1: Beautification
As I’m standing here, naked in front of the mirror, the knife in my hand, tears streaking my ugly, lip-less face, and an idiotic erection pointing out at nothing, the events that led me here flash through my head.
It’s just like the story that therapist at Harbor View told us, about the Chinese farmer who’s horse runs away. Typical, banal Zen-bullshit parable about the transience of forms, but the point of it is that no event can be considered truly good or bad, as it is impossible to tell what the series of consequences it sets in motion will eventually lead to.
I guess that has some truth to it. For instance, how was I to know in a million years that meeting Camille would lead me to severing my own genitals with a kitchen knife?

The whole unfortunate series of events started with the mistake of cutting too deep. Self-mutilation is a passion that requires acute attention to detail. First of all, one cannot allow oneself to get too carried away. One must work only on the parts of the body that can be concealed by everyday clothing, or the many blood-soaked bandages that conceal the improvements might raise questions.
I’m not a fool; I know what people would say.

My name doesn’t matter. I work in a small public administration office downtown, but where it is, and exactly what I do there, is inconsequential to this story.
For all concerns, I could be anyone, anywhere.
I have a colleague there, at the office, a morbidly obese and appallingly servile man-boy who escapes from the tedium of his life into online computer games. He tells me about his ”adventures”, even though they are of no interest to me, but that’s how I know.
I don’t think he’s ever slept with a woman. I guess, maybe in that sense we are brothers in emasculation.

It is important for me to stress that I am not a sick or an evil man. I’m nothing like Sagawa or Meiwes, and I would never dream of hurting anyone. This is a purely personal project, an ongoing duel with this my most intimate enemy, my body.
The duels are fought in front of my bedroom mirror, standing on a few spreads of old newspapers, a razor in my hand. I twist, turn and tweeze, trying to decide what is most aesthetically pleasing, while my body taunts me with its angles, its jellyrolls, and the ugly little hairs like spider legs sticking out of its pale skin.
I snip off bits here and there and eat them.
It’s not like the taste appeals to me, nor that the idea of autosarcophagy turns me on or anything like that, but the little pieces of myself simply strike me as so appalling that I’m compelled to get rid of them, to remove them, utterly and completely, from my sight forever. That’s why I always eat the small lumps of flesh and fat raw, kneeling naked on the blood-soaked newspapers. The idea of preparing them seems not only appalling, but also horribly affected.
I had been working on my left thigh for some time, planning away more and more so that it’s overall shape was gradually changing, like a piece of wood, when I had the bad fortune of striking an, apparently, important artery.
I quickly realized I was losing too much blood, much too fast. I started feeling dizzy, and as consciousness began to fade, I called an ambulance. I collapsed on the floor in a pool of my own thick, dark blood, and as the darkness swallowed me, I could hear the sirens approaching.
That led me to be committed to Harbor View Mental Institution where I met Camille.

2: Ambition
Our eyes meet across the circle we form for process group. The therapist, a man my own age, with a little fat knob of a head, is talking about setting goals and achieving them. Meanwhile, I can feel Camille’s eyes ransacking my face, not in a judging manner, but with a voracious curiosity, her green eyes nibbling away at me, like tiny jungle fish tasting an animal that has lain in the water for a long time.
While the therapist talks about addressing our issues in an orderly fashion, I too explore Camille’s face, mapping her delicate features, her pale, pale skin, and the tiny freckles abounding across it.
“It can be hard to pinpoint specific issues because multiple issues probably exist,” the therapist drones.
I am not sick. I don’t belong here. I have to get out.
I have always been dissatisfied with my shape, feeling that God must indeed be a very poor sculptor. Even as a young boy I was uncomprehending as my peers laughed and jostled in the shower after phys ed, their small pre-pubescent penises flapping like naked slugs. Were they not as ashamed as I was?
On my 30th birthday, a time when my body struck as me particularly pale, soft and sagging, I became so obsessed with a certain curvature formed by excess fat on my left hip, that I was unable to sleep until I had removed it with a kitchen knife.
I say removed, making it sound sterile and efficient, but in reality it was a messy and arduous affair. Luckily I performed the operation in the bathroom, where it was easy to wash away all the blood afterwards.
The taste wasn’t bad as such, but the little piece of myself was hard to chew, slimy and fibrous, and I almost choked when I swallowed it.
That was how I set upon eating myself into shape.

My commitment to Harbor View has put a regrettable stop to my beautification project.
“Maybe you feel like you’re not in charge of your own lives,” the counselor says.
Yeah no shit, I think. I’m locked in here, forced to listen to you.
I need to get out. The constant presence of the staff and the lunatics, the endless talks with therapists and counselors, the medicine that dulls me more and more for every day, it all eats away at my patience, and my fingers ache to pick up the knife again.
When I awake in the mornings I see the whole day spread out before me, but not the day as lived, only as thought, and in its contemplated state, every day is a weary, endless series of repeated movements and actions, all equally unsatisfying. Before I make it to the bathroom it seems my thoughts have already been there and moved on, leaving me to chase after them, trying to catch up with them for the remainder of the day.
I feel a scream building inside me. At night, it escapes my throat in stifled yelps and moans.
If only the lines traced in my mind by my anger, my sadness and my frustration, could converge, could become a focus point and burn a hole in these damned, white walls.

Camille is bipolar and used to be a drug addict, she confides one night during group.
Again, the counselor talks about goals,”Even simple ones, like finishing a book you’re reading,” he says solemnly.
In my head I laugh at him. I have my goal already.

