While Wayne laid cursing on the table, I grabbed his left hand and tied a one-eighth inch steel cable to each of his fingers and thumb. I had secured the cables at his last joint on each of his fingers and thumb so they wouldn’t slip off. The five cables then joined together with a larger cable. The larger cable ran between the two rollers, then to the drum of the winch.
He stared in horror. “I don’t deserve what you have done!”
“Then tell me, what does a thief, animal abuser and child killer like you deserve?”
He became very outraged, and because I had been ignoring his cursing and threats over the last year or so, he misconceived my tolerance for weakness, so he became more aggressive and spit at me. Before his spit had a chance to soak into my shirt, I pulled a knife out of my sheath and cut off his lips, and as he screamed, I grabbed his tongue and sliced it off as well. While he spewed blood and saliva all over himself and the table, I took a torch and started cauterizing his wounds, and as his blood and spit sizzled, foul-smelling smoke bellowed out from his mouth and cuts in his cheeks. As predicted, he passed out. While he slept, I went ahead and connected his other hand the same way as I did his left hand. I couldn’t do the same thing with his feet because his toes would pull off before his feet and ankles could be broken into pieces by the rollers. To resolve the issue, I waited until he had regained consciousness, then took a long awl and pushed it into the bottom of his right foot, between his metatarsal bones, then out the top of his foot. After I poked about thirty holes through each of his feet, I ran three-sixteenth inch steel cable in and out of the holes with a large knitting needle, then connected the end of the cable to the winch that was above that leg. Wayne had screamed so hard during the foot poking and knitting session that he screwed up his jaw again. He also tore the healed portions in his cheeks, which were bleeding profusely.
The next part was going to be a blood bath, so I hung several bags of blood above the machine and connected them to his jugular vein in the side of his neck with an intravenous catheter. I knew what was about to happen was going to get real messy, so I threw on a jumpsuit and a face shield. Wayne was acting like an idiot and slamming his head against the table when I started the winch that was connected to his right hand. A few seconds later, he started screaming as the winch pulled his hand through the rollers. The rollers weren’t really doing any damage, unlike the ones designed for his feet, which are set up to crush his bones. Their purpose was to keep tension on his hand and arm before they reached the winch, which would ensure that his entire arm from his fingertips to his shoulder would tightly wrap around the narrow drum. I specifically installed a narrow drum so his bones would shatter like glass as they wrapped around it. The anticipation of the obvious must have been what he was screaming about, because as soon as his fingers starting wrapping around the drum backwards, his eyes started rolling around in his head and his body started shaking. While the winch moved very slowly, the drum broke his bones at every fraction of an inch, which was causing horrendous pain. Even though he was screaming at the top of his lungs, I could still hear his phalanges making a popping sound as they broke, and I could hear the ligaments between his finger joints making a snapping sound as they tore loose from the ends of their bones. When the palm of his hand started wrapping around the drum, his metacarpal bones and their muscular attachments sounded like popcorn popping. As the winch rolled his hand tightly around the drum, the trolley moved towards his body, which allowed the winch and drum to move forward as well. The winch rolling his arm was actually causing the forward motion of the trolley. By the time the drum reached his wrist, he had started vomiting all over himself and the table. When the head of his radius and ulna bones entered the drum, they popped so loud it sounded like small firecrackers going off. A few seconds later, blood and meat started flowing out from around the winch as it broke, flattened and wrapped his forearm around the drum. He passed out when the drum was only a few inches up his forearm, so I turned it off and poured a hemostatic agent all over his open wounds to slow down the bleeding.
An hour later, he regained consciousness, and as he laid on the table breathing erratically, I leaned towards him and whispered into his ear, “The animals that you hurt must have felt the same way, and your son felt as helpless as you do right now as he endured the pain you bestowed on him. There is no way that I can inflict as much pain on you as you did your own son. Can you imagine what it must feel like to have your life taken at such an innocent age by the one who created you? You should have been the one protecting him. You betrayed your son.”
