by Raptor, John
The Yellow Wallpaper.
I shudder.
I’m going to end up like that woman in the story, thinking she’s trapped behind it—except I’ll have the sadistic smiley faces and flowers joining me as company.
Fly paper, I think. Trapped in it like a fly on fly paper.
My heart throbs in my throat when I hear…muffled screams? Moaning? Is someone being tortured or fucked? Maybe an ape-man raping a woman?
Coming from somewhere down the hall.
Robert bolts toward the noise.
I follow, somewhat reluctantly. Curious what it is, afraid to find out, but not wanting to be left alone in this maze. I’d rather be with an ape-man than face another one of those Bunnies.
I wonder if there are more of them.
Have to be.
The Bunny couldn’t have been the only torturer in this hell hole.
Could he?
I wish he was, but know it’s a lie.
Where there’s an ape-man (or bunny-man), there’s a colony…eager to murder and rape and stick their dirty fingers in the pie and contaminate and destroy everything.
Robert halts at a fork in the hall…listens for the noise.
Silence.
Then we hear it again.
To the right.
Muffled screams.
To the left.
Muffled screams.
Right.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Left…
…a long hallway with a door at the end.
That’s where it’s coming from.
The muffled cries.
Robert rushes down the hall, tries the door…it’s locked, of course.
Kicks it in.
I stare into the room over the ape-man’s shoulder.
Erica (Candy Cane).
Oh god.
I grab my belly and keel over onto the floor…afraid to move from the spot.
Erica is naked, chained to the headboard by her neck, her limbs cut to stubs, her mouth sewn shut. Between her legs is a gaping bleeding hole (God, I feel pain down there just looking at it).
A crater of burnt flesh oozes blood and yellow pus next to her right breast; a vacant spot where her other—
Written on the wall:
THEY CUT OUT MY NAUGHTY PARTS!
Her vagina and left breast hang from nails, both dripping crimson patterns down the yellow paper.
Robert expels bile onto the hardwood.
I stay kneeled in the hallway, crying. Muttering: "Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god…”
Robert gets a hold of himself and moves toward Erica, pauses—unsure what to do. Just stares, then glances around the room—
There’s an acetylene torch in the corner…must be what they used to cauterize her stumps after they cut her arms and legs off—with what, god only know—
Then I see the chainsaw, flesh and gore stuck in the teeth.
I wonder if they used the acetylene torch to cauterize her breast wound and her vag—
“DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY!”
Robert jumps and I scream.
On the night stand is one of those singing fish (splattered with blood) that used to be popular…except its head is missing. As the headless bass wreaths on the plaque, it belts out more of the song, reassuring us to not worry, but be happy. Halfway through: the voice becomes slurred, drawn out, deep (“dooooonnn’t worrrrrry”), until it dies.
Robert catches his breath, moves forward.
A gun lies on the pillow next to Erica’s head, as does a scalpel.
The ape-man uses the scalpel to cut the stitches binding Candy Cane’s mouth…at which point (when her tongue is finally freed), she screams at the top of her lungs: “KILL ME! JUST FUCKING KILL ME!”
Those hopeless cries chill my marrow…but not as much as what happens next.
Robert picks up the gun, shoots her in the head—no hesitation. A trigger-happy ape-man, always eager to kill and destroy. Hairy finger wrapped around the hair trigger.
Chunks of Candy Cane’s brain and skull splatter the pillow beneath her, the headboard.
He puts her down like a rabid animal.
Robert
I can’t believe I just killed her but oh God her screams were so horrible probably the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard. God, she was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen a lot.
I slide the gun (a .38 Smith and Wesson) into the back of my pants, and move into the hall. Jennifer is on her knees, against the yellow wallpaper, shivering, crying—smiley faces and flowers all around her head. I try to hold her but she pulls away, dry heaving.
I want to pick her up off the floor and tell her we have to keep moving, but I myself am afraid to take another step into this mad house.
“Oh God…why did you do that? Oh God,” she tries to say through heavy tears.