That evening, after process group, I’m sitting by myself on a couch in the common room, biting little chips of hardened skin off my fingertips, when Camille comes up to me.
“They say cannibalism is the ultimate taboo,” she says, and nestles up close to me.
Her breath caresses the inside of my ear as she leans in close and whispers: ”I think it’s sexy.”
I’m not used to intimacy, but it is not an all-together unpleasant sensation. I look up at her.
“I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t a little ashamed of themselves,” she says. Suddenly she wrinkles her nose like a little girl and pulls away.
“I don’t see how you can do it, though. It must be so disgusting… with the blood, and the- ” she looks down and shakes her head. Then she looks up at me, as if suddenly realizing something,
“You’re Ouroboros,” she says.
Who, I ask.
“I’ll show you a picture,” she replies. ”One day. When we get out of here.”
Then she leans forward and kisses me furtively on the cheek.

Three nights later Camille and I manage to have sex in secret, like a couple of teenagers, while everyone else is eating dinner in the common room.
I have always found the idea of sex disgusting, but when Camille pulls down my zipper, she says: “Man was originally a round creature with four arms, four legs, and one head with two faces. It was a punishment of the gods that we were split into male and female.”
Camille is a clever girl.
“The word sex comes from the Latin word ‘secare’, which means to divide. To cut off,” she says as she rubs my hard shaft.
“We long to be reunited, to be made whole, and thereby dissolve.”
Still, I’m so nervous my legs are trembling when she climbs on top of me, and my hardness penetrates her softness. Her skin is cold in the little white room, but inside she is so warm, and I allow myself to be made whole, and for a moment, dissolve.
Afterwards Camille cries. She can’t, or won’t tell me why.

We hatch a plan to escape together. Camille wants to support me in my project, and seems as eager as I am to get out of Harbor View. She hates the ECT treatments they subject her to, and I can’t blame her.
Our biggest obstacle is an old, red brick wall surrounding the institution on all sides. The gate is always locked and requires a little magnetized chip that only the staff is allowed.
One evening Camille rolls off me and tells me the janitor keeps a ladder in the depot. When she tells me he always has the key on him, and that he is a real pig, the proud, defiant feeling I have after the sex, turns sour immediately.
I try to come up with another way, but Camille shakes her head, and seeing how much it bothers me, rushes to plant a kiss on my lips and promise she’ll be thinking of me.
As a mental patient you don’t have any dignity, and we will do what we have to escape.

When the day comes, it is absolute torture for me. Camille has slipped downstairs during the commotion that arises around the time for night meds, when everyone scrambles to get in line for the little red, white and blue highlights of the day.
I am left to wait, choking down my anxiety so as not to make the warden suspect anything. I bite my lips, fumble with my hands. No matter where I put them they seem to be in the way. I absent mindedly wonder if maybe I’d be better off without them, or maybe, at least, with just one of them?
Suddenly Camille appears around the corner and struts urgently through the room towards me. The warden doesn’t notice that she gives my hand a stolen squeeze, and whispers in my ear that she’s got the key. Relief washes over me. Now we just have to hurry.
As we run across the yard, the dew soaking our soft shoes, I realize I’ve fallen in love with this pale-skinned, green-eyed woman.
We cross the wall and leave Harbor View, never to return.

The next couple of days seem even stranger than the time at Harbor View, and in contrast, tumultuous and chaotic.
Camille has friends that squat in abandoned buildings in the slum, and they let us hide among them until one of them, a skinny white boy with unclean skin and red eyes, who insists on constantly speaking in Ebonics, gets us set up in a small low-rise apartment, no questions asked, crumpled dollar bills from a savings account furtively changing hands.
We start a new life.
The apartment is unpalatable. There are children peddling drugs in the yard in broad daylight, and not a night without gunshots, but we have each other, and for the first time in my life I feel something that I guess must be happiness, or at least a new kind of placid contentment.
For a long time it doesn’t even occur to me that this hole is exactly where Camille wants to be. That it’s close to where she lived before she was committed to Harbor View. I’m too blinded by my love for her, and by the unbridled sense of liberation I feel coursing through me at the prospect of resuming my project.
On our first excursion downtown Camille buys a green dress that matches her eyes in a second-hand shop. I buy an electric knife in Home Depot.
Back in the apartment that evening my heart is racing as I undertake my most ambitious project yet. Since the night we escaped from Harbor View, I haven’t been able to shake the growing annoyance with my hands. The symmetry of them bothers me, and no matter how I arrange them, I can’t help but feel like they’re somehow in the way.
I tie a ligature around my left wrist, tight to cut off the blood circulation, and then watch as my hand turns purple and bloated, and all feeling recedes from it. When I lower the buzzing blade of the electrical knife towards it, I have already stopped seeing it as a part of myself – it is something alien and arthropod, a profoundly disgusting creature. The pain is a flower the color of bruises and fireworks that blooms in my head, as the blade saws through flesh and bone, irascibly spattering blood across the kitchen walls.
The shock to my body is too much. When the last tendon is severed and snaps like a rubber band, and the kitchen filled with the smell of flesh and bone scorched from friction, I feel the familiar tugging of the darkness at the corners of my eyes. The floor comes up to meet me, and from a million miles away I feel my skull bounce against the tiles, all numb and slow-motion like.