He didn’t say a word as I flipped the switch. He screamed the entire time as the winch ravaged the rest of his arm. When the rollers reached his shoulder, the winch didn’t even flinch as it tore the remaining portion of his arm from his body. His body violently shook as the few remaining muscles, tendons and veins stretched like rubber bands between his body and the drum, and as the winch rolled up the last portion of his arm, his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Shortly after his muscles, tendons and veins snapped in two, he passed out. Before he bled to death I cleaned, cauterized, and bandaged his wound. I let him lie on the table for a few weeks so he could stare at the cables that were between his left hand and the winch. The anticipation of repeating the horrific torture was unbearable to him. He did everything possible to kill himself, from beating his head on the tabletop to holding his breath. He continuously fought at the cables to pull them loose from his fingers. And surprisingly he accomplished one of his two attempts. He had pulled his fingers off in the middle of the night when I was out, and when I came in and found him, I noticed he had been beating his bloody nubs on everything in sight in hopes they would keep bleeding so he would die. Unfortunately for him I had a blood-clotting agent in one of his IV bags.
A couple of days later, Wayne endured the horrific pain of having his left arm mutilated the same way as his right arm. His missing fingertips didn’t affect anything—I simply tied the cables to the next joint. A week later, I did the same thing to his right leg, but it was a little more intensive than his arms. His foot was literally crushed as the winch pulled it through the narrow opening of the roller, and he passed out before it ever reached the drum. Each time he passed out I would turn off the machine, and when he regained consciousness I would start it back up. I did this so he would have to feel every square inch of his leg break into pieces as it went through the roller, flattening out as it wrapped around the drum. When the winch finally started rolling up the upper portion of his leg around the drum, his femur sounded like wood going through a chipper as it shattered. The drum was pushing blood and tons of gross stuff out of his leg and onto the floor. He was in such shock that his heart stopped and I had to use a heart defibrillator to restart it.
It was several months later when he became strong enough that I could finally finish off his other leg. He had screamed so much during his excruciating torture he damaged his vocal cords and wasn’t able to make a sound. His heart had become very weak, so I had to install an internal heart defibrillator that would shock his heart automatically when he went into cardiac arrest. When his wounds completely healed, I secured him in a custom-made harness and hung what was left of his extremities on it, then hoisted him up into the ventilation shaft so he could be with his two minions. Over the first couple of years I would occasionally hear the two numbnuts arguing. They are, by far, the biggest morons that I’ve run across. Telling their story makes me laugh. Eventually I had to install an internal heart defibrillator in each of them. The device has become the norm in here. It really prolongs life.”
Dicky looked solemn as Seth hoisted the three men back up into the ventilation shaft.
Doctor of Death
Seth locked the last hoist, then walked over to the opposite side of the chamber from Dicky. After he moved a few things around, he rolled a large wooden rack out of a dark area and into the center of the chamber. The rack was about seven feet tall by ten feet wide, and it was framed with steel tu
bing around the outer edges. There were wooden planks that were secured horizontally to the tubing. The rack stood in an upright position, supported at the bottom by four braces that stuck outwards, and the braces had wheels mounted on the ends. The rack resembled a beefed-up roll-around chalkboard.
Dicky stared in horror as Seth turned the rack sideways. As the dim light from a nearby wall-mounted lantern revealed a ghastly sight, he gasped with disbelief. He held his mouth open as he gazed with wide eyes, looking upon the bizarre monstrosity. There was a decayed body mounted on the rack that had been gruesomely dissected and cut into pieces. All the body parts and pieces were secured to the wooden planks by nails. The man was cut open from his neck to his pelvic area. His chest and abdominal cavities were being held open by his abdominal skin as it was being stretched away from his body, which was being bound to the planks by rusted nails. His cavity was empty and all his shiny and preserved organs were hanging around the perimeter of his body. His intestines completely outlined his body first, than his other organs encircled them.
