His skinny, bloody fingers slid into her. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore it, but the beast slapped her. He slapped her every time she tried to ignore his presence, ignoring the horrible pleasure that was contaminating her poor dwindled soul. Her pretty petit face was rendered bruised, forcing her to realize the reality of her condition. Since ignoring the mistake of existence wasn’t possible, she began to snap at it, calling him things that were highly offensive. She continued to slam him verbally and word after word went by as if he was suddenly insecure. He stopped his aggressive behavior and left the room. She screamed for help and began to pull on the rope. The headboard moved with every attempt, but seemed impossible to break. With a wooden headboard being resilient as stone, she tried like hell to break free, someway, somehow. The constant thudding was awarded by a sound of an electric drill.
While the drill spun, the scent began to loom closer to her. With limited sight, she could only fear that someone was approaching her bed. A hand covered her mouth, while a sharp pinch was felt on her shoulder. With the drill spinning, digging into her flesh, she let out an awful cry. The sound of the drill and her screams went together as if they were part of the same vile choir. With her mouth opened, the fingers forced her tongue to stay exposed. Her beautiful tongue ring was on the verge of being ripped. The drill bit was released before it hit bone and there was a moment of calm. She could see the drill positioned near her tongue. She dreaded the impossible thought, but it was real to her, as her tongue was drilled. Blood splashed and painted her mouth a dark crimson, while the monstrosity examined the shiny tongue ring. He threw it without regard and freed the youthful teenager from the binding ropes.
Just like those other nights, she was raped of will, but this time obedience meant life. She cried and bled as she positioned her body to his demand. She was now on her knees, choking on blood, with her bare ass exposed. He licked the flesh, smelling the lower areas in a way that mimicked a dog, but this insane inhuman was gorging himself with it. His bloody lips licked the loose and sloppy folds of her gaping cunt. His feasting of her juices pleased him, but sickened her. She never felt this much abused and was alarmed by the sound of the whirling drill. Her eyes widened and her thoughts went blank. Of all things that the nightmare could do, she prayed for the speedy arrival of the police. She screamed louder and louder, franticly crying for help. The demented thing took time to pleasure her with his gorging.
After moving his slimy essence from the spot, he returned with a number of toys. Dildos that were of twelve inches were his favorite as he shoved them into her cunt. He gave it a series of thrusts and then released it from the gaping hole. The wonder of it all only encouraged him to further please his curiosity. He placed a smaller, six inch, dildo into the wet abyss and watched as he shoved it further with another large one.
Angelina, even as a whore, never felt so much pain as the answer to his question was becoming known. He had fully stuffed her pussy to the extent it could go, but continued anyway, as his sick, delusional mind, was not satisfied. Her body went through a painful spasm, and blood began to drip from the stuffed pink folds. A finger slipped into her asshole with the lubrication of blood and other fluids. She had gone through this experience before, and her body responded as if it were used to it. The spilling of other fluids created a lube that was much more slippery than her sex jelly. Setting aside the intense amount of pain throbbing from her mouth and uterus, she couldn’t help but to think of the sickness that was contaminating her. But there was something more obvious and presented to her a closing death. She couldn’t see and was forced to only go by the sound.
The drill bit spun rapidly, but then stopped as her master was adjusting something. He gave her a tease of what was in store for her. It was a wooden broom handle with nails. From the sounds he was making, he wasn’t just replacing a drill bit. She tried to calm herself, while she remained positioned like a punished dog. The air drifted through her exposed parts and then there was pressure pressing against her wet asshole. There was not a count of seconds. There was not a voice of reason as to why. There was only the sick truth that this soulless being was to wreck havoc until death. The drill spun and the pressure changed to a constant rubbing, irritating the skin with its momentum, forcing itself into her ass. The wood flaked into splinters as it pushed into past the wet exterior walls. The nails followed the burning presence.