When I come to, I’m lying on the mattress that we use for a bed. It is dark outside, with the noises a sleepless city makes; sirens, gunshots, someone laughing menacingly somewhere. I feel cold, and can’t stop shaking, even though Camille has covered me with several blankets.
She is kneeling beside me on the floor, almost as if in prayer, but with an expectant expression on her face, obviously eager to show me something that’s resting in her lap.
There is a dull, pounding sensation in the stump of my arm, and a strange, not entirely unpleasant smell in the air. I raise the stump up to my eyes. Camille has wrapped it up neatly in roll bandages fixed with duct tape. It hurts, but the pain is distant, like a sunset.
Without speaking, and without the buoyant smile leaving her lips, Camille holds a plate up to my eyes.
It takes me a few moments to recognize the articulated, spider-like thing the color of marzipan, arranged neatly on a bed of frilled lettuce leaves and tomato wedges.
“I made this for you,” Camille says and smiles.
We eat in silence, but it is a good silence, sitting on the floor of our crummy apartment, with cheap candles and cheaper wine.
I have been too rigid in my principles, I think. There is nothing wrong with cooking the parts.

3: Dissolution
So how did I get from there, the picture of an idyllic relationship, to, here, alone in front of the mirror, a ruin of a man?
Of course it couldn’t last. Remember the tale of the Chinese farmer I mentioned in the beginning? Well, there you go.
I have severed my lips in frustration. I always felt they were too wet and meaty anyway. I snipped them off with a pair of big paper scissors, so where once Camille placed her kisses, is now a funeral in red, a grinning, crimson mess. I can feel my gums starting to sting as they dry out around my exposed tooth necks.

One day I came home from a trip to the drugstore to buy painkillers, and found Camille passed out in our bed, a needle in her arm.
I shook her awake and yelled at her:
“Was that it? Was that why you were so eager to get out of Harbor View? Was that the real reason?”
She cried, said no and shook her head furiously. She said she loved me. I never used you, she said
I asked her why.
“I need it,” Camille cried. ”I need it to escape. It’s the only thing that makes it quiet in here,” She started beating her fists against her temples.
“There’s so much noise in there, all the time.”
That was when it dawned on me. The sex was not enough to make Camille feel whole anymore, to make her dissolve. That was why the needle had become her lover instead of me.
But who would I have been to judge her? It occurred to me that you can never judge anyone in your own optic, and so I forgave her. I forgave her and forgave and forgave her till I didn’t know which way was up anymore.
I never got to see her wear the green dress she’d bought. It languished at the bottom of the closet, among dust bunnies and dried up puddles of rat piss.
Plato 0, heroin 1.
Sadness and frustration took turns ruling my days from then on, as Camille slipped further and further away from me.
I became jealous that she preferred to retreat to that mysterious world behind her eyelids, preferred it to being here, with me, and so when I came home and found her high again a few days later, we fought, and I shouted, and she cried, and I forgave her, and the whole hellish story soon repeated itself, like an endless, indissoluble knot.
And still I forgave her, even when we started running out of money and I knew she’d started sleeping with her dealer. I think I had severed myself from all emotion at that point. There was only a slow, dull fire that still burned inside me, as I watched her become a stranger, and slip away to whatever desensitized bliss the needle promised.
In the end it wasn’t the drugs that killed her. I will probably never know exactly what made her jump; maybe the answer lies buried somewhere in the past, because after all, what are we, but bundles of damages walking around? Perhaps the ups and downs got to be too much for her. Perhaps she couldn’t think of any other way to quiet the noise in her head. Perhaps the world the heroin offered became so sweet that she couldn’t bear having to go back to one more day in the real world.
All I know is that all things inevitably move towards their end.

My body has indeed become my enemy, now more than ever. My brain haunts me with images of Camille, with sounds and smells that set the memories ablaze again and again. It is as if she has poisoned that big, gray lump of fat in my head against me. My penis as well, it fills with blood and rises involuntarily.
Everything betrays me. With Camille gone I find myself more disgusting and in the way than ever before.
My perception has become fragmented. I no longer remember when or what I eat. I can’t tell the days apart. Even the pain has lost its edge, its reality. But enough talk – I’m getting near the end, and it’s time to get to work. There is really only one thing left to do.
I can’t be sure that I’ll survive the next amputation, and I wonder why I never realized, that from the moment I laid down the very first incision, there was only really one way that this could end. Without realizing it, all along I was working towards cessation. I think I’m finally beginning to understand how everyone needs some way of becoming nothing. How it is our deepest, most secret longing. How it was all about that, about dancing right up close to the edge. To be united, to dissolve, to become nothing. And was there ever really any other way? After all, if I didn’t constantly work to improve myself, then where would I be?
I eat because I can’t allow myself not to. Not ‘I eat therefor I am’, but rather ‘I am, therefor I eat’. I think Camille would have liked that one.
The more I look at myself in the mirror, the more seems to be wrong with the image I see reflected back at me.
Soon I will make the next cut, and it will be my most ambitious one yet.