Because it was logical, but instead, I say: “She was suffering.”
“You fucker!” More sobbing.
“I know,” I say, and that’s all I say. Nothing else to be said.
Jennifer kneels there for a long moment, shaking. I try to steady myself against the smiley face wall, but my heart won’t stop pounding. I can feel it in my fingertips, my eyes.
“Oh god oh god oh god,” Jennifer is praying?
Hot tears pour down my cheeks and I want to get down on my knees and beg god for mercy too, but it’s too late for me. There’s no going back. I’m in hell. Where I belong.
“Come on, Jenny…” I don’t know why I call her that. “Let’s go.”
I help her up and we move through the twisting halls, turning right, left, left, right, left, right, right…always on edge, afraid that the Bunny will appear again, pop out from behind any corner. There have to be more of them.
We heard screaming in the cell next to us…of course, that could have just been the same Bunny torturing another prisoner, but what about the mutilated bitch we found up here?
There have to be multiple sick fucks in masks.
There was last ti—
We stumble upon the living room (a wide-open space!):
Dusty floorboards, torn up couch (yellow foam spewing out the arms and seats), old TV with UHF dial (playing a popular conservative news channel, where the current topic is “HOW TO TELL IF YOUR MUSLIM NEIGHBOR IS A TERRORIST;” up next, “ARE TRANSSEXUALS TRYING TO RAPE YOUR KIDS IN PUBLIC RESTROOMS?” Muted), a deer head over the fireplace, and an aquarium full of dead fish (bobbing on their backs). The windows have black trash bags taped over them.
I punch the picture window and quickly draw back bloodied knuckles, gnashing my teeth. Behind the trash bags and glass: concrete and steel bars.
“Where the fuck are we?” Jennifer says.
“In hell.” A raspy voice from behind us.
Jennifer and I swivel around, toward the voice—as I do so, my hand is on the grip of the .38 S&W and I draw it, aiming it forward, at—
Alex Rodriguez. Half his wife-beater stained red. Bloodied bandage around his neck. Good for nothing white supremacist (the irony being that he’s a spic; a white spic, but a spic nonetheless), whose specialties include drug running, sex slavery, grand theft auto, murder, torture, and snuff films (the kinda shit you find on the deep web).
He doesn’t have any tear drop tattoos, because if he did, it’d look like he was wearing black face. Instead, he has a demon tat on his bicep (sharp pointy horns, big beady eyes, talons wrapped around the breast of a nubile, scantily clad woman who is clearly not consenting), and beneath the demon, in green letters: HELLBOUND.
On his forehead and right hand: 666, the mark of the beast.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention: Alex Rodriguez also has a pink Glock pointed at my face.
“Lower your gun,” I say.
“You first, motherfucker. How do I know you’re not one of them?”
I slowly lower the .38, and say, “I’m a cop.”
Thankfully, Alex lower
s the pink Glock. “I’m a crook.” Then: “You come to save the day hot shot?”
“No. I just want to get the fuck out of here.”
“Any ideas, copper?”
“No.”
“I’ve been around this whole goddam place. There’s no fucking way out.”
He chokes, hand going to his bandaged neck. Spits a wad of blood and spit onto the dusty floorboards.
“There has to be a way out.”
“No. Nada. The windows are blocked with fucking cinderblocks and steel bars, the fucking doors are sealed tighter than a 12-year-old girl’s asshole. This place is a fucking prison.” He snorts. “What the fuck did you do to end up here, copper?”
A rat scurries past Alex’s feet and into the maze of hallways. Jennifer screams.
“And what the fuck is that cunt doing here?” Alex glares at Jennifer.
“Don’t call her that.”
“Don’t worry, copper. She ain’t nothin’ to be sweet on. She’s a whore. Aren’t you, Cinnamon?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Jennifer screams.
“She’ll let you touch her patooty for a Benjamin.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
I tell him to, “Stop it.”