The rusted iron shredded into her fair skinned, youthful ass. It was like a meat grinder entering through the sphincter. Her cries were tearing her dying throat, but were forced to sound muffled by the severed tongue. Despite the sound of her cries, she continued to scream throughout the painful experience. Blood splashed on the walls as the drill spun, shredding into an area of her bowel. A mess of shit stained the darkened sheets. Her body collapsed to the pain, and he released. The conductor of this nightmare wanted it to prolong the inevitable ending.
A glare of light ran across her eyes. The sound of heavy footsteps flooded the hallway, but she was too weak to realize. She had passed out from the pain, and was slowly dying from the blood loss, as her body was practically bleeding out. The cops tried to take the man in custody and do what the law demanded, but one of the recruits felt justified by his action. The situation and the nature of the crime resonated with all of the officers and when one reacted, they all supported. He fired a clean shot, which drove into the creature’s head. The suspect didn’t move more than a few twitches as he was clearly, and medically speaking, dead. Though he had the appearance of something daemonic, the being simply passed away to never exploit any fear again.
Angelina did not die. She was rushed to the hospital and quickly treated in surgery. She now lives a life of misery as the pain lingers. She is currently living at Sanity’s Peak, a psychiatric ward located in Webster, Wyoming. She lived a life of being used and as a subject for a gross kind of abuse. It was ironic for her, and unfortunately for her family, that the event took place; but life has a tendency to allow karma to reign true.
The police have yet to figure out the puzzle that the corpse left behind. His finger prints and dental records are too faulty to bring a clear match. The local police tried as hard as they could, but were forced to invite help, as they were too small for such a task. They brought in a CSI investigation team from outside, but they, too, came up empty handed.
Eventually, after a growing doubt and lurking news reporters, the case was abandoned. The oddity of the vague search is that it would be almost impossible for a citizen, much less a person, to be free from identification. It is as if he was held in captivity for years and then suddenly released.
Asterius
Robert T. Knight
I have lived within these dank walls for the better part of a decade.
Each day I scratch a mark in the stone confines of my prison with a sharpened bone. The instrument fractures and breaks as I put my strength behind it, sometimes crumbling into white powder before I can properly finish. Oh well, there are other bones to be found. One hundred and twelve bodies, to be exact, stacked like cordwood in one of the many cavernous holes.
My stomach is constantly rumbling. The cursed thing keeping me awake at night. It seems as if it might eat its way through me, devouring my insides to escape. During these times I curl into a ball, squeezing my eyes shut to drive away the pain. Hunger is all-devouring. It forces you to do things you would not normally do. The occasional ill-fated rat or bird greets me with curiosity brimming in its eyes, and then my pangs are satiated for a short while. The squawks and squeaks used to haunt me.
As did the screams.
Those that watch me from above call me a monster. They hurl refuse and stones upon me when I scurry into view. I pretend I do not understand what they scream at me, but I was not always resigned to this fate. I had a mother who taught me how to speak, her small mouth forming the words, turning quickly to a smile when I managed to grunt out the appropriate mimicry. My father knew nothing of me until I was older; mother rushing me from the room when she
heard his imperial tread on the marble. I remember well his horrified expression when my mother finally revealed me, his son, and her hopeful gaze as she forced me to perform every act of intelligence she had taught me. I cannot recall my exact age—perhaps just barely brushing my twenties—but he hurled me away from civilization with a rage that only matched Zeus against Prometheus.
We all know how that turned out.
Again, the shifting growls. I clutch my bare stomach with my twisted hands.
Soon after my imprisonment, but long after the first shafts of hunger riddled my frame, a small group of young men and women were ushered into my new home. I recall vividly their wailing at the wrought gates, how their fleshy hands beat against the metal door. I had reacted similarly upon my arrival, resulting in painful bruises along the sides of my hands and tops of my knuckles. They, too, were locked inside. The enemy of my enemy, perhaps? My heart leapt, for now I would not be alone. I wondered idly what crimes they had committed, for they were all beautiful.