By Lars Kramhøft
http://raresightings.blogspot.dk

Geez the cheese.
The cheese is rancid. A thick and bloated puddle of liquid, like clear puss, brownish and yellow, surrounds the slick brick of dairy like a moat.
The plate underneath is cold and sweaty to the touch. The stench from this decaying island and the hemisphere it comes from hits my nose like a stiff left jab.
It’s as though everything died in here.
All of the food in my refrigerator is rotted. The fruits are shriveled, the vegetables are slimy and brown while the meat is green and fuzzy white. The cartons of milk and juice are twisted,bloated and deformed, looking as if they are about to explode.
There are finger prints scattered all about along with three palm prints. All are distinct and vivid; all are on the walls and the racks yet none of the packages, jars or plates are so marked.
At first I thought it might be mud or grime. At first I thought it might be the product of my lazy hygiene. But on closer examination, the examination of rubbed eyes and leaning into the chilling crate itself, I can clearly see it is blood. To that there is no mistake. It is clearly blood; bright and crimson colored and well defined, without drips or runs.
It is blotted blood, stamped blood, and the blood is not mine.
I live alone with few friends, most of them online. While I may have only fallen asleep in front of the television for just a few minutes, the last time I was in my fridge was about twenty minutes ago to grab a beer. At that time everything was fresh and clean swathed only in the aroma of fresh box of baking soda.
Having lost my appetite I back away and begin to dart my gaze about the room. The paint on the walls, as well as the hue of my cabinets and chairs and table are spotless. The stench of rot does not follow me. The fragrance of decomposition is only in front of me, only when I lean into the refrigerator and the blood and decay.
I am more puzzled than scared.
Everything in the refrigerator is dead and I don’t know why.
Shuffling out of the room and back to my chair bathed in the light of television, I see onscreen the face and form of a delectable young and slender brunette who seems somewhat familiar. While she is so pleasing to my eyes, my mind still wanders and I cannot get over the amount of blood placed in my refrigerator seemingly as a sign or a warning.
And there it is. Do you hear it? Scratching and rustling sounds now surround the room. I always watch television muted because I can’t stand the human voice; it being so shrill and inane.
I can hear the scratches and rustling, clear and unmistakable.
Being a farm boy from way back I know it is too large for a rat or even a raccoon. The scratching and rustling seems to be everywhere and nowhere, but loud enough to be there and I theorize if it is all connected to the rot and blood.
The light switch clicks but the power won’t show. The switch is sticky to the touch and the residue transferred to my fingertips tastes sweet on the end of my tongue.
I know the taste.
The girl on the television is gone. She is replaced first by a phone number to call and then by a snowy picture whose light makes the blood on the switch and the walls glow.
Finger prints and hand prints much like those in the refrigerator cover all four walls in an erratic almost frenetic pattern.
“Everything is dead.” The whisper is harsh and curt.
I know that voice.
“Everything is dead including me.”
Yes I know that voice just as I do the girl on television.
“It took me some time to find my way out.” It is the voice of the girl on the television. It is the voice of the girl from my freezer.
I know it’s her voice once you strip away the volume of her screams and sobs.
“Everything is dead including me.”
I know she’s right, as I can feel her breath on the back of my neck.

By Joseph J. Patchen
josephjpatchen.weebly.com

her gasp of “ohhh fuuuck!”,
we screamed.
a finale. describe me.
because we were so caught up in going away.
we discussed almost hallucinations…did she kill flesh?,
she allows the guests to appear in sexy illustrations
lives in luxury, days slowing fading
silent in her home

it hit her mind with the first thing she filmed
(virtually uninhabitable)
situations where the tests have proven.
a fragmentation woman rising
she is ready
pushes him away
the real psychosexual researcher was murdered
(over there behind the tree in the backyard)

it’s a haven for the beautiful,
the sexy, horny young couples
that never see us
great pain, to a memory
a hell to break loose
you might not appreciate the killer
and the sexually weird
like the torso of previous books unread

she spoke of documented temperatures
just a short walk into the kitchen
to prepare some poisonous bombs,
a point of reference
it was just a matter of being always on
in a room, she watched and tasted lips
and began to massage a smoking clit whilst the mouth spoke
as it burned the sound became louder and louder.

it was just a matter of being always on
your knees facing me, chemical energy.
detonation is a tongue that licks with fragmentation.
each looking to corrupt god’s children
as they lay splayed amidst the atoms
she was no longer a fan of the “thunder-crash bombs”
the one bomb which sucked in energy rapidly, a certain blasting cap
fragmentation is her mouth, just as this rule has been

jammed wondering what it would be like outside,
on the lunchtime-crowded streets
she worked it brilliantly
this would be doing exactly the same thing
licked atomic bombs
a release energy in the maid’s outfit that would be suitable
she licked appeared to contradict her moral righteousness
hydrogen stroke. she then continued

she slept she posed she modeled
she re-built the torture machine. loved watching.

a drummer lay down 4/4 time

ready to meet the other wives,
reached your fusion of the light
black fishnet, hold up stockings.
your eyes. your eyes which rely on the mollusk shells
for warmth and depth

a vehicle driven to massage
the inside turn placed her hands on a sound
being royally pounded by the blast source.
very limited ferocious accuracy and speed

a drummer lay down 4/4 time

moving harder and kissing you passionately, sipping atom splits
bikini beaches typically occur to play
with the naked cheeks in her hands

beaches typically occur based on the theory of
a surge of warm warm moisture over her confusion
lips scoured heels, her dress was raised up
to suck for pain and pleasure.
getting admired how your face just looked just a second ago
before stooping slightly
before your beck gently bent toward the moonlight
your eyes searching, but before she could make sensual liquids

she had rubbed them off, allowing horse-drawn detonations
the students went to church yesterday
and she found that today she was going to be naked,
watching who will be expected to serve
it burned to keep a standard explosive in the playroom
it was undeclared, undeveloped,
to be considered a grave that
employs a process to fuck her

she hated wholesome clean america
as she went about trying to be watched

she filmed his own wife, and screamed louder…

my fingers
she filmed his own wife, and screamed louder…

your hands
she filmed his own wife, and screamed louder…

we ran down everyone

By Peter Marra
http://www.angelferox.com

Fifty years in the future…

…a rat comes out of a hole in the corner and runs across the cold concrete floor. It stops. Alan Peterson is glad to see it. He hasn’t seen the rat for a while. To him the rat means companionship. It means it’s still alive.

