The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore

by Garrett, Wade H.

  “No, you won’t. If anyone finds out, tell them I was holding you hostage.”

  “They would know I was lying.”

  Seth pulled out a gun and pointed it at Wyatt. “You will do whatever I say. If you try to run, I will kill you. If you slip away, I will make it my life’s priority to hunt you down. You will be my hostage until I say otherwise. Do you understand?”

  Wyatt’s eyes were huge. “Yes. Did I piss you off? Did I do something wrong?”

  Seth holstered his gun. “You’re not going to get in trouble for being an accomplice.”

  Wyatt understood what Seth did. He leaned back in his chair. “Are we still going to Titusville?”

  “Not now. We have to get out of Dodge.”

  “I thought you had something important to do there?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “You kept looking at your watch.”

  Seth laughed. “There’s a great steak house there that offers a lunch special.”

  Wyatt looked at Seth as if he was crazy. “You gotta be fucking kidding me?”

  “This is Florida. Their food sucks as much as their state. That was the only place that had decent food.”

  “Where’re we going now?”

  “Atlanta to see what Pat’s been up to.”

  “Then where?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. We’ll figure that out when we get there.”

  Wyatt was confused about something. “I don’t understand the trucker’s attitude.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was in a very terrifying position. Why did he get aggressive? Why did he antagonize you when he knew you were going to kill him? It doesn’t make sense. I would have been begging.”

  “He did beg at the end. But the human mind is a strange thing. Everyone that I run across reacts differently. What I have learned through the years is when a human is pushed to their limits physically and or emotionally, and when they realize that they have no control over their destiny, they will react in an unpredictable and sometimes surprising way. I have personally witnessed that a person can change their personality and mindset at a flip of a switch. Some will go from being angry and violent, to weak and timid, or vice versa. And something else that I have learned, something very important in what I do.” Seth looked at Wyatt. “There is more fear and pain in psychological torture than in actual torture of the flesh itself.”

  Wyatt looked intrigued.

  “Think about this. What is scarier for a criminal on death row; death, or the anticipation of death?”

  Wyatt thought for a moment. “Death seems scary.”

  Seth looked over at Wyatt. “You know they wipe your arm down with alcohol before they stick the needle in you so you don’t get an infection.” He looked back at the road. “And lethal injection in most cases is not painful. You simply go to sleep. What is scary about that?

  “It’s still scary.”

  “That’s why our judicial system is not a deterrent to crime. The worst part of going to prison is some big dicked black dude will probably butt fuck you. Outside of that and a needle prick, prison becomes home to these assholes. Now sitting for years, knowing a guard could walk up to your cell at any time and tell you that you’re going to be executed is scary.”

  Wyatt looked unsure. “I guess you’re right.”

  Seth pulled out a syringe from his jacket pocket. He pulled the cap off the needle. He looked over at Wyatt. “I need you to go asleep for a while. I don’t want you to see where we’re going before Atlanta. I’m going to have to stick you with this.”

  Wyatt’s eyes got very big. “Please don’t. I hate needles.”

  “I don’t have a choice, Wyatt. Please don’t let this ruin our friendship.”

  “No… No, you don’t have to do that. I will go to sleep.”

  “That’s not a sure thing.” Seth looked around. “First, I need to get out of this crowded traffic so I don’t have a wreck when you start jumping around.”

  Wyatt was leaned against his door staring at the needle. “I can’t let you. Please don’t be mad.”

  Seth looked up the highway. “It’s clear up there. I’ll try to get around everyone.”

  Wyatt was panicking. “I know. I’ll get wasted and pass out. Will that work?”

  “That will take too much time. Just stick your arm over here.”

  Wyatt was getting upset. A tear ran down his cheek. “Please, Seth. Don’t do this to me.”

  “I need to know if I can trust you.”

  “You can.”

