by Raptor, John
“You can’t kill sinners if you are a sinner, Robert. It’s…hypocritical. I had to cleanse you.”
“Fuck you. I don’t need your fucking help.”
Gramma sighs. “I thought I equipped you with a harder form of communication, Robert…but you still act like a goddam cunt.” She touches the globe with her long jagged nails. “The world is shit and if you can’t take shit, you will die out there. If you can’t even resist the urge of the flesh, I don’t know how you’ll fight the Devil when the end times come. You need to grow a pair…or do you still think you’re a girl, Robert?”
“Shut the fuck up. I’m not a girl. I’m a man. A tough, grizzled fucking man, you dumb bitch. That’s what you wanted and that’s who I am so just shut the fuck up.”
“Are you sure you’re not playing dress-up in your wife’s panties? Her bra? Why do you have a pink gun?”
“Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Are you having sex with all these women to prove something, Robert? That’s no way to prove your manhood. That’s the way of the weak man. Weak men like my husband, who allowed harlots to rule his Phallus. One of those harlots was your sister.”
“Shut the fuck up you fucking old crazy bitch!”
The Dog and Rat put their hands on my shoulders, assuring that I stay seated and don’t try anything funny. The Bunny still stands behind the counter, staring at me from across the room, from behind Gramma.
“Now, now,” she says. “Language, Robert.”
“Delilah never did anything wrong. Your fucking piece of shit husband raped her.” I’m on the verge of tears. I can barely talk. My throat swells.
“No one is innocent,” Gramma says. “What is it I used to say to you?”
Tears burn in my eyes and I whimper: “Even the righteous deserve to die. We are all sinners, and the wages of sin is death.”
“Yes, and that’s why Grampa and Delilah had to die.”
Gramma finishes her tea, tipping the china until her dentures slide back into her gummy maw. Then she sets the cup on the saucer with a trembling hand (rattle rattle rattle) and smiles.
“…put sharp objects in their belly…make them suffer and scream and cry out with pain…fuck up their naughty parts…ruin them and make them plead until they lose all hope…and then laugh and giggle and make some tea…”
I stare at her.
“Do you love anyone?”
“No,” I say. “You took away the only person I ever loved.”
“What about your wife? Do you love her?”
“…I don’t know.”
Gramma Wilkins opens her leather-bound Bible on the table, flips the pages until she reaches a part marked with a strand of blonde hair, and begins to read a highlighted passage:
“And if thy penis offend thee, cut it off: it is better for thee to enter life maimed, than having a penis to go into hell, into the fire that shall never be quenched.”
“You sick fuck!”
I try to stand up, but the Dog and Rat hold me down as the Bunny hops over with a butcher knife, giggling its whiskers off. Moose Head kneels next to me, undoes my belt, and pulls down my pants and boxers. The Bunny lowers itself to my dick, tickling my shriveled up manhood with its fuzzy face. It drives me absolutely bonkers and I shit myself. Liquid shit (fear, anxiety) filling the seat, dripping onto the floorboards.
The Bunny waves a paw in front of its face, as if to say, “Pee yew!”
I thrash in the chair, screaming, but the Dog and Rat are strong, holding my arms tightly behind my back.
“Didn’t expect such a tough, grizzled man to be so tiny,” the Bunny says.
“Get off me you fucks! Get off me!”
“Maybe he’s not a man at all,” the Rat says in a deep voice. No cutesy-ness.
“I am a man,” I scream. “Please, I am. I don’t want to be a bitch. I swear I want to be a man.”
“Your penis looks like a giant clit,” the Bunny giggles. “Sure you haven’t been taking hormones, Nancy boy.”
“Please, please, gramma, stop it, make them stop. I’m a man, and I want to be a man, I swear. I won’t let the whores tempt me anymore, I promise, gramma. Please, please, please, just let me go. I’ve learned my lesson. Please, please, please, gramma. Please.” Hot tears pouring down my face.
“For a man, you sure cry like a bitch,” she says. Then, to the Bunny: “Chop it off.”
“NO!”