It means that he’s still alive.

“Where ya been?” he asks the rat, but the rat doesn’t answer. Not this time. No, instead it stands up on its hind feet and studies the man with the gray, scraggly beard.

“What’s the matter?” Alan asks. “Cat got your tongue?”

At first he doesn’t realize the little joke he’s made, but when he does he can’t help not to laugh. At least he can still laugh. Laughter is good. Especially in this dungeon or whatever it is that he’s been locked in for…how many weeks has it been? Months? He isn’t sure. All he knows is that it’s been a long time, and with no windows to see the light of day or the dark of night, there’s no way to tell anymore.

Except for the small grate in the middle of the floor that serves as his toilet, there is nothing else in this cell. No sink, no cot, no blanket. Nothing at all. He doesn’t need a blanket, anyway. The room stays the same temperature all the time.

Alan thinks about why he is here, wherever ‘here’ is. He honestly doesn’t know. Every two or three days when one of those men bring him some scraps of food and a small bottle of water and push them through the small hole at the bottom of the door, Alan asks, “Why am I here? What have I done?” But there is never an answer. Just silence.

Silence was alright. For a while, anyway. It was peaceful at first. But after a while it was maddening. After the first week? month? he found himself talking to himself more and more, and sometimes the rat talks back. Sometimes the rat tells him that he belongs here. Maybe the rat is right.

Alan doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he wants to know.

Lately he’s started making animals to pass the time. Usually they’re just rabbits, but every so often he makes a dog or a snake, and if the mood strikes him right he makes an elephant, some even with tusks. Elephants are cool. The elephants talk, but not the rabbits or dogs or snakes. Just the elephants.

And the rat.

Before he learned to make animals, Alan would walk around the small chamber, counting each step and calling it out loud. The most he ever counted in one day? night? was twenty-four thousand, six hundred and fourteen. Thirteen miles, he figured. Not bad for an old man.

Fourteen hundred and twelve gray bricks make up this small room, except for the one in the corner that’s broken. That one is the rat’s own little ‘home’.

And there were six hundred and seventy three hairs on his left arm.

Before he pulled them all out.

He did a lot of counting. Sometimes he counted backwards. Sometimes he counted odds and evens, and once he tried to count just prime numbers, but that didn’t last very long.

One day? night? about a week? ago, the little light bulb in the ten foot high ceiling went out. It never went out. It was on twenty four/seven. Two men immediately rushed into the room, one with a flashlight, the other carrying a stepladder. One of them changed the bulb while the other one told him to stand in the corner and not look at them. The man said he had a gun, and if he tried to look, he would shoot him in the the head. Alan didn’t look, and after a couple of minutes they left.

Sometimes Alan wishes he would have looked.

God, he wished he would have looked.

Last night? day? he had a dream. He was a hundred-no-a thousand feet up in the sky, looking down at this place, wherever it is, whatever it is, and he was soaring along on the currents of a light breeze, floating in and out of the clouds, free as a bird, free to go where he wanted, whenever he wanted.

Free.

Free as a bird.

~

“Hey, Randy.”

“What?”

“Come check this out.”

Randy walks over to Paul’s station and looks at the monitor. “Is Peterson making his shadows again?”

“Yeah. I think he’s trying to make a bird this time. See how he’s using both of his hands? See there? See the wings and how he’s making it fly?”

Randy shakes his head. “The guy’s nuts. I wonder if he thinks he’s flying out of there,” he says with a chuckle.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Paul answers. “Hey. Wanna have some fun? Let’s turn the light out for a few days and see how he does.”

“You’re cruel, man. Cruel.” Randy reaches in his shirt pocket, fishes out a pack of cigarettes, and lights one up. “Yeah, go ahead,” he says. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

Paul pushes a button on his console and swivels around in his chair to face his partner. “You gotta give the guy credit, though,” he says. “He’s lasted longer than anyone else has.”

Two days later the screams stop.

By Angus

Whiskers singed from a mouse encounter; up from the bowls; returned to flout her.

Tiny morsel refused his debt from a feline end on a streamed claw set.

Into the cupboard and followed the pipe; green eyes hunt with a phantom’s sight.

Twist and turns from the skirting neck, beneath the boards and along the deck.

Tails low, they crawl at leave, in a tightened space where they hardly breathe.

Scurrying on, darkened sprite, that copper springs sang through the night.

Cornered, twitcher turns to glance with a devil’s burn for a Hell’s romance,

And faces, sharpened, pointed teeth of a pincer’s tear as incisor grief.

Nose sniffs between the cracks, paws push through crevice; aloof the rats.

Senses find all’s not as first seen: A purr-gatory of a life in-between.

Deadly game, a fleeting of the fur, that instincts dance yet won’t deter.

A place now switched, the roles reversed, shows demon mouse, its coat to burst.

Larger grew the prey once sought, a vengeance asked that darkness brought.

Killer flew with upward bound, the beast behind now of scuttled sound,

Tried to take lives eight and nine, to recompense cut short spent time.

But no matter what the plan exposed, with added weight was juxtaposed.

Sleekest shape did bound back the led of a lined long loop with a streamlined head.

