by Raptor, John
My fingers wrapped around the grip of the Eagle, just when the copper kicked in the door. I raised the gun…
…and felt a .40 inch fist punch me in the kneecap. The force knocked me down into the cat litter. Blood squirting. Me screaming like a bitch.
The bitch behind me screaming.
The Eagle fired and shot a hole in the wall next to the copper. The copper glanced at the hole, then walked across the clay (crunching beneath his boots) until he stood above me…pointing a pink Glock .40 S&W (of all fucking things) at my fucking head.
“Nice gun, faggot,” I said through gritted teeth. Laughed.
The copper only smirked. “You remember my face, scumbag,” he said. “You ever think about torturing some pretty doll again, I want you to know, I’m coming for you. And next time, I’ll finish the fucking job. I’ll rip off your fucking head and cum down your fucking throat. When you close your eyes at night, I want you to dream about this face. I want you to fear this face.”
“I have rights, you piece of shit.”
My finger tightened around the trigger and I aimed the Eagle—
BANG
Another .40 inch fist punched me, this time in the shoulder, knocking me back with god-like force.
I lay in the litter, staring at the bitch behind me tied to the chair, missing an arm, an eye. Her face looked like a botched abortion and she sobbed, red spittle dripping from her red lips.
“She had rights too,” the copper said. “But not anymore. Thanks to your kill-happy prick.”
“Fuck you, copper.”
He stepped over to where I was lying on my back…and I waited…waited for him to press the barrel of that faggot pink Glock against my forehead and fill the clay with my blood and grey matter.
He reached into his ass pocket, put on a leather glove (while aiming the faggot pink Glock), kneeled next to me, tugged the Eagle from my fingers with the gloved hand…and I waited…waited for him to press the barrel of that manly alpha male Desert Eagle .50AE against my forehead and fill the ground beneath this Kill Room with my blood and grey matter.
Instead, he stood up, pointed the Eagle at the girl (sobbing screaming crying) and blew the bitch’s fucking head off.
The manly-sized shell casing hit the litter floor, smoking, and the copper crunched across the clay in his boots, walking over me, toward the bullet-hole-ridden door…paused…and turned.
“See you in hell,” he said, then left.
…NOW
Robert
“You’re the fucking copper that shot me!”
“Should have remembered my face, asshole.”
My finger twitches across the trigger of the pink Glock and I fire through Alex.
BANG BANG BANG BANG
Alex Rodriguez (alpha male) is nothing but a corpse—with four gaping pussies bleeding from his chest, stomach, and forehead. Should have used a tampon you fucking bitch.
Jennifer cries. “Oh thank god.”
I shoot her in the breast. She flops back on the couch, a dead whore.
The animals enter the living room—filing in from the maze of hallways. Mascots from hell. Rat Head, Moose Head, Bunny Head, Bear Head, a fucking Fish (Bass?) I pull the .38 from the back of my pants (barrel scraping against denim) and aim both pistols forward, emptying the cylinder from the .38 and part of the cartridge from the .40 into the animal-heads of these sick fucks, and into their chests, just for good measure.
They collapse on top of each other in a pile; discarded Chucky Cheese employees.
Then…more of them. Rat Head, Clown, a Bunny, a Dog, a Cat. I empty the cartridge of the .40 and they hit the floorboards.
Then…another fucking Bunny (Jesus fucking Christ!), holding an idling chainsaw.
I point the empty .40 at him. “Stay away from me!”
The Bunny comes closer, chainsaw purring in its paws.
Then more of them, from the halls.
How many of these sick fucks are there?
A Rat Head, a Clown, a Dog, a Moose.
I move the barrel of the pink Glock back and forth, sweeping them.
The Bunny keeps moving closer, closer. Face unchanging; a frozen buck-tooth smile.
“Stay away from me!”
The Bunny halts.
“Shoot me.” That high-pitched voice again.
Sweat drips into my eyes, my heart punching my chest. Weak in the knees.
I don’t dare pull the trigger, for fear the empty clicking sound will set them off on a murdering frenzy…so I just stand there, gun pointed forward…and, oh god. I’m shaking.