A portal with a clear lens was secured to the left side of the man’s chest, and from his open cavity, a yellow hose hung loose as if it had been connected to something at one time. The dissected man had long scars throughout his body, which appeared to be gashes that had been sewn closed, and some of the old scars still had their thick, black stitching. The man’s eyelids had been sewn to his eyebrows, and his eyes had a very disturbing look to them as if they were staring into hell. His mouth was hanging wide open as if he had died screaming. His limbs had been cut off and were extended away from his body on the rack. Every joint in his extremities had been severed. His hands were cut into sections at each finger joint. His arms were cut into sections at his wrist, elbow, and shoulder. His legs, one of his feet, and his toes, were sectioned in the same way. The segmented limbs laid out from his body in an anatomically correct way, with about four inches of gap between them, and their ends had been sewn closed with the thick, black thread. The man’s right foot was missing, and there was a black outline drawn on the planks where the foot should have been. The body and segmented parts were glossy in color, appearing as if they had been preserved. There were four intravenous bags that were nailed above the dissected man, and they were full of moldy fluid and the hoses that ran to the preserved body were tarnished yellow.
Seth sat down Indian-style on the floor in front of the rack and lit a cigarette. He looked over at Dicky. “This guy here I like to call the Doctor of Death because he killed innocent people for profit. His real name was Mr. Blackwell. He lived in New York and was a doctor until he lost his medical license for malpractice. Newspapers, TV and the Internet have been my main source in learning about the scumbags that I go after; it was no different in his case. I first read about Mr. Blackwell in the New York Times years ago.”
Seth could tell that Dicky had something to say. “What’s on your mind?”
“I kind of remember the story; he was selling human organs illegally, then skipped bail and left the country. That’s what the paper stated anyway.”
“You’re partially right. He didn’t leave the country, obviously, but he was busted for selling organs on the black market. He would persuade homeless people to come to his house by telling them he would give them free medical treatment and food. After he lured them into his basement, he would put them into a coma-like state so he could remove their organs. He sold them on the black market for an extremely high price. His customers were very wealthy people that were dying and needed an organ transplant to survive, and because they were too far down on a donor list to receive their vital organ in time, they were willing to pay huge amounts of money for vitality. The unknowing organ donors were homeless people that had no family and would most likely not be missed by anyone. Blackwell had been getting away with the taking and the giving of life for years until he picked up the wrong homeless person one day. He had picked up an undercover journalist who was doing a story on how the homeless lived. The journalist had hidden cameras in an alleyway where he lived and interacted with homeless people for his research. The police found the cameras after the journalist had been reported missing by his news firm. One of the cameras had filmed Blackwell’s license plates on his Suburban, and another one filmed the reporter talking to Blackwell, then leaving with him. When the police searched Blackwell’s house, they found two people in an operating room who were in a coma and a large cooler full of body parts. The police dug up numerous bodies in his backyard, which sadly included two infants. Autopsies revealed all of them had organs removed. Most of the ones who were identifiable were homeless, except for the infants and a medium sized body, which turned out to be the body of a young girl who had come up missing years ago when she didn’t return home from a basketball game.