Such kitten maneuver; rules disallowed; such human endeavor for survival, proud.

Rocket pipes drain; she ignites once more; tail between engine for a feline roar.

Large detractor follows up to flank with a price of vendetta below swollen plank.

Bursting forth from ash and soot, that curiosity beckoned and burned underfoot;

A struggling monster, disadvantaged by size, now falls to the feet of a cat unsurprised.

Returned to non-supernatural of form, that her mistress’s bed foot corpse would adorn;

A loyal companion gasps its last breath, whilst mouse that did haunt had found death.

By Nathan J.D.L Rowark

http://www.lulu.com/shop/nathan-jdl-rowark-and-rita-dinis-and-jesi-bender-and-james-tierney/tales-of-the-undead-hell-whore-anthology/ebook/product-20948870.html

http://www.lulu.com/shop/nathan-jdl-rowark-and-rita-dinis-and-aj-huffman-and-nels-hanson/tales-of-the-undead-suffer-eternal-anthology/ebook/product-20949554.html  

They put the ad up on Craigslist.

It wasn’t done like this, not in the old days. It wasn’t always this easy.

Samantha and Valery posed in front of the camera topless, licked each others breasts, kissed flamboyantly and then picked the juiciest photo to put online.

The ad headline read: IMPREGNATE ME! FILL ME WITH YOUR SPUNK!

“That ought to get their attention,” Samantha laughed.

“Are men really this stupid?” Valery asked.

“Do you even have to ask that?” Sam said.

Then she wrote the body of the message:

My lesbian lover and I are looking to have a child. Although we need a man to impregnate me, rather than going to some sperm bank, I want to have a baby the old fashioned way. I want a real man to come inside me. As long as you are cute, clean and full of cum, I want you to come fuck me and fill me up with your hot seed. My girlfriend will be there to watch but she will not participate, I will leave the door open and a trail of candles leading into my bedroom where I will be on the bed naked with my legs spread open, waiting for you. You can fuck me as long and as hard as you like but just pump me up full of your jizz, as much as you can until it is leaking down my legs. Then you can zip up and go, we don’t expect anything from you, I just want your sperm inside me.

“Do you think most men are really comfortable with that idea?” Valery asked, “Having sex with some anonymous woman who they have never met and just impregnating her?  It just seems so weird.”

Sam smiled crookedly, “You really don’t understand men, do you?”

“Well, there is a reason I’ve been eating pussy since I was fifteen,” Valery said.

Samantha posted the ad.

“So what now?” Valery said.

“We wait.”

Valery made them some tea, five minutes later, she asked, “So how long do you think until—“

“There are already sixty two replies,” Samantha said and started to open the emails.

The first email made Samantha laugh out loud.

It read:  College graduate here, very handsome, 5’8 175lbs, very muscular and as you can see, very well endowed. I cum loads!  I could fill you up with as many babies as you want, pump my seed and then get the heck outta dodge, no strings.  Hit me up baby.

In a photo, he looked like he was at a Dave Matthews concert and was throwing out a peace sign.

Samantha and Valery looked at each other, “Definitely.”

The second candidate was a frat guy from the local University.

I’m gonna fill you up with my baby spunk baby, dump my load in your hot pussy and you’ll be pregnant before you can cum. But after I cum, I leave, no strings, no drama. I just want to cum in your hole.

The third guy was 47 and looked like he lived in his mother’s basement.

I can’t wait to cum in your sweet tight pussy and fill you up with baby jism. My offspring will bring you joy and happiness, I come from a long line of attractive people.

He looked like Skeletor with AIDS.

They laughed, “For sure!”

When they were through, they picked seven men to come over that night and come over in half hour intervals.

“You ready for this?” Samantha said.

“You know it baby,” Valery said and kissed her on the lips.

The college graduate, Bobby Something, came over around seven. He was already stroking himself through his board shorts as he walked through the door.

“Hello?” he said.

“Back here, sweetie,” Samantha said, laying on the bed, nude with her legs spread open wide. A line of candles led back to the bedroom.

“See anything you like?” she said as he stood in the doorway.

She opened her vaginal lips with her fingers.

“OH FUCK YEAH,” he said and slipped off his shorts, exposing an overeager boner. He climbed on the bed and plunged in deep. Samantha cried out, “Oh yes, fuck me, baby. Fuck me sooo hard.”

He pounded away as Valery watched from the corner in the dark, videotaping everything in green light.

“Oh, your cock is soooo big, you are ripping my tight little pussy apart,” she said, stifling a laugh.

Valery put the camera up on the stand and grabbed the butcher knife.

Slowly she crept up behind Bobby Something and drove it into his skull. Blood squirted everywhere, the walls looked like modern art.

Then Valery pulled the knife from his skull turned him over and hacked off his cock. She raised it to her lips and bit into it.

Then she handed it to Samantha who took a taste.

Bobby was screaming and breathing hard, clinging to life.

“Oh shut up,” Valery said and started to hack away at his stomach.

“He really did have great abs,” Samantha said.

Valery pulled out his intenstines and used the blood as paint and started to draw the pentagram on the wall. They threw the corpse on the side of the bed. Amidst the blood soaked sheets, they kissed and Valery went down on her.

“Okay, we have to hurry!” Samantha said.

They stripped the bed, Valery dragged the corpse into the spare bedroom and locked the door. It was filled with air freshners. Samantha flipped over the mattress and then started to put on new sheets.

“Don’t worry about it!” Valery said, “Hop in the shower and wash off before number 2 gets here.”