Not like me.
My mother had never allowed me to look in a mirror when I was young. This place changed that. After one night of torrential rain—in which I nearly drowned—I found a puddle the next morning, a refugee from the sun’s burning rays sitting serenely in the open air of my stony parlor. A simple glance caused me to recoil in disgust, and my shaking hands traced the contours of my wet snout, reaching higher to the twin, curved spires jutting from my skull.
It was no wonder those first visitors reacted in terror when they saw me, shrieking into the darkness. Each new group, every year to the day, stumbled away with revulsion written in their eyes. I approached with friendship, using our native tongue; this was difficult, given my flat teeth and large tongue. I attempted to block their paths with my body, to explain what I wanted. I was no enemy of theirs, for I had been unjustly imprisoned as well. A simple laugh, a shared tear—that was all I wanted.
I killed the first group of young men in self-defense. Ignoring my pleas, they turned on me with their fists and rocks, dashing my hopes, splashing my red sorrow upon the walls. The women ran into the darkness, yet I could hear their frenzied breaths echo through the sprawling reaches. I remember sitting with those shattered corpses, the crowds above screaming vulgarities and cheering at the bloodshed. The ruby streams wound around me, cold eyes glaring into mine.
And I was so hungry.
They lasted me nearly two weeks. I dragged their bodies out of sight so the onlookers could not see me as I had my fill. The first taste was halting, revolting, and left me shaking with self-loathing. The guilt erupted within me and onto the floor several times, but I needed to survive. They were the ones who attacked me. I repeated these words like a mantra each time I fed, as if the knowledge could have excused my actions.
Then that food was gone, and I knew the young women were still hiding.
They did not attack me. I stalked through the winding passages of despair, hoping to find them dead. I was lucky for the first few, the thinner ones having succumbed to dehydration and hunger long before my bovine visage ever graced them. The others I had to kill.
I shall never forget the first. Her eyes screaming at me, her mouth clamped shut despite the sheer horror she must have felt. Her entire body quivered in fear as I grasped her in my giant hands. Helios himself could not have stretched that moment longer. She was so beautiful.
Yet there we were, both of us trapped in the clutches of the monsters above. I was happy that they did not see her die. They saw me as I rushed from that secret place, however. How I wailed after that death, beating the ground until my fists were raw and bloody. My tears drowned the dust beneath me, and I wished that I could scale those tall walls, to slay every one of them above. The watchers laughed.
I never did eat her. I buried her in a special place within my home. Each year for the past nine years, right before the annual sacrifice is made, I visit her. I can still see her raven hair, her emerald eyes. Sometimes they taunt me in my sleep, perhaps a harpy sent from Hades to remind me of my foul deeds. Sometimes they comfort me, keep me company. During these times I sleep next to her pile of rocks, hugging the blocky headstone I used to mark her.
Today another group will visit me. The men will die first. I really have no qualms about killing them now. Each group always resorts to attacking me, no matter what devices I use to express my thoughts, my desired friendship. I have even forgone language, only speaking in grunts and moans. If the spectators want a monster, I will be one.
My fate. I know I will never leave this prison. My father visited once, but his twisted gaze conveyed to me all I needed to know. There was no escape, even for the innocently guilty. I am in the prime of my life, yet I feel old and tired. Hunger is my constant companion and walks with me everywhere I go, whispering decaying words of banquets and feasts. I am used to the halls, the sudden turns and drops. The sunny season beats upon my back, and the snows blanket the fur atop my head. The days have stretched into one long, undying existence.
What is this?
I bend over, picking up the white with my gnarled fingers. I know from the shouts above that the prisoners have been locked inside with me. Ignoring this, I pull at the material.
Thread.
I follow it, turning away from the entrance where I would have gathered my first meal. Unlike the previous years, I do not hear the struggling flight of many feet from the gate. Over time, they grew to know me, the stalking behemoth at death’s door. No longer did they waste time pleading with the armored men outside, flooding the metal door with their wasted tears. A quick sprint into the darkness would allow them their trivial weapons, their choice of passage into the underworld.
