When I got back home the incident was on every channel, including some international broadcasts. I’ve always kept a low profile and some of the things I do only appear in local news. I was prepared to take one for the team if need be, but it went without a hitch. I could have simply taken a few of the pricks out with a sniper rifle but that wouldn’t have been as dramatic and exciting. Since then, there haven’t been any more protests at solder’s funerals; it was all worth it. Thank God for our soldiers.”
Richard Head
Dicky just sat and stared at Seth after hearing the story about the protestors. Seth could tell something was on his mind. “You disagree with the way I handled it?”
“We have laws in this country.”
“You’re right. The same ones that protect child molesters by adding them to the Hate Crimes Bill so they will be protected. Okay, that makes sense. A molester can stick his dick in a kid and screw the child’s life up forever, but it’s illegal to call him out on it.”
“It’s more than that. We have a set of standards in this country. We’re not a third world country.”
“Yeah. The land of the double standards. People on the far-left consider it okay to kill unborn babies but will fight for a murderer on death row. The government spends millions to rehabilitate criminals and they do almost nothing for the victims. In fact, the term “criminal” is being replaced by the term “sick people”. In public school, homosexuality is taught to be okay, but the word God is not. Pornography is all over TV and the Internet, but a nativity scene on a courthouse lawn during Christmas will cause uproar. The working folks of this country have to hand over their hard-earned money to those who don’t want to work. We still have freedom of speech only if it’s politically correct. Ritalin, TV and video games have replaced parenting. We can talk about this kind of shit until we’re blue in the face.”
“Well you know…”
“I don’t give a shit what you think. You’re not in here to talk politics.”
Dicky just sat quietly, so Seth patted the stuffed man’s head. “Now back to the more gruesome shit. I want to tell you the story about this fucker. This guy was an all-around ass wipe who I like to call Dickhead; his real name was Richard Terryhole, known as Dick. I originally read about this guy on an online news website, and what caught my eye was the headline that read Getting Away with Murder. The story stated Richard, who resided in Nashville, Tennessee, had killed his twelve-year-old stepson while on a hunting trip and claimed it was an accident. He had taken out a large insurance policy on the kid several months before the shooting, and he had lost everything gambling shortly before that. I read he was acquitted and his case never went to trial. Several months later, he was arrested for attempted murder and arson when he tried to burn down his ex-wife’s house during the middle of the night while she and her daughter from her first marriage were sleeping. Shortly after he was released without bail, then he skipped town.
To understand as much as possible about Dickhead, I hired a private detective out of Florida. He ran a complete background check on Richard and his parents, David and Judy Terryhole. It didn’t take long for the detective to send me a response. Nothing really stood out, except for the Dickhead’s criminal record; it was spotless. This didn’t add up and made me very curious, so I sent the detective to Nashville so he could dig in deeper by examining court records, old newspaper articles and to interview locals of the town. I don’t believe everything I read or hear, so I drove to Nashville myself so I could keep a close eye on the P.I. Of course, I kept a very low profile as I usually do. The law has been on my trail for years and one slip up would be all it takes to jeopardize my identity. When I need the help of a private investigator, I will hire different ones from all over the country, and I will make the trip to their city. I always use fake identification and pay in cash up front. To prevent these guys from accurately describing me, I will disguise myself in numerous ways from looking like a fat black lady to an elderly man to a whacked out hippy. That’s what I did in this case. If the police did question the P.I., Florida was a long way from Texas and I was disguised. For my trip to Nashville I wore a fat suit, baldhead cap, fake beard, mustache and enough facial prosthetics and makeup to make myself look like a sixty-year-old Hispanic man. I even had a fake Tennessee driver’s license to match. Sometimes I take my modified car when I go after someone, and in some cases I buy a vehicle from another state to mix it up and keep the law confused. For this trip, I drove an untraceable Chevy S10 pickup I had taken several years ago from a thug in Las Vegas. It had been in a storage facility for a couple of years, so I had to make a fake inspection sticker and registration tag. The truck was small and didn’t have enough power to outrun a cop or someone else that could end up chasing me, so I drove it to Missouri to swap it out for something else. When I arrived on the north side of St. Louis, I found a car in the local newspaper that interested me, so I called the owner and made arrangements to meet. I didn’t want the guy that had the car for sale to see the truck I was driving, so I parked at a mall where I didn’t see any cameras. I took a city bus across town, then a taxi to his house. The guy’s car was a 1994 Lincoln Town Car with a V8 that was in good shape, so I paid him in cash and drove back to where I had parked my truck so I could move over all my stuff. Before I drove off I left the keys in the ignition with the windows down. The mall was located in the run-down part of town and most likely some jackass would take advantage of the easy pickings.