Five minutes later, Frat boy arrived.

He didn’t even put up a front, as soon as he stepped inside, he started to undress.

“Where’s that pussy, baby?” he said.

“Down here,” Samantha said.  Like it said in the goddamn email, she thought, walk down the fucking hall.

Frat boy was well endowed, it looked like a beer can between his legs.

“What’s that on the wall?” he said, noticing the blood pentagram in the dark, “I ain’t into no voodoo shit.”

Valery came up behind him and stuck the butcher knife in his skull, then she chopped off his penis and added it to the pile on the side of the bed. Some were so rotten and old, they looked like old fruit.

“Fuck, this is going to get annoying!” Samantha said, “I have to shower every time and change the sheets. The blood is gonna leak through no matter how many times I turn the mattress.”

“Then I will kill them as soon as they walk in the fucking door!” Valery said.

“Is this the only way?”

“This is the way it has always been done. Shiva requires seven male sacrifices for the portal to be opened.”

Valery smeared more blood on the wall.

“Only five more to go.”

It wasn’t always done like this, especially not in the old days. You usually had to get them drunk and hold a big bonfire in the woods for a black mass. The sacrifices one had to make to live for over four hundred years, Samantha thought.

Using the internet for human sacrifices wasn’t ideal but it was far more convenient.

By Daniel Gonzales
Editor, Surreal Grotesque
www.surrealgrotesque.com

Sexy Sadie

went to sleep

while visions

of the Bad Ship Lollipop danced in her head

(just like Hollywood Babylon had promised)

the reflected light. independent waves,

a violent crime moved out of her mouth.

standing between two full length mirrors facing each other

a gift of Pandora. smash the surfaces. infinite faces destroyed.

shards everywhere coated in saliva, the smell

of summer air tempting her nostrils and

the waitress served six meals beyond what was required

showing the interconnected relationship with her vagina

a steady flow of business from the journal of spasms

another chemical put on the nerves early

another chemical put on the nerves early

too late for night

too late for talk

she displayed a temporary decrease in one customer every hour

a sperm competition taking them out.

her model, she talked of her desire for

glass eyes and of clenching forms in the house of love

all her hands bled and in an instance, the police

arrested a model of female orgasms.

a nocturnal duration.

we were in the middle of  a relaxing experience,

I described a sense of pleasure – that’s

when the police department responded.

scientific literature focuses on “creepy crawler” missions;

antagonists dressed in black,

experienced by males and / or females

some of the vagina’s high concentration of nerves died.

filthy vessels such as murder, as well as the iris were to blame

in breathless wonder, lips parted with pain

several people watched her vulgar eyes glinting back like their eyes

the department store she stared at promised satiation.

when Susan Atkins was still an occupant of the Spahn movie ranch,

she was relieved to hear that at the Days Inn Motel they wanted to retch

after staring at the crimson paintings

her nipples poked out harder after her first victim was cut,

her clothes were in a soiled disarray

her offspring knelt down behind a wonderful time

police force on

press deep in

grinned a shriek

she had became a temporary disease

it required new murder, as well as

testimony concerning crimes in loving

her experiences with a mental state betrayed

the fact that she’s a moving film star

filmed in virtually uninhabitable states

watch the action

watch the action watch

a B-52 under her skirt to play with

everyday ordinary wives that burst into

flames when the home crashes down around them

an escape from normalcy by a drive over the cliff

she was intimately carried by the attacker

pushed even closer by him to a silent area where she was frightened

defined by figures outlined in repose dragging us in deep

translucent like our love

transparent as hatred

as dolls eyes follow us in pursuit.

The spectacle typically offers crime at a distant location

(murder, weakening strength; the changing structure of department stores)

a stranger had also been linked with

an obsessive-compulsive performance and she heard a few times what the camera had promised

i showed her the album of old forgotten images because

photos taken at a certain place and time frightened her so much.

another chemical put on the nerves early

By Peter Marra

http://www.angelferox.com

I ain’t got any reason to lie to you, detective.  I killed those guys.  They were my friends but it wouldn’t be right to let them carry on the way they were.  But that ain’t good enough for you, is it?  You want to know the hows and whys, right?

Here’s the thing, us street folk are desperate.  And Hank, Billy, Freddie, those guys became the embodiment of desperate.  You can’t know the meaning of that word until you’ve been in this life, watched the cold blacken your skin or had your belly try to eat its way out of you.  All we want are three square and a warm bed, but it seems like you people do everything to make sure that doesn’t happen.  We find a place we were can eek out an existence approaching human, and then badges, you, come along to rip it away.  Nevermind that we weren’t bothering a single soul.  Like when you bricked up the old steam-tunnels under downtown.  Or the camp off the river.  No one gave a damn about that place, it was overgrown trees and grass, till we set up there.  I was there when you came with your clubs and torches, put our tents to the fire.  Did the community a great service that day, didn’t you?

So, winter comes and us guys just want a half-decent meal in our stomachs, a warm place to put our heads.  But oh yeah, just get my ass to a shelter, right?  What shelter?  Developers pressured the old one to close, then before the new one can open, all the bleeding-hearts who whine and gritch and moan about charity and helping the needy turn around, crying, “Not in my neighborhood!”  Them assholes only care about folk like me when it’ll help them look good in front of their friends.  I hope their Sunday brunches at the trendy restaurants built on the grave of the old shelter helps them sleep at night.  No, I don’t.  I shouldn’t lie like that.  What I really want is for them to choke on the overpriced food.