“What? You one of them fuckin’ feminazis? Fuckin’ beta-male comin’ to rescue the damsel in distress in hopes of gettin’ your balls licked? You want that pussy, just take it, man. No need to ask.”
“Shut the fuck up you fucking ape-man piece of shit!” Jennifer screams.
“Shut your fucking mouth, cunt!” Alex points the pink Glock, and Jennifer gets down on her knees, covering her head with her arms, sobbing. “That’s what I thought, bitch!”
I raise the .38. “Put it the fuck down.”
Alex shrugs, sticks the barrel of the Glock down the front of his pants. “Fine, man. I’m chill. As long as that cunt knows her place and keeps her fucking vag shut, I’m cool.”
I lower the .38, but don’t holster it.
“So, you know who locked us up in this fucking shithole?” Alex asks.
“No. I don’t know who they are. Some guy in a bunny costume. I knocked him out with a sledgehammer. Didn’t bother to remove his mask.”
“Some dude in a clown mask had me. I shot him in the fucking face.”
“A clown?”
“Yeah, man. A fuckin’ clown. Gave that fuckin’ queer a new asshole, right in his fuckin’ face.”
“So, there’s more of them?”
“No fuckin’ shit. I’ve already shot five of the fuckers.”
Jennifer sits on the couch, face buried in her palms, sobbing.
“Would you tell that cunt to shut up?”
I ignore that last part: “Wait, five?” I’m not feeling good.
“Yeah, they’re all fucking faggots playing dress up, man. Wearing clown masks, bunny costumes, bear costumes…one guy was wearing a moose head. It’s like a goddam furries party up in this bitch.”
I stare into the aquarium. One fish is alive, nibbling on a finger lying at the bottom of the tank. Gnawing the pink, stringy flesh from the white bone.
For a brief moment, I see a pale penis instead of a finger.
Alex
These pussies are going to hold me back: a beta-male, feminazi, SJW cop and a slut whore cunt. When they least suspect it, I’m going to pull the Glock and put them both out of their pansy-ass misery.
They haven’t given me any new info. They don’t know how the fuck to get out of here. They serve no use to me.
Fuck ‘em.
The strong always prevail.
It’s already past sunrise, isn’t it? Those faggots told me I’d be dead by sunrise, but here I am.
No one fucks with Alex Rodriguez.
Those faggots thought they could tie me up, choke me, cut my throat…but they were fuckin’ wrong. I prevailed because I am an alpha male, an Aryan son of Odin.
Adrenaline courses through my veins in an awesome wave as I watch the copper shiver as he stares into the aquarium.
The cunt is still crying her eyes out on the couch like a goddam bitch. Weak. Pathetic.
I hate victims.
I could have been a victim, but instead, I fought back.
Why would you want to be a victim when you could be an abuser? Power is better than submission.
Fuckin’ faggots always trying to get sympathy. Cryin’ whiny ass bitches: “I was abused, waaa. People are hurting me, waaa. Violating my boundaries, waaa.” Grow a sack and fight back, you cunts! You will always be abused as long as you let people abuse you. If you don’t become the abuser, you will always be the victim.
Fuckin’ losers.
I’m about to reach for the pink Glock (what kinda faggot has a pink Glock?) when the copper says
Robert
“What’s your sin?”
“What the fuck are you talking about, copper?”
“We’re all here because we’re sinners. So, what’s your sin?” I already know (he has a laundry list), but I want to see if the cocksucker will fess up.
“None of your goddam business.”
Guess not.
“You already pointed mine out,” Jennifer says. “Don’t be a pussy. Tell us.”
“Shut your fuckin’ face, cunt!”
“Make me!” Jennifer screams, and my finger gets itchy on the trigger of the .38.
I watch Alex’s eyes…watch his fingers twitch…they’re ready to reach for the pink Glock…but instead, he turns to me and says: “I used to make snuff films and sell them on the deep web.”
“You sick fucker!” Jennifer screams.
The fingers go for the pink Glock, which is drawn (barrel scraping against denim) and pointed at Jennifer.
“Shut the fuck up, bitch!”