When I arrived in Tennessee, I swapped out the car’s license plates, tags and inspection sticker with a fake set I had made before I left home. Over the next couple of days, I stayed in contact with the private investigator through my untraceable cell phone and laptop while maintaining the appearance I was still in Florida. To keep a close eye on this dude I stayed in the same hotel where he was. And to make certain I wasn’t being set up, I picked his lock one night and snuck into his room when he was asleep and planted a few bugs, including a very small one in the bottom of his cell phone case. I also stuck a tracking device under his vehicle. He only knows me as Jimmy Fly from when I met him at his office in Florida disguised as a Cuban nightclub owner. And he also thought I was a loan shark who was owed money by Richard Terryhole. The reason I wanted to keep track of him so closely was the law most likely knows I occasionally use these guys, and you never know if one of them is on their payroll. The sleazeball investigators that I use would throw their mother under a bus for a pack of cigarettes, and when I throw wads of cash at them they will usually do whatever I ask without asking any questions. I also have to make sure my wads are bigger than the police’s wads. Even then they will still play both hands.
Over the next couple of days, I followed the investigator around as he did his thing, and nothing seemed out of place with this guy. A day later I received several faxes from him. The documents verified the news was on the level regarding Mr. Terryhole. Even though his criminal record was spotless, I now had proof through old newspaper articles and court records he had been arrested numerous times; twice for disorderly conduct, three times for driving while intoxicated, once for injuring a woman and her child when he ran a stop sign while under the influence of a controlled substance, and twice for aggravated assault. The investigator also found out Richard had sold his house, boat, RV and everything else he had owned, except for his Suburban, which was missing. All his bank accounts had been closed and his credit cards had been canceled. He seemed to have left town in a hurry. I also learned he had some bounty hunters on his trail due to large gambling debts and loans from underground loan sharks, which was a good thing—the P.I. though that was my reason as well. And this was actually good in a way, because if I got lucky and found Dickhead first I could make his death or disappearance look like it was caused by one of those guys if needed.
A day later I received another fax from the P.I. that came from Mr. Terryhole’s insurance company. It stated Mr. Terryhole had collected a large sum of money years ago, when carjackers had murd
ered his first wife while she had been sitting in her car at a red light. It also seemed a little strange his wife had filed for a divorce shortly before her death. The next day I called the detective and asked if he knew the reason why a criminal like Mr. Terryhole had a spotless record. He said he had just been informed Richard was the son of a judge, which I already knew from the background check, and that his father was apparently involved with some very lowlife people. He said he was on his way back to Florida and I was on my own because some real shady individuals had made an unwelcome visit to him, stating he needed to leave immediately before he came up missing. Since it seemed I hit a dead end and there was nothing else I could do, I decided to head back home. At least I had learned his crooked father was most likely the reason he had been getting off all these years.”
Wide Road to Destruction
“Later that evening while I was traveling through Mississippi, the highway was starting to become congested, so I decided to take a farm-to-market road that would take me to Louisiana. About an hour into my trip, while in the middle of nowhere, some idiot in a black car with tinted windows began tailgating me closely. All I could see was a large head of Satan hanging from the rear-view mirror and words across the top of the windshield that read Wicked as Hell. Even though the driver was being a prick, I moved over as far as I could to encourage him to pass. Without hesitating, the vehicle jerked over and began to pass, but instead of the driver heading on down the road, the car pulled up beside me. Not sure what the driver’s intentions were, I slowed down a little, but the car slowed equally. Finally, the passenger’s side tinted window rolled down and revealed the assholes inside. The driver was a bald headed white dude with piercings all over his face. The passenger was a Hispanic dude with tattoos on his neck and he had a beanie cap on so low that I could barely see his eyes. I wasn’t sure why these assholes were messing with me, but all kinds of thoughts were running through my mind, and as I was contemplating if it was worth messing with these fools the passenger pulled out a pistol and motioned for me to pull over. Instead of granting their wish, I put in earplugs, then slightly rolled down my window and showered down on the two punks with my fully auto 5.56mm SBR, equipped with a thirty-round magazine. I hit them numerous times and blew out most of their windows. Surprisingly, the driver took off in a hurry in his rice burner wannabe racecar. I couldn’t take a chance of one of them calling 911 on a cell phone, so I quickly caught up to them and shot out both rear tires. The car lost control around ninety miles an hour and ran off the road into a heavily wooded area. The entire road trip had been either wooded or swampy, and I had not encountered any other vehicles for over an hour, so I felt comfortable going in after them. Their car didn’t leave any real noticeable tracks where it left the road, so I pulled into the area where their car had cleared a path in the wooded area and parked behind some thick cover. The area was real thick with all kinds of vegetation, and I couldn’t see their car from where I parked. No telling how far it could have traveled if it missed solid objects, I thought as I followed the path of broken tree branches. After about three hundred feet of fighting my way through thickets, I finally found the car; it had nose-dived at the edge of a swampy area. The front half was under mud and water and the rear section was on dry land. The two punks were crawling out the back window as I was walking up. I could clearly see the Hispanic dude was severely wounded in his right arm and shoulder, and his right side was covered with blood where one or more of my bullets had hit him through the door. The driver was bleeding from his neck, right arm and hand, and his left leg and his left arm appeared to have been broken from the crash. Luckily, I had on a nerd disguise. I was wearing a gray pin stripped suit, a blue toboggan, thick glasses, makeup, a large fake nose and a Best Buy name tag. The punks didn’t see me in my car because of the darkly tinted windows, so for the fun of it I decided to mess with them. Before the assholes had a chance to see me I ran up to them. “Woah, dang!! Are you freakin’ all right? I saw what happened. What can I do?”
