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Reload this Page another tale from yours truly (splatterpunk)
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Old 02-03-05   #1
sixxx(sic)six
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Join Date: Jun 2002
Location: Under your bed with a very sharp knife...and nekkid!
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another tale from yours truly (splatterpunk)

i know it appears rather long, but please take 15 minutes to read it...please? i'll give you lotz of kisses......please read, and give me some input....besides, you shan't be unshocked.....


Travel Sickness
Henry
by: sixxx[sic]six

A flower…that of which the pedals have already begun to decay. He gave Her this. He always gives Her gifts when He assumes She did a good job, and it disgusts me immensely. It is not like She did anything fantastically great. All She did was pull the trigger and send a bullet soaring through the already shattered skull of a person whose house we claimed for an evening. Typical. Very typical. It is nonetheless the same thing every time: They and I must abandon the car which They claimed from some prior deceased owner so as to avoid the cops, and in order to do so we pull into some unlucky person’s driveway, toy with them as They and I wish, stay the night if They and I desire, then take their car when They see fit. Of course, it is a priority for Him that the person has a garage so as to hide the prior car whilst the new car takes its voyage with us. And it is so pathetic. Seriously…pathetic! If I had it my way I would simply just give into my lust. Lust should not involve a plan. It should just be acted upon accordingly. But it is within Their desire to remain discreet. How hypocritical is that? How can discretion be true if He continues to give Her flowers, jewelry, or anything that reeks of flattery? And for what reason? To remind Her of his devoted love; to keep Her within his power; to reward Her for Her charisma; or is to mock me for my inhumanity? Hell, I am more human than They. I am the one who takes humanity for what it is: a disgusting taste of pleasure.

I am disgusted with Them: Him for his hypocrisy and She for her rationality. Just look at Them…worthless. Extremely worthless! He is claims to be the leader of this group and kills simply for the sake of conquering. She is merely His fucking pawn, and kills simply in the name of love. What petty little priest fucks! Jesus Christ...died for whores...which They are. They are merely fuckers: He the fuckee and She the fucked.

But what of me? What am I?

I am neither… I care not for their petty reasons to murder. I murder for the sake of humanity. I am what is not wanted but must be needed in order to not be wanted. I am the Devil for humanity’s God. I am he who destroys to create. I am...

“I hate these fucking radio stations. Nuttin’ but a bunch of goddamn country. And I hate this fucking car. I hate...”

You! I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate…

“Well honey-lovins, let’s ditch the car then.”

“Good idea babe. I’m hungry anyway.” He turns the radio off and turns toward me, “Hey Henry, what ya think?”

“Why must you talk to me?” I hear from my voice.

“‘Cuz you fuck, you so goddamn quiet.”

“I like silence.”

“Yeah, well, what house you wanna stay at tonight?”

“Do not ask me. Ask her.”

“Yeah,” She laughs with sarcasm, “ask me! That way I’m to blame if there isn’t fuckin’ air-conditionin’! Fuck you very much, Henry.”

“Babe!” He bellows out, “just pick a fucking house!”

“FINE! Uh…How about that one?” She asks, pointing at the closest house.

Why is it so trivial to decide who lives and who dies? It should not be so trite. It should merely be necessity. And tonight it seems necessary, yet trivial, that the occupants of brown A-frame house will parish as we pull into their driveway.

The entrance is always the same tactic, but it is the greeting that excites me. Sometimes I get so worked-up before entering that I have almost blown Their cover several times. Like this one time: we were aiming to enter a house that was owned by a cop, his wife, and his two teenage daughters, one of which opened the door to greet us. She had beautiful blond hair, which I hate, that I got so worked-up in a frenzy of wishing to grab her by her blonde tresses and smash her face against the concrete; which I almost did grab her, if it was not for Her telling the blond teenager that I was mentally-deficient and always excited. Oh, how I could have grabbed Her for saying that. Mentally-deficient?! I am not retarded! I am more intellectual than They! Oh, how I would have loved to repeatedly thrown my fists into Her face so I might wreck its ugliness and crush Her skull. But then, I would not have had the pleasure of taking the teenager into her bedroom…slicing her lips off with a razor, pulling her eye-lids off with my index finger and thumb, ripping her tongue out with my teeth, and then to finish my work by...

We are already in the A-frame house. At first glance, it appears that an old couple occupy this beautiful excuse for a home; but then I am quick to notice that the old-couple is possibly the visitors of the younger couple. Perhaps they are relatives?