The Bunny tilts its head to the side, like a confused cat. Then puts its paw over its mouth and giggles.
I hate that fucking giggle.
“You’re out of ammo, Robert,” it says. “Time to make your contribution to society…” Giggles. “As fertilizer!”
The Bunny squeezes the throttle: the motor farts (brraaap!) and the chain spins.
I drop the guns, put my hands up.
“Please, don’t! I surrender!”
Before I know it, that fucking creepy Clown is grabbing me from behind and holding me in place.
The Bunny thrusts the chainsaw at me and I flinch, squeeze my eyes shut. The spinning chain is so close I can feel it vibrating in my skull, my teeth.
I slowly open my eyes…the nose of the saw inches from the bridge of my nose, my vision split down the middle: on either side, the dead-eyed Bunny, holding the chainsaw, its buck-tooth grin yawning open.
I’m hyperventilating, going light headed, inhaling gas fumes, which burn the lining of my throat, the cilia in my lungs.
“It’s time for you to talk to Gramma Wilkins,” the Bunny says in its cutesy high-pitched voice, and kills the saw.
“Oh fuck.” I puke.
The animals gather around me, grab me by the arms, and pull me toward the kitchen; yellow bile dribbling from my lips, down the front of my shirt.
The Clown grabs Jennifer by the ankles and pulls her bleeding body into the maze of hallways, to god knows where.
Jennifer
When I come to, there’s a pounding red pain in my breast where I had the implant because us girls will do anything for more cash at PUSSY CATS. Sell our bodies, sell our souls—just for a bite to eat, a drop to drink. And because the ape-men like it; like fake body parts and empty pleasures. Simple creatures appeased by simple things. Rape-machines that get revved up at the sight of a fucking nipple resting atop silicone or a hint of shaven lip beneath a G-string.
A Clown…a sideshow circus freak…splattered in blood…dragging me by the ankles like some kinda goddam caveman…through the maze of halls…toward its rape room. Oh God, I’m still on the first floor, my long blonde hair spread out behind me as I’m pulled toward a wooden door…I think it’s the door that leads down into the…
Labyrinth.
I start screaming, my throat sore with it. I remember the time I swallowed so much cum I got strep throat. Worked so hard to feed my girls and my junk habit, then had to pay for a doctor’s visit and antibiotics. Despite my cravings for the junk, I bought the girls boxes of Mac n’ Cheese.
My muscles ached; nose running and skin sweating. Couldn’t stop shitting and vomiting. Couldn’t sleep. My veins begged for the junk, but I chose the girls’ lives over the desires of the flesh…something an ape-man would never do.
The Clown drags me down the stairs.
The muscles in my legs scream (like they did during the withdrawals) from being yanked, and my ankles burn in the grip of the Clown’s latex gloves.
The wooden risers bite and scrape my back as I’m pulled downward, into the bowels of this dark, damp hell hole, and I keep thinking so close so close so close but so close to what?
I was never going to escape.
It was all a lie.
A lie I told myself to make myself feel better, like the lie that Erica (Candy Cane) told us: that we were actually using the ape-men, the ape-men weren’t using us.
No
w she was dead; her vagina cut out, her breast lobbed off, her brains fired out of her skull by those damn dirty ape-men.
She had to learn the hard way: you can’t use an Abuser; “use” is their middle name.
Robert. Fucking Robert: just another damn dirty ape-man. Fucker shot me in the breast. As I slide down each riser, the pain radiates deeper into my chest; feels like I’m having a heart attack.
Robert. He did look familiar, but sometimes, you see people, and they look like people you’ve seen before, but you’re just not sure.
I should have recognized him, considering I’ve had his dick in my mouth. But I’ve had so many dicks in my mouth (Empowering!)
The back of my head hits the last riser, causing my incisors to crash together, and I cry, but the Clown (one of the abUSErs) does not care, and that’s the trademark of any abuser: they do not give a shit, about anything.