The Hispanic dude immediately yelled out in a real aggressive voice. “Call fucking 911, dip shit.”
I quickly pulled out my phone, and as I opened the flip top I pretended I dropped it on the ground. When I went to pick it up I kicked a rock into the murky water and made a splash. “Jeezlouise! My phone went into the water.”
The Hispanic dude became instantly angry. “You fucking idiot! Go get it.”
I walked over and stood at the edge of the water as the Hispanic dude helped the other guy from the back of the car. When the bald-headed fucker fell to the ground he looked over at me. “You fucking heard him! Get that fucking phone!”
I turned and faced them as I held my hands on my hips. “First of all, the phone is not going to work now that it’s wet. And I really don’t want to ruin my Penny Loafers.”
“Listen here, motherfucker! If you want to make it out of this swamp alive I suggest you do what the fuck that I say,” replied the brown asshole.
The white dude’s right hand was damaged beyond recognition—it looked as if some of the 5.56mm rounds had blown it apart. The brown dude was trying to wrap the guy’s hand with a rag to stop the bleeding, but he was having difficulty due to his injuries. He finally became irritated and looked at me. “Fucking help!”
I walked over and stood next to them. “What do you want me to do?”
“Stop the bleeding in his hand, you fucking idiot.”
Within a blink of an eye I had chopped the guy’s arm off at his elbow with my sickle. Blood was running out of the arm as I stood there holding it. “Like this”?
While the Hispanic dude was kneeling, he grabbed my pants with his left hand. “What the fuck! I am going to fucking kill….”
Before he had a chance to complete his sentence I had sliced his left arm off at his elbow. Over the next couple minutes I let them roll around on the ground and scream as they tried to stop their bleeding stubs, and they watched in horror as I stood next to them while flipping their severed arms into the air as I was juggling with them.
The white dude finally looked up at me. “Please get me to the hospital so they can put my arm back on. We can’t wait much longer.”
I stopped juggling. I was covered from head to toe with their blood. “The hospital is too far away for them to save it.”
The other dude stayed quiet—he probably knew what their fate was going to be. The white guy started crawling towards me. “Then can you get some ice for it?”
“From where? We’re in the middle of a fucking swamp.”
He started to panic.
“You want an arm sewn back on?”
“Oh yes, please help me.”
I walked over to the Hispanic dude and cracked him in the head with a club, then injected the white guy with a tranquilizer. Two hours later, the white guy started coming around and the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was his buddy’s facial expression, who was sitting on the ground with his back against a log a few feet away. The white guy was still dazed from the tranquilizer and wasn’t able to move around much. “Are we in the hospital?”
The Hispanic dude didn’t respond as he sat on the ground with a fearful look on his face.
“Talk to me, holmes.”
The Hispanic dude looked around, and when he didn’t see me he whispered, “We’re still in the woods, bro. Just pretend you’re asleep if he comes back. And don’t move.”
Around five minutes later, the white dude had finally come to his senses enough to notice his arm. When he got a good look at it and saw the lower half of it was brown, fear overcame him when he realized I had sewn the other dude’s severed arm on him. He immediately started freaking out, so the Hispanic dude hobbled over to him and knelt. “Try to stay quiet.”
The white dude started crying when he noticed his arm had been secured to his buddy’s stub with rusted wire.
“Chill out, dude. I’ll get us out of this, but we have to be smart and play it cool. This is one crazy motherfucker wer
e dealing with. I know this is some real medieval shit that he has done, but we can’t panic. We’ll hang tight for a little while longer, and if he comes back just pretend you’re asleep and I’ll jump his ass. If he doesn’t, I’ll go get some help.”
I had been hiding so I could watch these two fools to see how they would react in a real fucked up situation. We were well hidden in the woods and I didn’t feel the need to have to rush off, so I wanted to mess with them for a little while longer. I’m not really sure what they had planned, but the white dude couldn’t even move because of his injuries and the Hispanic dude wasn’t in much better shape. When I walked out of the thickets they both remained still as if they were dead. While I stood over them smoking a cigarette, I said out loud to myself, “Good thing there’re dead. Now I can cut their dicks off without them screaming.”
Without warning, the Hispanic dude tried to tackle me, but his right leg was apparently broken, because as soon as he lunged in my direction his leg folded backwards below his knee and he fell back to the ground. He glared up at me from the ground. “You sick fucker! I am going to kill you for what you have done!”
“Hey, pal. Where’s the thanks for fixin’ your arm?”
“You sick fucker! I’ll….”
I grabbed his newly transplanted arm and tore it from the barbed wire stitching. He screamed out as blood gushed out of his stub. He screamed out louder when I started beating him with it.
The other fucker watched in horror as I beat the Mexican into a bloody pulp. When the arm was limp as a noodle due to the bones breaking into numerous pieces, I threw it into the murky water, then looked at the white dude. “Give me that fucking arm.”
The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore Page 14
