Into Painfreak

by Lee, Edward

  While Rex’s mind went to images of things he had dreamed of, the dwarf removed a metallic object from his pant pocket.

  “Ahh,” squealed the dwarf as he spotted the massive erection forming in Rex’s pants. He held up the object. “Your admission. You’ll have to bend over a bit and give me your right hand, big fella.”

  Rex obeyed, and the dwarf pressed the object to the top of Rex’s wrist. Electricity flowed through his arm. It dissipated before it reached his elbow. The dwarf pocketed the metal object. “Big guy like you, you hardly felt that, I bet. Let’s go!” he announced in a voice that brought to Rex’s mind fingernails on a chalkboard.

  Together, they passed through the doorway, where they were met by a tall thin Asian man. “Your right hand,” the Asian demanded. Rex held it out, palm down. The Asian waved a wand over the back of his hand. Rex cocked his head when a symbol resembling a bone came into view. The Asian nodded and then gestured with a sweep of his arm toward a hallway leading into the club.

  Rex looked down to his side to see if the dwarf would follow, but he was gone. He eyed the hallway, pitch black and as quiet as a mausoleum. He stepped forward.

  “Welcome to Painfreak.”

  Rex jumped, then crouched at the sound. The dwarf’s voice had come from somewhere above him.

  ««—»»

  After no more than three steps down the hallway, Rex’s senses were assaulted. Dance music enveloped him—the vibration digging its way through his pores. He cringed—the pain from the booming audio traveled through his ears and pierced his brain. The down-beat was worse—it pricked at his eyes like needles while the bass jackhammered the top of his skull. Why hadn’t he heard it when he was wrist-checked by the Asian?

  This is Painfreak? A dance club?

  Rex compartmentalized the pain. He concentrated on his surroundings. Hundreds of people were dancing under strobe lights, their bodies vanishing and then reappearing in time with the rhythm. The flashes disoriented him and he fought to maintain focus.

  A majority of the dancers were nude or semi-nude. Breasts and penises bounced, the flaccid ones lagging behind the beat. Of those clothed, some were wearing costumes and masks.

  The smell of fish and bleach permeated the air.

  Rex advanced toward the center of the dance floor and bulldozed anyone in his path to the side. No one seemed to care. Those who fell reached out to him. Their hands snaked up his legs. When they reached for his cock, he ignored them or brushed them aside with his tree-trunk arms. Some of the fallen ones would not be deterred—they clung to his legs. He dragged them along. He stepped on some, others fell off. If they cried out, he didn’t hear their wails.

  Rex pushed on. His gaze swept over the costumes of the dancers. Both sexes wore bras adorned with metallic accoutrements. Woven into the fabric were spikes, fragments of saw blades, and razor wire. The objects glistened with moisture when the strobe lights reflected off them. He had no way of knowing what lay beneath their masks, but a grin formed when he imagined that they might be more hideous than he was. He reached out to pull the mask off the closest dancer, but stopped short when there was a tap in the middle of his back. With his arm suspended in air, he turned. When he saw who it was, he took an involuntary step away.

  It was Brian Stone. Only, Brian Stone was dead. Rex knew this because he had killed him.

  Two years ago, Stone bludgeoned his wife with a hammer and then had stuck the handle up her ass. She bled to death. Stone claimed he found her that night when he came home from playing poker with some pals. He told the cops she was cheating on him, and that’s who they should be looking for. Everyone knew he did it, but the cops couldn’t crack his alibi or get enough evidence. They wanted Stone to disappear. When the detectives showed Rex the pictures of Stone’s wife lying on the floor, dead, with the handle sticking out of her, Rex was only too happy to accept the job. He beat Stone to a pulp—repeatedly slamming his fists into the man’s face until a portion of the prick’s skull broke off. His brains still stained the sidewalk.

  Now, Stone showed no sign of the beating.

  Rex’s chest tightened. Not in fear of the dead man—for Rex feared no one—but because the images of what Stone had done to his wife rushed at him like a chained dog.

