, Tommy started violently shaking as if he was having a seizure, then smoke began to pour out around his seat. A few seconds later he fell unconscious, then my phone rang. I turned the volume down on the TV. “What?”

  “Something happened to Tommy.”

  “There’s a ten-thousand-volt igniter connected to bands of copper that are sewn under the seat cover. When the car is stopped for a given time, which I’m not privy to disclose, the driver will receive a flesh cooking shock.”