Yet someone is not with them, for I hear a stealthy tread, a breath held in check.
As I round the corner, I see him. He is as tall as I, muscles lean, stance balanced. In one hand he holds a ball of twine. In the other, he has somehow found a club. What it is made of, I cannot tell. He has paused, looking at the various ways open to him, perhaps wondering where the exit lies. I know it is difficult to see through the darkness, for I groped through my first years painfully.
Then I hear him speak. It is not an exit he seeks, but me.
I hurry around the corner, listening to the shrieking cries above, telling him where I am at. I lope down the corridor, thoughts racing through my head. Has he come to slay me? Did someone send him to do so? Or is he just a fool-hardy, head-strong boy intent on proving himself? So entrapped within these, I do not realize I have come to her grave.
I fall to my knees. Her eyes are gazing at me again, almost welcoming me somewhere.
Oraios. Where will you take me, beautiful one?
I know he is coming from the echoing cheers rejoicing from the walls. I hear his tread behind me. In one fell swoop I could turn, smash in his skull with my bare hands. His companions would shortly follow, keeping me satiated for a month or so. My life instinct screams at me to turn.
Kill him, you fool!
I place a hand upon her marker, tears welling in my eyes.
Protect yourself!
I shake my head violently. He is nearly upon me. My heart hammers within my chest, as if to leap onto the floor and scurry away from the danger. I fixate my mind on Oraios’s eyes. Her green orbs calm me. Soothe me.
I wonder if it will hu –
THE END
Killing Just For Fun
Ty Johnston
Nebraska flatlands
June 1990
A silver crucifix hangs from Jimmy Bob’s neck as he kicks open the glass doors of Bud’s Pump ’n Sip and fires off his shotgun. The scattering pellets catch an old man in the face, slamming his body to the ground behind the shop’s counter.
“Spree killer! Spree killer!” Jimmy Bob yells as he rushes in from the night.
He gets off another shot and the blast explodes a glass coffee pot in a waitress’ hands before cutting her in half.
“Yeehaw!” Jimmy Bob spins on his boots, lo
oking for more victims.
There is only one other person, a man in a black coat. He sits in a booth to the right of the entrance, a paper cup of coffee steaming in his hands.
Jimmy Bob raises the shotgun to his shoulder. “Spree killer!”
He fires, the shot flipping the paper cup into the air and pounding the victim back against the booth’s seat.
The killer grins as he glances around at the death and destruction he has caused. “Three in one spot!” he yells. “Let the FBI figger this one out!”
“Excuse me,” a voice says, “but I am not quite dead.”
Jimmy Bob turns.
The man in the booth is sitting up. His long coat and shirt are torn, but he shows no signs of being wounded.
“What the hell?” Jimmy Bob says.
The man in black slides out of the booth, standing mere yards from his shooter.
Jimmy Bob backs up a step, raising the gun to his shoulder again. “Just stay where the hell you are, mister!”
The stranger grins. “I have been waiting for you, Mr. Haskins.”
Jimmy Bob’s head tilts to one side, his eyes questioning and unbelieving.
“I knew you would be here,” the man says. “You would not be able to pass up such an opportunity, a nearly empty shop on a nearly empty highway in the middle of the night.”
The man limps forward a step.
“Stay there!” Jimmy Bob’s grip tightens on the shotgun.
“It is time for your penance, Mr. Haskins.”
“How do you know who I am?
The stranger’s grin grows wider. “Your face is in every newspaper across the country,” he says, “and on all the news shows. You are wanted in seven states for nearly two dozen murders. The FBI has a photograph of you plastered everywhere.”
The man takes another step.
“Dammit, I said stand still!” Jimmy Bob jerks the gun forward, as if meaning to stab with the warm barrel.
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