It must not have been hard for Them to enter the house…simply since I am also quick to notice that all four of them are pinned down on the couch, constricted by duct-tape as She screams and yells with a gun point in their faces.

How simplistic? So simplistic! A real human could have subdued all four of them with the aid of a kitchen knife, or a butter-knife…or better yet, with a spoon. Hmm…a spoon?

While They place fear into the couples’ with Their macabre taunts, I brush past and head into the kitchen. To my ironic amazement I find a spoon lying in the sink, which appears to be covered with pudding, but tastes like mayonnaise. I shove grip it tightly in my fist for safe keeping. And when I return, I am upset to discover that He has already taken the liberty of taping all their mouths shut… I like to hear people scream. It calms me. Ensures me that I am doing the right thing.

Apparently, the old man soiled himself, for he smells like shit. All the better for it is a symbol of the anguish yet to come. But after teasing them for quite sometime by playing a childish game of deciding who will die first, it is in His favor to take the young woman with Him and Her into a bedroom where They might rape her; or better yet, torture her. To tell you the truth, rape disgusts me, but not in my conventional sense of disgust. Rape is merely a worthless anguish of pleasure before killing. Nonetheless, He grabs the young woman by the hair, yanking her up with a powerful thrust, and to His astonishment the young-man jumps up and tries to attack. It is futile and retarded since his arms are bound by a sticky material. It does not take much for Him to knock the man back down onto the couch. She point the gun at the young-man and tickles Her fantasy by asking whether or not She should shoot him.

“No!” I scream. I want desperately to use the spoon. And with his tender young flesh, it might prove challenging.

“Shut-up!” She hollers back.

But before we can ensue in an argument, the old-man seems to be have a heart attack…or something. The old-man begins to convulse like a virgin’s first orgasm with a rapist; and before long, he grows silent, turning blue in the face. What a waste?! Yet, comical in its approach.

“That was easy,” He said still holding the young-woman by the hair. “Right then,” He says, “let’s go babe.”

They ascend the stairs with the young-woman, laughing as they leave me to guard the young-man and the old-woman. When They are no longer within view I decide to remove the tape from the victims mouths so I might have the liberty of conversing with them. And to my amazement, the old-bitch bites my index finger as I pull away at her tape. She bit hard too, for her goddamn dentures are stuck in my skin and pull out of her mouth. It makes me laugh.

“How do you do?” I ask.

“Fuck you, asshole! I swear too God I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

“Plee-thon-thillus!”

I laugh more. “Would you listen to yourselves?”

“Fuck you! I’ll fucking kill you, you mother fucker!”

“Oh?” I play with the young-man.

“Let me loose mother fucker!”

“Let you loose?” I ponder, “and what would you do?”

“I’ll fucking kill you, asshole!”

“Hmm,” and I ponder to wonder whether or not to let him loose. It could prove challenging. “Very well,” I tell him, “I shall turn you loose so you may have a chance to kill me. But not just yet. Oh no, not just yet. First, let us get acquainted.”

“Fuck you!”

“Now listen here my friend...”

“I’m not your friend you fuck!”

Not my friend? How disrespectful? I mean, it is logical that prior to our meeting we have had no interaction whatsoever, but the principle of the matter is one of respect. After all, I am the one with the spoon!

“C’mon!” he yells. “Lemme loose you faggot!”

“I agreed that I would at one point in time,” I remind him.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

“Calm down please.”

“Fuck you!”

“I will ask you one more time to please calm down.”

“Fuck you!”

I walk up to the old lady and jab her in the eye with the handle of the spoon.

“Owwl...” she howls.

“YOU FUCK!” he yelps.

“If you do not calm down, I will attempt to scoop out her throat,” I tell him.

And I wonder: is that a good idea? I never attempted to scoop out a person’s throat before. Hmm… “Now I realize,” I say, “that you are extremely hostile at the moment due to your raging anger. Yet, I want you to remain calm so as we may have the chance to get to know one another on a more personal level. After which, I promise, I will let you loose so you may have the opportunity to attack me and seek revenge. Consider it, if you will, the sub-plot of every B-movie SLASH revenge-flick you have ever seen. Tell me…are you familiar with the exploitative genre?”

He mashes his teeth, with anger, his face red, and he is able to spit out “I’m goin’ to kill you.”

“Well then, I wish you the best of luck.”

“Fuck you!”

