A little creepy, disturbed, dark taste of
*Don’t Be a Cunt (The Only Rule to Follow)*
What a piece of shit world we live in, when one has to pay to wake up. Taxed from the moment you switch on a light because it’s stupid o’clock in the fucking morning, it’s still dark outside and will be for at least another hour and a half, and you have to stumble around like a zombie to get ready for work.
Work…what the fuck is that about anyway? I’ll tell ya. It’s about draggin’ your arse outta bed five days a week, goin’ to a place you hate bein’ at and slavin’ your guts out for eight hours a day to make some fat, greedy cunt rich off the sweat of your labours. And that’s not even the worst part. Two days out of those five, you do all of this for free! That’s right, fucking free! There’s that dreaded ‘T’ word again. That’s the percentage of your time and hard earned pittance goin’ to the Taxman. Never thought about that, did ya? No, because all you can think about is makin’ it to your next paycheck without snappin’ and smashin’ the boss’s smug face through his mahogany desk. Isn’t that just enough to make you say, ‘fuck this shit, I’m gonna start killin’ cunts if this continues much longer’?
(Excerpt from my story in ‘FUCK THE RULES’)
So now I have a dead body on my hands – another one; bloody hell, and it looks like it’s about to become two. It couldn’t have happened at a more inopportune moment, but this one asked for it. They all ask for it. Do you have any idea how insulting it is to be told you’re just not right in the head? All I’m tryin’ to do is help people and this is the kind of thanks I get? Geez, the nerve of some people.
They always seem nice enough to start with, y’know, when I first turn up on their doorstep, toolbox in hand, and we exchange those initial, essential pleasantries. It’s all part of the job and I don’t really care how their day might be goin’. Hell, I know they don’t really care how my day is goin’ – just empty, petty pleasantries to get me in the door and to wherever the problem is that needs fixin’.
~excerpt from my story, ‘PETTY PLEASANTRIES’ in this little book of psychos…
(Excerpt) THE SANITARIUM HUMANITARIAN
Dr. Francis Mandrake licked his fingers clean after a very satisfying meal. His dinner guest for the evening didn’t have much to say because he had no tongue. He also had only one cheek, a skeletal left arm from the elbow down to the wrist, no big toes and only a right buttock, but he seemed to be in good spirits.
Dr. Mandrake had graciously supplied his guest, Jamie Nardell, with a generous dosage of Novacaine, followed up with a continuous flow of Nitrous Oxide to keep the smile on his half face. The delirious fellow couldn’t stop giggling at his fleshless forearm, tightly bound with a tourniquet above the elbow, while the whole time, the good doctor cooked and dined on his body parts.
The pain suddenly intensified as he felt fingers dig between his third and fourth ribs and curl under. He wanted to scream, to thrash about; he wanted to throw her from him to the hard stone floor but he couldn’t. All he could do was lay, completely immobilized, and somehow endure the severe torture being inflicted upon him.
He heard it a split second before feeling it; a deafening crack as the sadistic nurse snapped his rib and pulled it back, perpendicular so it was pointing straight up towards the ceiling. The pain flooded in a millisecond later as she immediately went for the next rib. The words echoed in his mind…all too true, ‘no mercy from Nursey’.
As the second rib snapped open, and then the third, Doctor Muller wished he could at least pass out – anything to escape the horror – but the toxin wouldn’t allow it. Everything was heightened, including his conscious awareness. Nurse Emilie continued to taunt him as she opened him up, rib by rib.
~ Excerpt from my story ‘THE SADISTIC NURSE EMILIE’
Walking through the busy carpark towards my car at around three PM on a Saturday, a panic erupted inside the store. Aside from the screaming, the sounds coming out of the shopfront are kind of hard to describe. Not explosions exactly, though I guess that’s what they were on a minor scale. More like the sound of a pile of gas soaked timber when you throw a match on it, mixed with a sickening splatter sound. Once the initial sound issued, it just continued to escalate, a staccato succession of bizarre eruptions that accompanied the yells of surprise and screams of panic and terror.
~Excerpt from my story, ‘QUAD’
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