The Bunny strokes the head with its big paw, tickling my balls with its whiskers, and I feel myself stiffen, get hard, dripping from the Cyclops’ eye.
“Oh my, Gramma Wilkins, look at this. We have a grower. Looks like a man after all.”
“I don’t care. Chop it off.”
“Damn shame,” the Bunny says, and raises the knife.
I wince, wait for the—
I feel a blow; hear the butcher knife slam into the wooden seat beneath me. Hot pain blossoms in my lower abdomen, in my balls, as the shaft snaps, breaks. Then, a warm gush of blood and my head goes light and I start heaving, but there’s nothing left in my guts.
I hear blood splatter onto the floor, dripping from the wooden seat. Pitter pattering like rain. I can’t feel my fucking face, my fingers, my toes: numb. The only thing I feel is molten lead burning between my legs.
The Bunny holds the penis up like a trophy. The Dog claps its big goofy hands. The Moose dances. And Gramma Wilkins cackles like the ol’ crone she is.
“Maybe you’ll learn your lesson now you naughty lil’ boy,” she screams.
And then these fucking freaks in animal masks (fucking furries) drag my bloody, shitty ass across the hardwood, through the maze of hallways, down the stairs, and into the dank labyrinth, where they continue to drag my bloody, shitty ass across wet concrete and gravel…until we reach one of the torture rooms.
The Bunny hoists me up onto my feet; my legs wobbly, groin bleeding. Shaking like a goddam leaf. Crying.
Gramma Wilkins points into the room and I see Jennifer, tethered to a chair, a steel cylinder shoved into her mouth, a blade sticking out the back of her head. (Is that a fucking dildo?) Next to her, a naked woman wearing a latex clown mask.
“It’s pathetic how many people had to die to get a point across to you, including your own sister,” Gramma Wilkins says.
“Did you like the stripper?” The Bunny giggles. “Did you want to fuck her?”
Crying. “No, no, no, no.”
“Liar. We know she had you in her mouth,” the Dog.
“A righteous man hates lying; but a wicked man is loathsome, and comes to shame,” Gramma Wilkins mutters. Then: “It’s always been about you, Robert. You should be happy. You’re in the spotlight now. It’s all about you, bitch.”
I don’t say anything.
“Everyone’s cocky until they’re being mutilated,” Gramma Wilkins says.
The naked woman wearing the clown mask yanks the dildo knife out of Jennifer’s mouth, producing a spray of blood that sprinkles the concrete and cinderblocks. Then she drags Jennifer’s body from the room, past our feet, and down the hall.
The furries push me farther into the bowels of the labyrinth, to another torture room. Gramma Wilkins knocks on the rusty door, and seconds later, I hear the bolt slide back, and the heavy door creaking open on squealing hinges.
Another concrete box, like the last room. Blood on the floor. A wall lined with torture tools. In the center, a wooden chair with leather tethers, a single lightbulb hanging overhead, and…
Angela.
Next to Angela stands another naked woman, but this one is wearing a Devil’s mask: cartoony red face, goatee, horns (real, moving eyes).
I cry. “No, no.”
Angela stares at me: eyes wide, full of tears (confusion, fear).
“You need to make a choice, Robert,” Gramma Wilkins says. “Either you go free, and Angela dies. Or you set Angela free, and you stay here with me, in Hell House, forever.”
I swallow rising bile. Choke.
; My tongue is a dried sponge; tastes like the back of a toilet seat.
“…kill her.” My voice a crackle, but an echo in the chamber.
Angela tries to scream, but she’s gagged: red ball in her mouth (like a clown nose), dripping with saliva.
The Bunny giggles. “Now watch this. This is going to be fun.”
“I don’t want to watch.”
“Why? Because you can’t jerk-off?” Giggles.
“You must witness the consequences of your choices, Robert,” Gramma Wilkins says.
The She-Devil inspects the torture instruments: ax, nail gun, hammer, chainsaw, knives…
Reaches for a weed wacker. Primes the pump, then tugs the starter cord until the trimmer head spins.