“No. Seriously, I do.”

“Why?” he grunts with his teeth still clenched.

“Because I do not care who dies. Whether it be me or you…but as long as someone dies will I then be appeased.”

“I’ll kill you,” he says sincerely.

“I wish you the best of luck,” I say just as sincere. “Now then, what is your name?”

“My name is __________.”

“It is nice to meet you, __________. And who is the old-woman?”

“Her name’s Cheryl.”

“Plee-thon-thillus,” Cheryl pleads through her shatter mouth.

“Ma’am,” I say to her, “Please do not talk as it is comical.”

“Thah-wee.”

I know my eyes speak of rage as I peer at her, but I ask “And who was the young-woman taken away?”

“My wife?” he questions.

“Oh, that was your wife just a second ago?”

“Yes.”

“And may I ask…do you love her?”

“What?”

“Why did you ask ‘what?’”

“Excuse me?”

“I asked you if you loved your wife…to which you replied ‘what?’…and I am curious as to why. Did you ask ‘what?’ for the mere fact that you might be too ignorant to comprehend such a question? Or did you ask ‘what?’ simply because you are hard of hearing? Or did you ask ‘what?’ because you are trying to avoid the question altogether for some reasoning hidden deep inside yourself; if so, what is this reasoning and why does it exist?”

“I...” he shakes his head.

“I understand,” I nod. “Please, allow me the chance to start over. Do you love your wife?”

“I love her very much,” he informs me. “Please,” he pleads, “don’t kill her.”

“Plee-thon-thill-mi-dogher!”

“Ma’am,” I say to the old-hag, “you are interrupting my conversation and I will ask you not to speak again.”

“Bar-ree.”

I smack her in the forehead with the spoon; “I asked you not to speak!”

She cries and he yells.

“Now please,” I say, “continue with what you were saying.”

“My wife,” he says, “please don’t hurt her.”

“That is not within my intention. Besides, it is solely up to my colleagues. Right now I suspect that They are ravishing her tender body in ways you could never imagine. Tell me, is your wife prepared for an anal intrusion?”

“You mother mother fuckers,” he says softly as he shakes his head.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m gonna kill you,” he says sincerely, yet again. “All of you.”

“Well, I wish you the best of luck,” I say sincerely, just as well. “But you did not answer my question. Is your wife prepared for an anal intrusion?”

“FUCK YOU!”

I hold the spoon up against the old-woman’s face, to which she flinches, and say “If you don’t calm down…”

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.

“Very good.” I lower the spoon and say “You have yet to answer my question. Is your wife prepared for anal intrusion?”

“What kinda fuckin’ question is that?!”

“A simple one really. All I am merely asking is whether or not you have shafted her turd-spitter?”

“I…” he shakes his head.

“FOR FUCK SAKES!” I hear my voice yell, “HAVE YOU EVER ASS-FUCKED YOUR WIFE?!”

“That’s none of your fucking business!” he yells in return.

“Now, now,” I calm down, “I think I have declared myself as the controlling individual in this situation. And what I ask shall be answered without objection. Otherwise, I will continue to torment the old-hag. Now tell me, have you engaged in anal sex with your wife?”

He clenches his teeth, grunting his anger, yet answers “Yes, we have.”

“Do you perform anal sex on her, or does she use a strap-on to perform your homoerotic fantasies?”

“Jesus…”

“Was reportedly the son of God,” I inform him, “But that is another discussion for another time. Please answer me…do you pop her brown-eye…yes or no?”

“Yes,” he spits out with his teeth still clinched.

“And how does she feel about that?”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!”

“A questionnaire of sorts. And this question is deserves an answer. Does she like it when you invade her anus?”

“I unno…”

“Sure you do,” I remind him.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I take that as a no,” I know as I say, “But I know she wishes to please you, yes.”

“Yeah.”

“And what do you offer her in return?”

“Why you doin’ this?” he questions, looking at the old-woman who is silently crying. And I wonder, is she crying because she cannot stand hearing her son, or son-in-law, engages in anal interaction with his wife…

“Why are you asking me?” I ask.

“Why you so interested in my sex life?” he questions, looking at me, “are you so pathetic that you gotta rape to get laid?”

“I never said I raped anyone,” I tell him honestly, “and to tell you the truth, I am thoroughly disgusted with the notion of forcing my penis into a woman in an attempt to relieve what sexual frustration. But you are correct, I am pathetic. I have no sex life. The last time I fancied the touch of a woman was over four years ago. She did not like anal sex either. And I hate reminiscing about her. Therefore, I will change the subject…how long have you been married?”