The Clown drags me through the dank labyrinth, down dark corridors, through black sewage and gravel (which rips my skin apart). I wonder if there’s hepatitis in the water; doesn’t matter. I already have C (from sharing needles; found out after trying to donate plasma to make extra money), and in 20 or 30 years my liver will be as hard as these concrete walls.
I puke, keep puking, then dry heaving. Green bile. I swallow and choke on it. Gagging, coughing; my lungs on fire. My stomach empty and going into spasms, trying to bring up anything, causing my abdomen to cramp (just like the withdrawals).
The Clown drags me into a concrete box…in the center, a wooden chair with leather restraints for the wrists and ankles.
Jesus.
Along the wall (like tools hanging in some ape-man’s garage): chainsaw, axe, sledgehammer, weed wacker, nail gun, drill, Taser.
Oh Jesus Christ.
I shit and piss myself and lose all hope and cry.
The Clown drops my sore, throbbing ankles onto the cold concrete then grabs a handful of my long blonde hair in its rubber glove and yanks me onto my feet.
I scream. It fills the square room. So loud I swear it can be heard on the moon.
If there are any ape-men out there that can hear it (a woman’s scream), you can be sure they quickly ignore it.
The Clown (wearing that awful latex mask: white face, blue eye shadow, red lips, empty black eyes) pushes me into the chair and restrains my ankles and wrists. He/she/it (most likely an ape-man, due to its taste for extreme violence) pulls the restraints tight as he can, so that they bite into my skin.
I bite my tongue, drawing blood, and spit into his eyes.
The Clown flinches (a little).
“Better get tested in three months,” I tell him. “I got Hep C, you fucking ape-man piece of shit!”
The Clown seems unfazed and starts to whistle “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” as he ganders at the torture instruments lined up along the cinderblock wall.
I just want it to be quick…but I know it won’t be.
I wish I’d die of a heart attack. Right now.
Die of fear.
Is that possible?
I see the Clown select a…what the fuck is that?
And as my mind puts the pieces together, I think, yes, it most definitely is possible to die of fear.
The Clown is holding a steel strap-on with a pointy knife head. (Think I saw this in a Brad Pitt movie once.)
My skin tries to crawl off my bones as I shriek.
The Clown sets the steel dildo on the floor with a hollow clang, then reaches above my head and tugs a string, which switches on a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. After this, the Clown saunters over to the rusty door and slams it closed (because it wants privacy?) The sound is like trains clashing together; it reverberates off the walls and in my skull—a hive of vibrating, buzzing bees.
Then, the rusted bolt slides home.
Thwock!
Trapped. In this room…with that thing.
This fucking ape-man piece of sh—
The Clown’s big latex fingers begin to undo the pom-pom buttons on his baggy, multi-colored (red, yellow, blue, and green) one-piece suit. He rips away the ruffled collar, revealing the neck of the latex mask. Tears the suit open…
What the fuck?
The Clown’s one-piece slides down his slender shoulders, revealing breasts and a patchy vulva.
Fuck me.
It’s a she-ape.
Fucking cunt.
At first, I think it’s in my head…then I realize the words are bouncing off the cinderblock walls: “FUCKING CUNT!”
The She-Ape removes her big clown shoes, then attaches the strap-on to her waist and strokes the steel shaft, purposefully slicing her hand on the blade-head and laughing behind her latex mask.
I scream, my throat scratchy and raw, and try to say, “Leave me the fuck alone, you she-ape cunt!” but the words won’t come out.
The She-Ape plants her bare feet on the wooden chair, on either side of my outer thighs, her ass sticking out into the room as she lowers the steel cock toward my mouth. I clamp my lips shut (the way I did when my brothers tried to push it in; but they pinched my nose, and when I gasped for breath—). The She-Ape cuts my lips with the blade and when I cry out, slides the cold steel into my mouth and throat.
The She-Ape humps. Hard.
I see a piercing white ligh—
Robert
The linoleum in the kitchen is yellow and peeling. Smiley faces stare at me from pink wallpaper, which is also peeling.