Angela thrashes in the restraints and I try to look away, but the Bunny holds my head as the She-Devil thrusts the wacker into Angela’s face. The trimmer slashes her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, and slices an eyeball, which instantly fills with blood and drips viscous fluid down her face.
I could close my eyes, but I can’t. I have to see what they do to her. I have to watch and pay for my sins.
My knees give out (jelly)…and I collapse to the concrete, the freaky furries no longer able to hold me.
“Oh god no no no no.”
“Oh God yes yes yes yes!” Gramma Wilkins cheers.
The She-Devil kills the wacker, goes back to the wall of torture instruments, sets the wacker down on the worktable, and opens a drawer, digging for something.
I’m terrified to know what.
Finally, the She-Devil produces two double A batteries and a deflated balloon.
I am so confused and scared.
The She-Devil rips the gag out of Angela’s maw and Angela screams; saliva and vomit dripping from her chin, onto her chest.
The She-Devil pushes the batteries and the balloon down Angela’s throat until they become lodged there and she starts choking.
And we watch.
We fucking watch her choke to death.
“Stop it stop it stop it!”
Gramma Wilkins smiles. “Too late now.”
Angela’s face turns blue…her body goes limp.
“Oh god no,” I cry.
The Bunny grabs me under the arms, forces me to my wobbly legs.
“Quit being such a pussy.”
“Now, now, Bunny. No reason to be vulgar,” Gramma Wilkins scolds. To me: “Come along, sweetheart. It’s over now. We’ll show you the exit.” Then pauses. “Before you go, we better patch you up.”
They lead me to a dirty white medical room (like a doctor’s office) with black and white tiles on the floor and a crooked kitty poster on the wall (hang in there). Next to the examination table is the naked She-Clown and she’s wearing latex gloves and holding…an acetylene torch.
I try to run, but realize it’s useless. My legs are too weak…I’m too weak…too much blood loss.
The Bunny, Dog, and Rat force me down onto the table as the She-Clown positions the torch between my legs, holding the stub of what used to be my dick between her latex fingers.
The single fluorescent bulb in this room is dim and flickers, making me nauseated and dizzy…or maybe that’s the blood loss.
“We must cauterize the wound or you’ll bleed out,” Gramma Wilkins says.
I hear the torch burst to life (fwooosh!) The stench of the acetylene burns the lining of my nasal passages.
I wince, waiting, waiting…
Molten lava pours into my balls and belly.
I clench my teeth until the enamel cracks and blood fills my mouth.
I hear screams echoing through the corridors. Someone in great pain.
I realize that someone is me.
“You’ll need a blood transfusion,” Gramma Wilkins says, burying a needle gauge into my arm. “We drained Jennifer, Cinnamon, whatever that harlot’s name was. Thought you’d need her blood to survive.”
The blood circles through the plastic tubes, entering my veins from an IV bag.
“Hope you enjoy Hep C,” the She-Clown says in a deep gravelly voice…and laughs, honking its nose.
I don’t know if this last part actually happens…the world is a blur and I’m fading in and out, my brain unable to comprehend the terror and pain constantly inflicted upon me by this shithole world.
Hours, days, months, years later…Gramma Wilkins and the Bunny lead me through the maze of underground corridors…until we reach a garage. The only vehicle inside is an old beat-up pick-up.
The Bunny pushes a button on the wall and the garage door reels back, opening, letting in sunshine.
I swear I haven’t seen the sun…forever.
A wheat field stretches out before me. A gravel road leads away from the house.
“Get out of here, you filthy sinner,” Gramma Wilkins says from behind me.
I stumble into the sunlight, along the gravel path, staring across the golden fields…then slowly turn back to Gramma Wilkins.
She and the Bunny stand in the darkness of the garage, next to each other, like circus freaks. The Oldest Woman in the World and her Man-Sized Pet Rabbit.
“I love you, Robert. I want what’s best for you. I know what’s best for you. That’s why you had to be punished. For folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far from him. Do you remember that? That’s Proverbs. You should read the Scriptures more often, Robert; it’ll protect you against the harlots. For all Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, Second Timothy 3:16. Jesus loves you, Robert. And so do I.”