“Uh…” he thinks, “little over a year?”

“Why are you asking me? I do not know.”

“We’ve been married little over a year?”

“Only little over a year?” I question then look around, asking “how on earth did you afford this house?”

“My father left it to me.”

“Where did he go?”

“He passed away,” he informs me.

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“I bet.”

“Seriously, I am sorry to hear that your father passed away. When did he pass away?”

“Five years ago.”

“How did he die?”

“He was murdered.”

“Fantastic!”

“FUCK YOU!”

“Calm down.”

“FUCK YOU!”

“Calm down, please?”

“Fuck you, you sick fuck!”

“I will only ask you one more time to please calm down.”

“FUCK…YOU!”

My anger has catapulted into a dangerous array of violent colors, and blood red is my favorite. Sometimes, such as now, I often surprise myself with the amount of damage I might create. What is more surprising is that my control seems to be subdued into its mind of violence. I simply watch myself bashing the old-woman’s face with severe blows; I can even feel the side of her head cave in somewhat as I crush her fragile skull. Blood begins to splatter my face, as well as hers, and in the distance I can hear the old-woman screaming as the young-man is crying for me to stop. Crunch!, crack!, splat!

Kittens! I like to calm myself with images of kittens running around in their adolescent stumbles. I had a kitten once, when I was like five. Its name was Greta. She was just an ordinary house cat until my brother accidently, or so he said, squished her...I think that was when I first fell in love with death. Greta’s blood was splattered all over the floor and an odd orange substance was oozing out from its tiny ears. I wonder what that orange ooze was?

“MOTHER FUCKER!”

No, that was not what the orange ooze was, I think it was...

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU!”

No, that is not what it was either. It was…

“You sick son-of-a-bitch!” he cries. “You’re fucking dead!”

“What?” I ask, snapping back into reality.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

“And tell me, have you ever seen anyone die before?”

“NOT YET!” he screams with prediction.

“Calm down,” I plead.

“FUCK YOU!”

“Now look,” I plead some more, “I understand that at the present situation it is impossible for me to control your anger by punishing the old-hag…on account of her being dead.”

“FUCK YOU! I’LL FUCKIN’…”

“But if you do not calm down,” I interject, “not only will I take back my promise of letting you loose, I will also ensure that your wife gets a more cynical treatment from me than that of one of my acquaintances. If you do not calm down, I swear you will be the last one to die, and very painfully I might add, but not before I decided to exercise the brutality I may unleash on your lovely wife. Tell me, have you ever seen what a hot curling-iron will do to the anus? She is undoubtedly prepared for an anal intrusion, so I am sure it will not be difficult for me to fit a hot curling-iron inside of her anus. Can you imagine what it will smell like? The burning flesh of her stench-pip melting away? So…if you do not calm down, that is exactly what you will discover after I have bitten off your wife’s nipples, pulled out all of her teeth with a pair of pliers, and gouged out her eyes.” I smile mildly as a look of horror sweeps across face. “Now imagine,” I tell him “what I will do to you.”

“I swear to God, I’m gonna kill you,” he boldly states

“You swear…to God?”

“On my mother-in-law’s grave, yes…I swear.”

“Well then,” I appraise his hatred, “let me give you the opportunity to seek justice. But I want you to know one thing.”

“What?”

“You have a very lovely home.”

The tape is rather hard rip away, especially considering that the young-man is squirming vehemently to be free. But after a few loose wraps he is able to rip away the rest with his brute strength fueled by the murderous audacity for revenge.

“AAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

Crunch! Smack! Splat! Whack! Thump! Crunch! Crack! OUCH! Cruch! Crack! Whack! BANG!...
…thud.

The intensity of the situation was orgasmic, but like all good orgasms the resolution was typical: short-lived and disappointing. Although, I do not quite recollect having a gun.

“Holy Fuck, Henry! Are you alright?”

“What?” I stammer up, my nose shattered, the pain intriguing, “GODDAMN-IT!” I yell, staring at the young-man gasping for air on the floor, “you fucking shot him?!”

“Well, yeah.” He says, still on the stairs, “He was beatin’ the livin’ shit outta you.”

“I let him loose! You fucking prick!” I scream with disappointment.

“What?!: He questions, carefully approaching. “Why?”