  Stone must have noted the recognition in Rex’s eyes. The dead man smiled, and then motioned with a shake of his head for Rex to follow. Rex weighed the invitation. Without waiting, Stone turned and walked off the dance floor. Unlike his own entrance into the club, the crowd parted for Stone. Rex decided to follow. They passed a long bar against a far wall, two people deep with customers ordering drinks. Stone turned at the bar’s end and opened an oversized door. Rex entered, and when Stone closed the door behind them, the music cut out.

  They were in a small, well-lit room, facing each other with only a few feet separating them. Another oversized door loomed at the opposite end.

  Rex grunted, “You’re dead.”

  “Yes, I’m dead. Only, in Painfreak, I’m not dead.”

  Rex cocked his head to the side. How can someone be dead but not dead?

  Stone continued. “We know why you’re here. She’s in a room through that door.” Stone lifted a hand and pointed. “Before you open the door, Rex, I’m here to tell you that Painfreak thinks you are making a mistake. She belongs here. And so do you.”

  Stone’s words only fueled Rex’s hatred for the man. Nobody tells him what he should or shouldn’t do, especially a woman-beating shit-heel like Stone. What kind of place brings people like Stone back from the dead? Rex balled his hands into fists. One of the pictures the detectives had showed him flashed in his head. He saw the hammer Stone had used to kill his wife. Clumps of flesh, painted red and brown, clung to the handle.

  Rex howled at the image and lifted his arms high. Stone’s eyes went wide and he leaned back.

  The giant brought his arms down.

  Tuffs of hair and bone fragments exploded from Stone’s head. Rex continued to pummel the once dead man until his neck vertebrae wedged deep in his upper torso. Stone teetered for a moment, and then toppled over sideways.

  “Fucking stay dead.” Rex mumbled.

  He turned from Stone’s body, walked to the door on the other side of the room, opened it and stepped through.

  In the center of the small room hung a naked woman. She was bound with rope and suspended upright. Her stretched arms and legs formed an X. Four men surrounded her. They were thin, bald, with skin as pale as a cancer patient. One was positioned behind her, another faced her so close their noses touched. A third man rubbed against the woman’s left thigh. The fourth man stood next to the woman’s right thigh with a knife. The man drew the blade across the meaty portion of the woman’s thigh. With his fingers, he parted her flesh until the blood flowed freely. Then the man plunged his penis into the wound. Rex squinted and shook his head as he stared at the man.

  He swung his gaze to each of the pale men. They all pumped into the woman, their asses in constant, rapid motion. The woman’s body had too many cuts for Rex to count, all of them dripping with blood and semen.

  Rex lifted his head to see their victim’s face. Her eyes were tight, and her mouth was open. Her tongue hung limp over her bottom lip. It was the Reverend’s wife. He strained to hear if she was aware of what was happening to her. He heard it—a single, continuous, anguished note coming somewhere from deep inside her.

  He walked toward the men fucking her.

  Rex couldn’t remember a time when he had wept—even as a child he had kept his emotions in check. He took a deep breath, hung his head and closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged as he exhaled. His eyes moistened. Scenes of his mother’s torture by her boyfriend seeped into his head. Rex saw himself as a child, forced to witness the depravity. He tensed at the recollection. His hands opened and closed into fists.

  Now was not the time to revisit those memories. He blocked out the images, and his mind raced to the present. When he opened his eyes, they burned with
fire.

  Hands the size of melons gripped the biceps of the pale man closest to him. Rex squeezed. The man’s bones crushed under his grip. With little effort, he tore the man’s arms out of their sockets.

  The man continued to pump into the woman.

  Rex blinked and took a step back. What the fuck? Rex dropped the man’s limbs, reached out, and wrapped his fingers around the man’s neck. He pulled. The head separated from the body with a slurp. Blood sprayed, adding another layer of gore to Rex’s face and chest.

  It wasn’t enough. Rex fumed. Why the fuck won’t he die?