The .38 that I never holstered is already raised, pointed at Alex’s sweaty bald head.
“Drop it,” I say.
“I’m not actually going to shoot her, fuckface. Just tryin’ to scare the piss out of the cunt.”
“I don’t care. You’re a murderer. Give me my gun.”
Alex scoffs. “Not until you confess your sin, copper.”
“None of your goddam business, scumbag.”
“What the fuck did you just call me, you pussy-faggot cocksucker?”
“Give me the goddam gun!”
“No. I fuckin’ confessed. Now it’s your fuckin’ turn, bitch.” Pink Glock still trained on Jennifer. “Confess or I’ll blow that whore apart.”
Alex chokes, gun-free hand going to the bandage on his throat. He spits up another bloody loogie.
“I cheated on my wife,” I say. Long pause, as I consider whether I should go on. “And I…I let my sister die.”
“That’s it? You cheated on your whore wife and let a bitch die? Who fucking cares? You’re a sad, pathetic beta-male bitch.”
My finger nearly flexes on the trigger…but somehow, I control myself.
“DROP THE GODDAM GUN!”
“Fine, whatever, faggot.” Alex releases the grip and lets it clatter to the floor.
“Kick it over to me.”
Alex kicks it over, and I bend down to get it, keeping the .38 trained on him. I pick up the pink Glock and slide the .38 into the back of my pants, Glock now trained forward.
“Okay, now, let’s get the fuck out of here,” I say.
“Who made you fuckin’ leader?”
“I’m the one with the fucking guns,” I remind him.
“I told you, there’s no fucking way out of here.”
“Then what the fuck do you suggest we do?”
“Don’t let that fucking ape-man tell us what to do. He’s a fucking monster!”
“Shut up, cunt!”
“I said: don’t talk to her like that.”
“Why? Do you want to fuck her in the ass or something?”
“I’m not a fucking piece of meat!” Jennifer.
“Could have fooled me. You sure looked like one on that pole, Cinny. You sure looked like one whe
n you were going down on my cock.”
“ENOUGH!” I yell. “Quit it.”
“Why do you give a fuck, copper? You don’t respect these cunts. You had no problem using Angela as a hole to collect your fuckin’ cum in.”
My blood freezes. “What the fuck did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“How the fuck do you know about Angela?”
Jennifer says, “Who’s Angela?”
“Shut up.” Me this time.
“She’s a whore, like you cuntface,” Alex says. Then turns to me: “I’m her fuckin’ pimp. I know all her johns.”
Shit. He knows who I am. Does he remember my face?
“The clown said you’re the reason we’re here.”
“He’s a fucking clown. You can’t believe anything he says.”
Alex’s cold predatory eyes study me. “I know you from somewhere.”
I’m sweating, my finger tightening around the trigger. “Do you?”
“Yeah. Your face is very…familiar.”
…1 YEAR AGO
Alex
Smell of blood and cat litter and I had already spent my load (wet and dripping down my leg) by the time the bitch’s arm was off (beat her stupid bleeding cunt face with it) and her teeth were shattered (thanks to the hammer).
As I grabbed the wire snips (to remove her fingers, toes, and labia), I heard a muffled BANG BANG BANG BANG, and it wasn’t coming from my gun: a Desert Eagle .50AE, which lay on the litter next to the ax. Once I was done mutilating and torturing the bitch, I planned on blowing her apart with the semi-automatic handgun (the most powerful, aside from the S&W Model 500).
The gun from outside the Kill Room sounded more like a Glock—the kind coppers use. 40 cal.
The Film Guy (Steve Cheese) looked up from the viewfinder and said, “What the fuck was that?” His pants unzipped, limp cock hanging out. Already spent his load too.
I didn’t say a goddam thing…just listened, wire snips in my hands. I slowly set them down and reached for the Desert Eagle.
The BANG BANG BANG BANG filled the Kill Room—gunshots fired through the door.
Steve went down like a sack of shit, red bloody holes opening in his torso like hungry mouths.