“So he could exact his rightful justice! So he could seek revenge!” I scream, yet He still does not comprehend me. “I promised to let him attack me!”

“You’re fucking nuts!” She says.

“Perhaps,” I stammer towards them, slightly calmer and now smiling, “but you did not have to shoot him. I had the fucking spoon for Christ sakes!”

“A spoon?” She giggles, “What was you gonna do with a spoon? Feed him?”

“Sorry Henry,” He masks her laughter with sympathy, “I thought...”

“You did not think! You never think! And it is better that way! Thought for you is an ignorant idea from your feeble-mind!”

“Sorry...”

“And do not apologize! What is done is done!” I scream some more, yet try to calm myself, “now, if you please, I wish to sulk in the corner…alone.”

I walk away from them and into the kitchen…half-heartedly disappointed. I hear Them conversing, possibly arguing, about my present feelings. She suggests that I am far too emotional and endanger Their spree of fucking and killing, while He tries to justify my feelings with the subsequent factor that I am indeed emotional, but given time I will forgive and forget. He is wrong, They both are wrong...I am merely sulking because He had the pleasure of killing the young-man, and possibly his wife, for I presume she is dead. I really wanted to try the hot curling iron too. The only person I got the satisfaction of killing was an old-lady who would not have lived much longer anyway. I am thoroughly disappointed...I did not even get to use the spoon! Maybe I should keep it? Why? Because your finger prints are on it? No. Because you could use it another time? No. Then why? You are right, I should not keep the spoon.

I put the spoon in my coat pocket and look in the refrigerator for something to drink. The refrigerator is relatively bare, but from the looks of the kitchen sink, stove, and the dining-room table from the other room, the young-couple had evidently prepared a large feast. And from the looks of it, we must have interrupted their dinner. In fact, I think the food might still be edible, but I am not hungry. I am thirsty. I find a bottle of wine in the refrigerator and decide to drink it. Unlike my companions, I advocate my drinking necessity not because of the mere indulgence of alcohol’s bliss, but because I am an alcoholic, much like my parents. Even at a young age I favored the inheritable disease. I think I have been drinking ever since I was a child.

I do not really reflect much on my childhood. There is nothing really to reflect on. My parents were not all that bad, but they were not all that good either. The point is, although my father beat my brother and I from time to time…and although my mother used to scold us for being retarded, which we were not…I must admit that I had a lot of respect for my parents, which was why it was so hard for me to aid my brother in their demise. But nonetheless, it was rather exhilarating to watch my parents die in a hail of gunfire. Since that time from thereon however, I have never used a gun again. Often I wonder if I hate using a gun because of its plain brutality, or because I cannot come to terms with killing my parents...

I like wine. Its taste is smooth, beautiful, and it is the oldest form of alcohol. The Greeks even had a God for the effects of drunkenness: Dionysus. Before I was catapulted into this array of death, I had another hobby: reading philosophical essays. I was amazed by the truth that could be found in comprehension and reasoning; I was even more amazed that philosophy, despite its prominent status, although it is slowly withering away as today becomes more materialistic, is never offered as a course in early education. Oh well, I have found a new hobby, and adopted a new kind of philosophy since my earlier years. I still love to read however. Sometimes I like to rummage around the houses we kidnap for a night for any good books which might be lying around. More often than not, the books I discover are the same boring classics I was forced to read in school, as well as the Goddamn bible. Once, however, I came across an old copy of...

“Henry?”

No, I came across an old copy of...

“Henry?”

“What?!”

“Well, excuse me,” He says sarcastically.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I’m goin’ out for some smokes…you want anything?”

“I do not smoke.” I think smoking is not so much as a disgusting habit as it is an expensive method of suicide. Just buy a gun for Christ sakes. Or better yet, slit your wrists and swallow some pills and jump into a bathtub with an electrical appliance. “Yes, please do so.”

“What?” He asks.

DIE! “Nothing,” I say “I mean, I do not want anything from the store.”

“Okay,” He replies and walks away, yet I hear “Now babe, remember what we talked about.”

“Okay, honey-lovin’s,” She says, then kisses Him goodbye.

What was that supposed to mean? What did They talk about? All I can make of the situation is that She, who has an apparent distaste for me, is to try and cope with my presence. Well, fuck that! I mean, worst comes to worst I could just...

“Henry?” She asks after He leaves.

“What?”

“Me and you need to talk.”