  Seth pulled the needle off the syringe and handed it to Wyatt. “Since you’re so scared of needles, I want to see if you will stick this in the back of your hand. Then I will know if I can trust you if I need your help.”

  Wyatt didn’t think twice about it as he did it. “See, you can trust me.”

  Seth started laughing.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  “See how you were so terrified of me sticking you with a needle and putting you to sleep.” Seth looked at him. “Did the needle prick hurt?”

  Wyatt looked confused. “No. Just a little sting.”

  “See, there was more mental anguish anticipating the poke than the poke itself. I could have had you shaking in your shoes all the way to Atlanta. Now think about the assholes on death row. They have to sit in their cells for years, in some cases decades, thinking about death.” Seth looked at Wyatt. “See, the anticipation of the unknown can be a very painful, emotional experience.”

  Fuckin’ Illegal Space Aliens

  Wyatt noticed they were passing a semi-truck. “I can’t believe that happened back there.” He looked at Seth. “I’m never gonna get those images out of my head.”

  “You weren’t supposed to see that. I can get carried away sometimes and do some stupid shit.”

  “It just took me by surprise. I didn’t expect something like that would happen on this trip.”

  “Do you think I went overboard?”

  “The guy deserved to be punished for what he did. And the way he looked, tattoos and all, he was probably a scumbag anyway.” Wyatt looked at Seth. “And by the way, that was freakin’ nasty making him drink your urine.”

  “That was to humiliate him.”

  “What happened after I left?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

  “Just curious.” He looked at Seth with a troubled look. “Did you kill him?”

  “Not after you left.” Seth knew the fatal shot to the man’s groin took place before Wyatt asked him to show leniency.

  Wyatt looked confused. “So, you didn’t kill him?”

  “Like I said, I did not kill him after you walked off.”

  “Oh. Is he going to rat me out?”

  “He gave me his word that he wouldn’t say anything. And besides, he doesn’t know what you look like—you’re wearing a disguise.”

  Wyatt had forgotten about his silly wig and cap combo. He pulled it off and set it next to him in the seat. “Do you think he’ll try to find us for what you did to him?”

  “No.”

  “What if he radioed other truckers? They might be able to identify us.”

  “They don’t give a shit. A lot of them are cons, fuckups and illegal aliens.”

  “Illegal aliens? You mean Mexicans?”

  “No, fuckin’ space aliens. These fuckers don’t sleep, so they can drive twenty-four-seven, taking jobs away from us.”

  Wyatt just looked at Seth.

  “Yes, I mean wetbacks.”

  “Sounds like you’ve had some bad experiences with them?”

  “Truck drivers or wetbacks?”

  “Mexican truck drivers.”

  “I’ve had numerous run-ins with truck drivers, not any of them happened to be wetbacks though. As far as having run-ins with wetbacks in general, sure. They commit crimes just like anyone else. And to answer your question which involved a Mexican and a truck, yeah. I had one particular run-in with a wetback
that involved a semi-truck, but he wasn’t a truck driver, I just used the truck to fuck him up.”

  Wyatt pulled his notebook from his bag. “Did you run over him or something?”

  “He wishes. I tied him underneath it.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  “Acted like he was in Mexico.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We have a lot of problems with wetbacks in Texas. I don’t have an issue with immigrants if they come here legally, but most of the ones that sneak across the border don’t pay taxes while sucking up the freebies.”

  “We don’t have any issues with illegals back home in North Dakota. But what I have read, people around here are mad because they say the Mexican’s are taking their jobs, but they’re the jobs that no one here wants to do.”

  “Stop reading the main stream media. The wetbacks don’t pay taxes, medical expenses or even car insurance, and five families share a house so even their living expenses are low. Now considering all that, a lower wage goes a long way for them. If an American received the same wage while having to pay for all these items, they would be making less than what their expenses would be. And if the wetbacks had to pay what we pay, they would also refuse to do the work for that amount of compensation. I think we need to shut off all the freebies and make them either come here legally and pay their fair share or go back home. We already have enough Americans that are freeloaders.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think of that. But it would be wrong not giving them medical treatment.”