A few weeks later, I read in the newspaper that Blackwell had been released from jail on a five-million-dollar bond and he had to wear a tracking device around his ankle so the authorities could keep track of him in case he tried to leave the country. This was really disturbing. It seems money or connections can get you out of anything in this country, except for this chamber. Before he had a chance to disappear or go to prison, I needed to find out as much as possible about him. I went on the Internet to a news page and printed out pictures of him, his house, cars, and I also found a couple of articles that gave decent details about his entire life. I also did a complete background check on him, his family, friends and business associates. He was about twenty-six hours away, and hauling his ass back on a plane was going to be impossible, so I packed several times more stuff than I usually do, and I quadrupled everyone’s IV bags. When I arrived in Montgomery, I rented a motel room so I could recuperate from the trip. Over the next few days I had a hard time staking this guy out because the police had seized his house and most of his assets. He was staying in a hotel next to the Hudson River where a couple of police officers were guarding his room. They were protecting him from any kind of vigilante act because he had apparently been getting death threats. It really irritates me when I think of how sorry our judicial system is, but I guess I could look at it as job security. The two officers weren’t the only problem—a camera system and a doorman guarded the main entrance of the hotel, and the other doors were protected with sensors that would activate the fire or security alarm. He was going to be a difficult catch with all the extra security protecting him, but I wasn’t going to let that discourage me because his victims and their families deserve more than what our judicial system offered. The worst thing about prison is getting butt fucked, but he probably wouldn’t have had to worry about that, because he could afford a good defense team and they most likely would have pulled an O.J., or at least found a way to have him sentenced to a mental hospital.
Time was crucial, so I made a plan on how and what I was going to do. I knew I would have to be very patient if I wanted to get this lowlife. The first thing I did was check out of my current motel and rent a room on the second floor in a hotel that was located across the street from where he was staying. After I settled in, I discreetly watched out a window to see if he had any regular routines of leaving the hotel. He would most likely be driving his older tan Mercedes because the police had confiscated his Suburban. Several hours after dusk I decided to call it a day because I hadn’t spotted him.
The next morning around seven-thirty as I was sitting in a café eating breakfast, I saw an older tan Mercedes pull out of a parking garage that was next to his hotel. I couldn’t tell if it was him or not as the car drove down the street. When I finished, I went back to my hotel room and watched to see if the Mercedes would return. After about two hours the car finally pulled up in front of his hotel. This time I could tell it was Blackwell. When he pulled into the parking garage, I noticed the garage had security cameras and a set of automatic security gates that protected the entrance.
Over the next several days, I learned he had a regular routine of leaving the hotel around 7:30 AM, and he would always drive north
on Jasper. He would also leave sporadically throughout the day. The fourth day, which was Saturday, I checked out of the hotel and rented a room in another town so I wouldn’t be seen as much. Now that I had his basic routine down, I planned on placing a tracking device on his car so I could keep track of his movements, which would give me a chance of snagging him. I went to a gadget store and bought a GPS tracking system, then glued the transmitter part to a magnet so I could quickly stick it under his car when I had a chance.
The next Monday, I waited for him at 7:30 AM a little way down on Jasper in a parking area, and when he finally drove by, I followed him several miles until he pulled into the parking lot of a golf course. Instead of turning in behind him, I pulled into a restaurant parking lot that was across the road from the golf course. Through a pair of binoculars, I watched as he and another man talked in the parking lot. After a few minutes, they met with a third man, then all three of them went into a clubhouse. When I scanned the parking lot I noticed there was a security office with a security guard, and I also spotted another guard roaming around on a golf cart. I knew I wouldn’t be able to put the tracking device on his car there, so I went into the restaurant and grabbed something to eat. After a couple of hours Blackwell left the golf course, and as I followed him, I hoped he would make a quick stop somewhere so I could stick the tracking device under his car, but he drove straight to his hotel.
The next morning I dressed in some raggedy old clothes and rubbed dirt all over myself so I would look like a homeless person, and to help conceal my identity, I wore a dirty wig, an old head rag, a fake beard and some facial prosthetics and makeup. At 7:30 AM, I was standing at the corner of Forty-Second Street and Jasper at a red light, which was the intersection that Blackwell drove through on his way to the golf course. While I waited at the corner, I watched my plan foiled as he drove through a green light. For the next couple of hours, I walked around the sidewalks as I waited for nine-thirty, which was when he usually came back through the intersection, and when he finally arrived, the same damn thing happened, except he ran the red light so he wouldn’t have to stop. He didn’t show up the next day, which started causing my patience to run thin. It was aggravating to stand around the street corner with people staring at me with disgust.
The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore Page 37