“I am never in the mood for conversation, so what makes you think I would wish to converse with you?”

“Because we’re friends.”

Oh my fucking God! Friends, how and the fuck, what the fuck, huh?

“Henry?”

“I am sorry, I thought I just heard you say that we are friends?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Okay, please explain to me, since I seemed to have missed this newly founding friendship forming between you and I, how we are anything more than hated acquaintances?”

“I don’t hate you,” she lies.

“Right, right,” I reply, sarcastically, “You hate me and I hate you…hell, I even hate Him.”

“I don’t see why!” she protests, “I mean, we’re all in this together, and we should try an’ get along!”

“Ha!” I begin to laugh, “Get along? How can we get along?”

“Well,” She says, approaching me seductively, “I’m not just His’ you know, I could be your’s too.”

She places Her hand on my shoulder and leans in to kiss me. I feel Her lips, dry and chapped, opening as Her tongue rushes into my mouth. I am so bewildered that I cannot think rationally. I mean, it has been so long since I have been with a woman; but why Her? She is attractive, in a slutty kind of way, and we are within each others company everyday. And we are alone. But it is Her...Her!

“Get off me,” I order as I push Her away.

She seems distressed and upset that I am not interested. “Fucking fag!”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, you fuck!”

“Well, I hate to be the one to inform you, but I am everything on the contrary of a homosexual.”

“Yeah, fuck you! Fuck you!” she hollers, “We should just fuckin’ leave ya in a ditch somewhere, ya fucking psycho.”

“Now if that is not the kettle calling the pot black.”

“Fuck you!”

“Calm down, please?”

“Fuck you!”

“Please, calm down?”

“Suck my cunt! You fuckin’ fuck! Suck my cunt you fuckin’ faggot!”

“I will only ask one more time…please, calm down?” I grab the spoon in my pocket.

“Fuck you, you fuckin’...argh...”

At last, I finally got to use the spoon! I jabbed the handle deep into left breast.

“You fuck!” She screams, then attacks me with a hail of flailing limbs.

Other than Her finger nails scratching my face, the damage She does is minimal, and pathetic. Thoroughly pathetic. We continue to wrestle around, but with the aid of the spoon She weakens after each stab. She screams too. Oh, how I love the screaming. But I must give Her some credit…She is not as easy to take down as I thought. Nonetheless, I do not give up, and I surprise Her with powerful right hook into the side of Her head. She instantly falls down to which I am an instantly on top of Her, vehemently stabbing Her in the torso, feeling the warm geyser of her blood splashing against my face. I plunge the handle into Her right eye, deep...and I think She dies. She seems dead. A last “Argh…” escapes her throat before I remove the spoon and place it back inside my pocket.

“Bitch.” I walk back into the kitchen and continue drinking wine.

* * *

After some time eludes me with my own selfish praising, He returns. At first I did not recognize His figure standing over Her body, nor did I hear His gasping, but it is when He smacks me that I finally acknowledged His presence.

“What the fuck did you kill her for?!”

“What else do expect from me?”

“Why?!”

“I do not need to justify my reasoning; besides, you would have killed Her yourself if you knew how she came on to me.”

“What?!”

“She tried to fuck me.”

“I told her to!”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah!” he hollers, “You needed some lovin.’”

“Well, thanks?” I wonder. “But I must confess that I decline, or rather I declined.”

“Why?!”

“I do not need to justify my reasoning; besides, I am rather upset from the fact that your love for Her was only skin-deep, or orifice-deep for that matter.”

“For fuck sakes Henry! You didn’t have to kill her, it was kinda nice havin’ her.”

“Well, boo-hoo-hoo.”

He smacks me again, but I take it in stride. He is upset. “Now we have to clean up the body!” he exclaims.

“Why?”

“Because you stupid fuck, she’s evidence.”

“So, clean her.”

“Oh, so you’re not going to help me?”

“No.”

“Well, you fuckin' killed her.”

“And you are the one who is so paranoid about prison.”

With that said, He begins to clean up the mess, and I continue to drink. He wraps Her body inside some spare blankets found in a closet, and drags Her out into the garage. He pops the trunk of the car, the young-couple’s car, and begins to stuff Her body into it. It is rather amusing, considering that the trunk is too small and He is having trouble positioning Her legs; but after a forceful shove, Her legs snap back, bellowing a loud snapping sound. I burst into a hail of laughter as He closes the trunk and looks at me angrily. “It’s not funny, Henry.”