  Rex pulled the man out of the woman and onto to the floor. His size twenty-two shoes stomped on the body until it was a bloody sludge. Piles of viscera mixed with bones littered the floor. They did not move. Rex turned to the other three. They had paid no attention to the death of one of their own. If anything, their assault on the woman grew more fevered. Rex tore into them. One by one, he repeated the tactic on the remaining three. When finished, his pant legs were soaked red to the knees.

  Rex surveyed the carnage. What could have passed for a smile stretched across his face.

  The woman groaned. It brought Rex back to the reason he was here. Had he had time, he would have bathed in the blood and devoured their organs, but he had a job to do and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could remain in Painfreak before he was trapped. He searched the floor for the knife the men had used to cut her, but he couldn’t see it. Using the toe of his right shoe, he moved the piles of sludge aside for a better view. The knife revealed itself under a mashed organ. As he bent to pick it up, he heard a sound above him. He lifted his head and frowned. There was no ceiling. In its place, a dark void. As he stared, he saw something move within it. Seconds later, an object, attached to a thin white rope, slipped down through the ink. When it touched the floor several feet away, Rex stood upright, the knife clenched in his hand.

  It was a woman—naked, tall, hairless, and as pale as the four men he had killed. The thin white rope hung slack as it stretched down from the void and disappeared behind her back. A web of sorts, he mused, no doubt spun from her ass. She stood still for a moment, and then stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

  “Rex,” she spoke, her voice low and thick. “You do not want to take her away.”

  He took a step back, and bumped up against the woman tied in ropes. She groaned, but then went silent.

  Rex eyed the pale woman—not so much in fear but out of curiosity. “Why not?”

  The woman had come to within inches of Rex. She stopped, raised her arms, and then wrapped them around Rex’s head. “Because, Rex…,” Her lips didn’t move, but he could hear her voice, “…you may leave Painfreak, but Painfreak never leaves you.” She raised her head and then pressed her mouth against his. Her lips parted and her tongue probed.

  Rex stiffened. His body vibrated as if four hundred and sixty volts of electricity poured through him. Pictures played in his head. They were scenes of exquisite debauchery, and he had the lead role in all of them. Rex could taste blood, and he could smell his victim’s shit. He saw himself surrounded by women, all of them offering themselves to him, their sex dripping with anticipation. Above it all, a whisper called to him. It was the pale woman’s. Her voice breathy as she implored, “Stay with us.”

  Stay with us.

  Us?

  Rex bit down on the woman’s tongue. In his head, he heard her shriek, and the images of the debauchery vanished. She lowered her hands and pushed off him. Blood bubbled from between her lips. Rex shook off the remnants of her physic hold and spit what was hers back at her. The thin white rope pulled taut and she was lifted into the darkness. As he watched her rise, he raised his fists to her and growled, “Us? There is no Us! Nobody owns me!”

  He turned to the trussed woman. Starting with her leg restraints, he cut them, and worked up to the ties that bound her arms. He slung her over his shoulder.

  “No,” she pleaded.

  “Shut up,” he answered, “I’ve got you now. I’m taking you home to your husband.”

  Rex retraced his steps. He waded through the piles of mashed organs on the floor and opened the door.

  Walking through the room, he glanced at the mess that was Stone. Still dead. He exited that room and was back at the bar on the dance floor. The music drove spikes of pain into his head and the strobe lights played havoc with his perspective. He searched for the way he had come in. Taking a few moments to adjust to the lights, he thought he had found it. As before, the crowd clamored for him. They reached out, grabbed at his legs and ran their hands over his body. A few attempted to remove the woman from his shoulder. He answered with a punch that snapped their limbs or stove their skulls. He barreled his way through the dance floor, kicking, pushing, and stepping on anyone in his path. When he made it to the end of the room, he saw the dark hallway. He stopped before entering and turned to take one last look at Painfreak. Though the music droned on and the strobe lights flashed, no one in the crowd danced. They were still, and they all faced him. When the strobe lights flashed on, he saw their faces. They grinned. His headed clouded. They were pulling at him. Once more, it was the woman on his shoulders who brought him back around.

  “Leave me alone,” she begged. She was disoriented, her voice weak. Rex ignored her, blinked at the mob, and then he spun around. He walked into the hallway.