  “What’s wrong is my medical expenses are high because of them and the lazy ass welfare Americans. It’s bad enough to have to pick up their tab, but when my buddy needed to go to the emergency room it was like a Mexican Fiesta.”

  “What in the hell does that mean?”

  “Our emergency rooms in Texas are flooded with freeloaders; white trash, black scum and wetbacks.” Seth looked over at Wyatt. “And before you have a chance to call me out for using the term black scum.” Seth shook his hands in the air as if he was scared. “Everyone is so sensitive today.” He looked at Wyatt. “I’m referring to the blacks that are a burden to society. You know; the race baiting, hate the white man, but have their hand out for a freebie, type of assholes.”

  Wyatt just looked at Seth.

  “Okay, now that I have that cleared up, back to my story. About two years ago, I was involved in a four-wheeler accident.”

  Wyatt held his hand out to get Seth’s attention. “Hold up.”

  “I really don’t want to talk about political correctness right now.”

  “Not that. I can’t picture you riding an ATV. Did you take it from someone after you fucked them up?”

  Seth looked at Wyatt. “No. I was riding with some friends.”

  Wyatt looked confused.

  “Why is it so hard to believe that I have a normal social life?”

  “I don’t know if I am more interested in your horror stories or social life.”

  Seth laughed. “It does require some fine balancing.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  “My friends and I were playing who had the biggest balls with our four-wheelers.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s where one of us would do something stupid, then see who had the balls to repeat it. Matt was the idiot of the group and had climbed a real steep embankment. When I tried, I wound up rolling mine backwards, and James, another buddy, who was coming up the hill behind me tried to turn to get out of my way as I was sliding towards him, but ended up rolling his four-wheeler. He knew he had broken a couple of ribs. I took him to the emergency room since it was a Saturday. He had to wait for seven hours due to all the freeloaders. It was an absolute cluster fuck thanks to all these lowlifes.”

  Wyatt interrupted. “Where had y’all been riding?”

  “Are you more interested in writing a story about my social life than the gruesome shit?” Seth thought for a moment. “I suppose it would be interesting to read how a twisted fuck like myself could pull off such a feat.”

  “It’s definitely been an interesting story. It’s not what I would have imagined. So, go on and tell me about your emergency room visit.”

  “It’s not that interesting.”

  “What did you mean it was a cluster fuck?”

  “When we arrived at the waiting room it was filled with scumbags from all walks of life. I could tell most of them were the free loading type. The wetbacks were there in large groups like it was a fucking family get-together. They were laughing, talking and eating large meals. At first, I thought each of the groups was waiting for a friend or family member who was already being seen. This wasn’t the case. Each group had a person that was waiting to be seen. These people had been laughing and talking up to this point, then when their name was called out, they were dying. Some of them could barely walk to the nurse. The black scum and white trash were just as bad. They were in smaller groups, but louder and more obnoxious than the wetbacks. Most of them were either talking and laughing, on their cell phones or eating fast food. The same thing was happening when their names were called. They would immediately go from being full of piss and vinegar to dying as they walked down Free Health Care Lane. As time passed, the ones who had made their death walk were now coming back out after they had been miraculously healed, skipping along as if it was a perfect world. After seven hours of waiting, my buddy was finally seen by a doctor. Since he had insurance, they made sure he paid his deductible before he was seen. Shortly after that, the doctor came in, did a quick examination, then stated there was nothing wrong with him. He also denied him painkillers. James could barely walk as we left the emergency room, unlike the Obama welfare recipients.”

  Wyatt looked aggravated. “That’s messed up. At least he didn’t break anything.”

  “Let me tell you the next part; it will piss you off. On Monday morning James went to his family doctor at another hospital. They found two cracked ribs.”