“It may not be funny to you, but it is fucking hilarious to me.”

“Get in the fuckin’ car.”

We climb into the car and pull out of the garage, but leave it open so He can pull in the old car we will now abandon...hmm, I wonder if the police consider Us as the “Stealing Car Killers,” or something to that effect.

“I have something for you,” I say reaching into my coat pocket as we ready our journey toward an oblivion of life.

“What?”

I pull out the spoon, stained with blood and what appears to be mayonnaise, though I am fairly certain it is just a dried up piece of Her eye…and this spoon, this lovely, silver spoon I hand to Him.

“Eh…?” He wonders.

“It may not be a flower," I tell Him, "but it is my gift to you.”










Copyright: Chad Brinker (thats me!) 2002
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Old 02-03-05   #2
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Holy fuck.

I don't have time to comment fully right now, but I'm sure you know all about your grammar, punctuation, and spelling errors. I think you've conveyed, successful, the mind of an insane psychopath.
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Old 02-03-05   #3
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*kisses* thanx for readin'.....

by all means, give me any input whatsoever......i aim to be a professional writer, maybe freelance, so anything you wanna say about anything is greatly appreciated....

but um, i'm actually thinkin' about doin' more with this....maybe make it into a novella....i think that i might re-write this story (more or less) from HER pov next time, and make some subtle changes....like, the dialogue might be the same, but the speech-patterns and words used will be slightly different, just to kinda give it more of a fucked up feel.....that whole: you hear what you want type of thing...

but what i'm thinkin' about doin' is writin' everything that pertains or involves HENRY in first-person present tense from his POV.....and then, as she dies, she'll have a flutter of memories, which will be another sub-plot of their own, more chapters as well, but everything that pertains or involves HER will be written in third-person past-tense.....and she will in fact be the main character of the overall story, not HENRY....

i like to experiement with a lot of shit like that...

but yeah, anything you want to say will not go unheard
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Old 02-04-05   #4
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Huh. What an intresting story. Reminds me of the character I wanted to make (henry). I applaud your work, for doing something that I didn't have the time to. Thou, this character has lived in my head for a long time, I love it dearly. Thanks for makeing a story that involves him. I enjoyed it and it made me laugh.
THe only part I think shouldn't be, is the womans death. Its not nesacary, and we already know his personality. Nonetheless, good job.

I liked her...
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Old 02-04-05   #5
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i'm turnin' it into a novella......she will be the main character.....as she is dying, or dead, her story goes backwards.....to how it all started.....

while the brothers story continues to go forward....
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Old 02-04-05   #6
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I've been missled! It took me 45 minutes to read!
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Old 02-04-05   #7
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really? i just re-read it, and it took me under 20 minutes....

but wow....i saw so many mistakes....i can't believe i was attempting to edit it last night while i was drunk as fuck.....ho-hum

anywho.....yeah.....i think i'ma work on it somemore.....right now i'm workin' on how She met Them for the first time....it was sorta another story i had mind i thought would be perfect for this........
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Old 02-13-05   #8
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we can leave the other thread for dark profanity's praise.

Quote:
Originally Posted by sixxx(sic)six
you questioned yourself?!

admit it!!!!! you think i suck!!!!!

my life....has cease....to have.....any meaning......please excuse me while i throw myself in the shit infested Ohio river.....
i do enjoy reading your stuff...this story was okay, i've enjoyed some of your other writing more...but see nothing inherently amiss with this one, i did like the end where he offered the spoon...in fact i loved the obsession to kill with the spoon aspect but the rest of the story, just sort of flowed...it didn't grab my attention, kind of like riding a horse at a slow walk rather than a wild canter...

happy?
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Old 02-13-05   #9
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Old 02-14-05   #10
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Quote:
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sheesh, men
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Old 02-15-05   #11
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yeah, thatz right....we're only pleased when you're on your knees.....RAWR!
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Old 02-16-05   #12
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Quote:
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yeah, thatz right....we're only pleased when you're on your knees.....RAWR!

isn't that the truth...
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Old 02-16-05   #13
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knees, bent over...
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Old 02-17-05   #14
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i rest my case...

back to splatterpunk?
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Old 02-18-05   #15
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shall i post anutter splatterpunkish story?

i wonder what ones i haven't posted.....i luv splatterpunk....
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Old 05-02-05   #16
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all three threads removed by request from sixxx(sic)six
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