The Bunny forces me into a chair at the kitchen table. Sitting across from me is Gramma Wilkins, who looks older than time itself. Her face is a sea of wrinkles that bunch together whenever a facial expression presents itself; looks like a fucking bulldog. Her eyes were blue once, but now they’re milky white (cataracts?) Liver spots dance across her boney arms like freckles on a ginger kid.
She stares at me with those glassy eyes—which appear to be hanging for dear life to her skull’s hollow sockets. Next to her is a small globe; not colorful like the ones you see in a kid’s classroom, but tan and brown. Tan waters and brown lands. Ugly fucking thing.
She spins it with her boney fingers and the seven shit-colored continents blur against the tan seas.
“The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light; the stars will fall from the sky, and the heavenly bodies will be shaken…there will be great distress, unequaled from the beginning of the world until now—and never to be equaled again. If those days had not been cut short, no one would survive, but for the sake of the elect those days will be shortened. People will die of fright in anticipation of what is coming upon the world. And then they will see the Son of Man coming in a cloud with power and great glory…when these signs begin to happen, stand erect and raise your heads because your redemption is at hand.”
“I thought you’d be dead by now,” is my reply.
“Do you believe in the Lord Jesus?” Gramma Wilkins says, ignoring me.
“I don’t believe in anything.”
Gramma Wilkins takes a sip of tea with a shaky hand.
“I highly doubt that,” she says, setting the china back down; it rattles against the saucer. “Everyone believes in something. For instance, don’t you agree that there are those who need to be punished in order to be put upon a straight and narrow path? Children, for example, are spanked, put in pain…why can’t the same be done to adult sinners?”
“Sinners contribute to society.”
“And what is it that you contribute to this…society?”
“I'm a cop. I keep this cesspit society clean.”
Gramma Wilkins laughs (weakly). Coughs up phlegm into a wrinkled palm. Then sips more tea.
“Oh, Robert, but you yourself contribute to this…cesspit. You’re weak and stupid.”
Silence.
“Have you learned any lessons, Robert?”
“I guess. If I had known you were going to torture me, I would have never cheated on my wife.”
“Well, good,” Gramma Wilkins says, then bites into a p
iece of toast with her big blocky dentures. “You learned something.”
“Can I go now?”
“That’s what the Hell House is for. Learning lessons. Discipline. You’re tortured for your sin, and you become good.”
“Or you die,” I say.
The Bunny, behind the kitchen counter, digging through a drawer (I don’t like the sound of that clanging): “Many die, many die.”
Gramma Wilkins takes another bite of toast…her dentures fall out. A pair of teeth, slathered in saliva, sitting on the table with a piece of burnt bread squeezed between the incisors. Wilkin’s empty maw simply laughs, tongue flapping between bleeding gums.
“Some die,” she says. “Some have to die.”
“So have I learned my lesson?”
“Do you know the difference between right and wrong?”
“I don’t know. Those are very abstract ideas.”
“Do you even believe in right and wrong?”
“Killing is wrong, sex is wrong, drugging is wrong. Do I win?”
Gramma Wilkins giggles, shaking her head, and then picks up her dentures and drops them in her cup of tea.
Splash.
“It’s a shame so many had to die for you, Robert. So many had to be put on display. Yet, you still fail to learn your lesson.”
“What was it I was supposed to learn exactly?”
“You’re in hell with these sinners because you’re no better than them. Whores, killers, blasphemers, thieves, liars, and spics.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a controlling bitch.”
“I’m not controlling anything, Robert,” she says, a tinge of anger in her voice (good!) “I’m trying to send a message.”
“You should be happy with what I’ve done with my life. I’m taking control and being a man. I’m the violent, ignorant sociopath you always wanted me to be.”
“I’m not angry about the killing, Robert. God tells us to kill. But you’re being a whore. Letting those harlots tempt you and take you away from your wife.”
“Have you been spying on me? Did you seriously have me kidnapped and locked up in your fucking torture chamber to teach me a lesson? This is insane! I’m not a child anymore, Gramma. I’m a grown ass man!”