  The music stopped and the lightning bolt echoes from the strobes disappeared. There were no signs of the Asian man or the dwarf. Rex walked to the door at the end of the hallway, opened it and stepped outside.

  It was dark, but the surroundings were familiar. He stood in front of the brick building and could see the pawnshop across the street. Its lights were off. He carried the woman to his Hummer and drove home.

  Rex entered the house and carried the woman up to the second floor. He placed her on his bed. She was conscious. Her eyes fixed on his. Neither said a word. His gaze wandered over her body. Her wounds trickled red and white onto his blankets—except from between her legs. There, a puddle formed beneath her. A snapshot of the men fucking her flashed before him. He saw her bound, the knife cutting her thigh, their frantic pumping.

  Rex envied their single-minded purpose.

  “Why did you take me from there?”

  He lifted his gaze in response to Betty’s question. His hoarse reply came quick. “Your husband. He paid me to bring you back.”

  Betty arched her back and spread her legs wide. “I don’t want to come back.”

  Rex focused on the gap between her legs. Betty was small, too small. He would rip her apart.

  After a moment, he murmured, “There’s something I have to do.”

  Rex pulled Betty’s picture out from his pocket. He walked to the phone and dialed the number on the back. After three rings, someone answered. Rex spoke.

  “Reverend, I’ve got Betty. Come over in an hour, not before. The front door is unlocked, let yourself in.” Rex hung up the phone. He disrobed and approached the bed.

  “We are going to have company soon.

  Betty grinned. “I can’t wait.”

  | — | — |

  Ownership

  ————

  Wrath James White

  Lord whisked the scalpel through her flesh in deft, rapid strokes, carving forgotten runes and symbols, more from instinct than memory, as Miyu continued to moan, and scream, and masturbate with her one free hand. In his intricate designs, he used the welts and cuts caused by the whip, the bleeding avulsions left by the reed-thin rattan cane he’d lashed her ass and thighs with, slicing and cutting with the scalpel to connect wound to wound. Soon, the tapestry of bleeding lines formed hieroglyphics in languages that were ancient when mankind was new.

  Miyu’s eyes were glazed, far away, sparkling like Christmas lights as adrenaline and endorphins coursed through her. She never once attempted to free her other wrist or her ankles from the leather restraints. She was enjoying the endorphins too much, the eu
phoric waves of dopamine flooding through her bloodstream.

  “Ooooh, yes. Don’t stop, big man. Hurt me! Hurt me!”

  Miyu loved the high she got from pain. The sweet intoxicating nectar of agony. She was enjoying all of this…until she wasn’t.

  It was some type of twisted mercy that made Lord bow down between Miyu’s muscular thighs and lick her engorged clitoris, sucking it, flicking it rapidly with his tongue until she began to tremble with the first tremors of a tremendous orgasm, adding an avalanche of her juices to the blood soaking the red satin bed sheet. Lord sucked her tender labia, eased his tongue deep inside her to lick the inner walls of her sex, fucking her with his tongue as she continued to convulse in ecstasy. He knew these few orgasms, no matter how delicious, would be small payment for the agony to come, but it was all he had to offer.

  “You will be my doorway,” Lord said, as he traded the scalpel for a large bowie knife, plunging it to the hilt in Miyu’s sopping wet vagina, seizing the hilt with both and hands and ripping the blade violently upwards, slicing her open from her sex to her stomach. She’d had no time to scream. Lord wasn’t sure she would have anyway. He wasn’t certain she could even distinguish her own murder from the salacious agonies he’d given her for the last couple hours.

  Blood sprayed everywhere, raining down upon them like rainwater, a meaty red deluge pouring from the yawning maw gaping in Miyu’s lower torso as Lord sawed his way up through her sternum and cracked open her ribcage. He reached into her chest with both of his gigantic hands to pry her apart and open the door.

  “I told you bitches I’d be back,” Lord said, smiling triumphantly as he stood, stepped both feet into Miyu’s vandalized corpse, and descended the stairs into Painfreak.

  3 hours earlier.