I turn away from her, stare out at the golden fields…feel the wind through my hair, against my sweat and blood and shit. I realize my boxers are back on, covering my shame…I don’t remember when that happened.
My legs are caked in blood.
I swallow.
Pain still throbs in my groin, piercing and hot.
And I say, “Thanks, Gramma,” and start limping down the gravel road.
Behind me, I can hear the garage door slowly closing on its track.
I don’t look back.
…30 YEARS AGO (1979)
When I was twelve, I didn’t have too many friends because my Gramma rarely allowed us to leave the house, unless it was to go to church school, prayer meeting, or it was Sabbath. “We” were strict Last Day Adventists and considered Saturday to be the day god rested from creating the world and thus god’s holy day, much like the Jews, except “we” loved Jesus and were saved by his blood (unlike the kikes). Gramma hated lots of people: Catholics (“Babylon! Apostate! Antichrist!” she would declare), blacks, Muslims, Sunday Worhsippers (a.k.a. pretty much all Protestants), women, children, liberals, gays and dykes and trannies, but especially me and my sister.
I remember when some of the guys at church school (a brick box in the middle of nowhere; attendance: 20 students, grades 1 - 8) found a porno mag lying in the grass during recess. They were taking it all in: tits, pussy, ass. Young-boy eyes feasting upon lady-parts they had never seen before.
None of those guys liked me either. They all thought I was a faggot because I didn’t like playing sports and couldn’t catch a ball to save my balls.
I usually hung out with the girls and got a lot of shit for it.
“You hang out with those girls and you’ll grow a big fat vag,” one of them told me (I think his name was Brady).
I couldn’t identify with them (the guys). They were mean and angry and aggressive. They’d beat me up for not being as angry and mean and aggressive as they were: throw sand in my face, spit on me, kick me, hit me, squeeze my testicles…one time, one of them (don’t remember which one) tea-bagged me. When we played floor hockey during PE, it was always boys vs. girls, but the guys told me I had to play on the girl’s team because I didn’t have a wiener. The teacher agreed and made me goalie, so the guys could use my face as target practice. I often had welts on my lips, cheeks, and forehead; my s
hins, thighs, and arms. The teacher wouldn’t allow me to wear padding. He hated me just as much as the guys; he was one of the guys. Told me I was too quiet and if I didn’t want to get beat up, I should be more assertive.
When I told Gramma about being bullied at school, she said, “Boys and girls are neurologically different, Robbie. Girls are empathetic cunts and boys are aggressive and ambitious. You’re a boy, so toughen up. Quit being a cunt and fight back.”
“But I don’t want to be mean, Gramma.”
“Too bad. The world is mean.”
“If boys are mean, how come I’m not mean?”
“Boys aren’t mean, numb nuts. They just have a hard communication style. They believe in discipline instead of coddling. Girls are too nice. They encourage weakness.”
“But I want to be nice, Gramma. Does that mean I’m a girl?”
She slapped me hard in the face. “You have a widdler, don’t you? You’re a man. Now quit bitching and start acting like one!”
The day Brady found the porno mag, I did what Gramma told me: I became one of the guys.
***
The guys were sitting near a tree, gathered around a moist mag that had been lying in the dewy grass (at least, I hope that’s why it was moist), out of sight from the teachers (there were three teachers: two grumpy bitches and a fat, mustached dickhead—my teacher). When I walked by (to go talk to Ashley and Madison about whatever), Brady called to me: “Hey faggot, get over here.”
Even though they treated me like shit, I was too nice to not hang out with them sometimes and be their punching bag. The abuse was ignored by the mustached fuckhead by relabeling “verbal abuse” as “they’re just busting your chops” and “physical abuse” as “rough housing.”
Boys will be boys.
But I obviously wasn’t one of the boys; I was their bitch. (Neil was the second bitch on the totem pole. The guys would rag on him—hit him in the balls, call him queer and faggot—and since I was bottom bitch, Neil would take his anger and humiliation and rage out on me.)
“You ever see one of these, faggot?” Brady held up the mag, and I felt myself stiffening when the image hit my eyes. A woman with her legs spread, touching her gaping labia.