  “Seriously? Why didn’t the other hospital find them?”

  “No tellin’. Probably because they’re used to dealing with scumbags that are only after drugs, so everyone gets treated as such.”

  “Remind me not to go to the E.R. in Texas.”

  Seth rolled up his sleeves as he drove. “James only missed one day of work during his two months of healing, while the scumbags that were in the waiting room before him got to score their free health care, and then went back and sat on their couch and waited for their Obama check, which James helps pay for.”

  Wyatt looked over and noticed Seth’s arms were covered with black and gray tattoos. He got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he remembered calling the truck driver a scumbag for having tattoos. “I didn’t mean to insinuate earlier that people with tattoos are bad.”

  Seth laughed. “I am bad. All I ever get for Christmas is a stocking filled with fucking coal.”

  Wyatt noticed Seth’s tattoos had a dark overtone: Grim Reapers, angels, skulls, lightning bolts, a cemetery, swords and a moon. They were all tied together with flames, tribal artwork and writing. He then noticed a tattoo of a person holding a guitar. It seemed out of place. “Why do you have that dude with the guitar on your arm?”

  “It’s Elvis.”

  “Why in the hell is he on there?”

  “Because he’s the King, asshole.”

  Wyatt laughed. “Okay, if you say so.”

  Seth gave Wyatt a go-to-hell look. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “It doesn’t fit with the rest of the evil shit, I suppose.”

  “Evil? These aren’t fucking evil. Every one of them has a meaning to me. And what the fuck do you have against Elvis?”

  “Nothing. I just figured you would be into Alice Copper and Marilyn Manson. Shit like that.”

  “I listen to them right along with everyone else. I’m not stuck in one genre...” Seth looked at Wyatt and laughed. “…like you are. You probably have the Village People tatto
oed on your ass.”

  “Whatever.” Wyatt looked at his notes. “I got you side tracked.” He looked at Seth. “Tell me about the Mexican and the truck?”

  “Sure. As I was saying earlier, the fucking wetbacks have been causing a lot of trouble in Texas. They’re bad about drinking and driving, and after they run into you, you find out they have no insurance. The police don’t give a shit because of political correctness, and you can’t sue these fuckers because they won’t show up to court, so you’re stuck with paying for the damages yourself. It’s bad enough when wetbacks cause these types of problems, but when they kill someone, it becomes my problem, and this is what my story is about.

  About ten years ago when I was still doing the long-term thing, I had been driving down a rural road when I came upon a traffic accident that involved a car and a pickup. The truck was still in the road and the car was on its driver’s side in the bar ditch. When I got out, I noticed there was a Mexican man in the truck and he was trying to get it started. He seemed to be okay, so I ran to the car. When I looked through the windshield, I could see a man trying to help an unconscious woman who was still bound in her seat belt on the passenger side. I kicked out the windshield and helped get her out. He was hysterical, yelling that the truck had crossed over the yellow stripe. He said he tried to swerve, but the truck struck them in the side. I checked her for a pulse. I looked up at him and shook my head. When he realized she was dead, he went after the other driver. The Mexican was still trying to get his truck started when we walked up. He would turn the ignition, put the shifter in gear, then press the throttle. The truck would hesitate then die. He was repeating this as the driver of the car stood yelling at him through the window. I could smell the alcohol from where I was standing and wasn’t sure how sober he was. Finally, the man opened the door and started to grab the Mexican. To his surprise, the Mexican had a knife ready and stuck him in his side. I knew at that point he was alert enough to know what he had done and he was trying to flee. I pulled out my pistol, and when the wetback saw it, he stumbled out of the truck towards me, yelling curse words in Spanish. I changed my mind and cracked him in the head with a club, knocking him unconscious. The other man had ran down the road a little ways after getting stabbed, but came back when he saw that the wetback had been neutralized. He walked up holding his hand over his wound. “I lost my phone. Please call the police. I want this piece of shit to go to prison.”