One time, this hag is feeding pigeons and the river-gulls at the Waterfront.  I ain’t calling her a hag to disrespect her as a woman.  My parents raised me better than that.  I’m calling her a hag cause that’s what she is.  Done up real pretty, in a smart suit.  Maybe she should eat some of that make-up caking her face, then she’d be pretty on the inside too.  All I want is some change, maybe if I can get enough I can get a cheeseburger that day.  And this hag just sneers at me, all sorts of hate and disgust about her as she tells me to go away.  Ain’t that something?  This woman would rather feed a bunch of diseased birds than help out a fellow human being.  No one walks away from that not feeling less than human.

When was the last time someone looked you in the eye, detective?  Hell, it was probably right before you walked in this room, and a thousand damned times before that.  I don’t know when the last time it happened for me.  Dirt’s the only thing holding my clothes together, I haven’t a hot shower since last year and this ain’t perfume clogging up your nostrils.  I know all this.  But I am still a human being.

Not that you care.  You just want my story.

Anyways, some guys get so damned desperate for three square and a warm bed, they swing on the badges or put teeth to them.  That’ll earn you a couple of good nights.  Some of those guys win the lottery, get sent before a hard-ass judge and get put in LaGrange for a couple of years.  But others just get clubbed about the head and dumped in an alley, given the business so bad they can’t recognize themselves in the mirror.  And the real unlucky ones…well, isn’t it real funny how many homeless men end up getting pulled from the locks down river, all water-logged and fish-eaten?  Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m getting at.  Must be an epidemic of spontaneous winter time skinny-dipping, right?

Like I said, Hank, Billy, Freddie, those guys got real desperate.  And like I said, they were my friends.  In this life those are hard to come by.  Hell, it’s hard to come by someone who isn’t trying to shove his prick in your every unguarded hole, or wanting to beat you cause the drugs, drink or his own bat-shit crazy brain is telling him to.  A friend is someone who won’t run you off for trying to build a nest in the same place, who saves you a spot at their fire, and will share whatever scraps they liberated from the dumpsters that day.

Them three were those kinda guys.

I’d been stuck in the tank for three days on a P.I. charge.  You guys kicked me out at night, coldest one of the winter so far.  I’m thinking you hoped the weather’d take care of your burden.  Anyways, I find the guys at our spot, in the alley behind the…ah, hell, you know where it is, that’s where you picked me up.  And they got a weak fire going in a garbage can.  There was more dark than light in the alley that night.  Their hoods were up, I couldn’t see their faces for the shadows.  Each was cooking a skewer of meat over the fire.  Damn, it smelt so good.  Makes me want to upchuck now.

I ask them if they caught a rabbit or squirrel.  Naw, they say, better.  Then they start telling me this story.  The night I went in the tank, air got for real cold.  So, they crawl their asses down in the sewer.  That’s desperate, gents.  That kind of stink sets up residence in your nose for days, but it’s warm.  Not that night, though.  All the steaming shit in the city couldn’t hold back a cold like that.  Deeper and deeper they go, looking to get away from the chill, until they are so deep, in a place beneath the sewers.  There’s a church down there.  The Old Church they call it.  There before the white folk came here, and probably before the Natives too.  Tribes were scared of this part of Kentucky.  If I had anything to bet you, I’d wager the Old Church is a reason why.

The preacher man welcomes them, promises the guys a place safe from the worst of the snows and sun and people, where their bellies will always be filled.  And he feeds them sacraments, the sweetest meat, lets them gorge.  They all say they haven’t ate like the since before the life.  Then the preacher says they must go back to the streets, says they aren’t ready to join the Old Church, not yet.  But if they sought out the sacraments and ate of them, they soon would be.  They guys asked how he’ll know.  The preacher man says he’ll know, then he’ll come and retrieve them from the cold and the starvation and the hate, to live among his congregation until the last days.  With that, he casts them back to the terrible world above.

There are others, like us, down there.  Or they were once like us.  Street folks, mostly.  But those who heard the preacher man’s sermons in their dreams, too.  Some sewer workers who lost their way.  All are welcome.  None are turned away.  They protect one another.  And the preacher man protects them all.  Beneath our feet, there is a place of love.

The guys ask me if I want in.  Do I want to forget the feeling of a hollow belly?  Do I want a home, a real honest-to-the-gospels home?  A place where no god-damned drunk-on-money frat-boy, looking to kill so he can get a hard-on, would dare go?  Down so deep not even the badges can reach?  Of course I did!

And one of them, I can’t remember who, doesn’t matter, hands me a skewer of long, fatty meat.  The night is so dark and the meat so blackened, I can’t tell what it is.  I was slobbering the meat smelt so good.  Not that I cared.  Eat they say, take the sacrament, then preacher man’ll take you down to the Old Church too.  As I bring it up to my mouth to take a bite, I see what I am about to eat.  Hanging off the end of the skewer, a tiny, clinched fist.

Living this life, the things we see, it ain’t a wonder why half the street folk are crazy.  Like this one time, my buddy was killed in a hit-and-run, the contents of his skull emptied on the pavement.  It’s more yellow than you’d expect.

But this, I’d never seen anything like this.  I dropped the skewer and upchucked.  Out came everything from my stomach down to my toes.  And this wailing scream starts up from me.  I couldn’t help it.

The guys start shouting some nonsense about sacrilege.  And for the first time, I see their faces, the weak firelight catching them just right.  I tell you, boys, what I saw wasn’t Hank, Billy and Freddie no more.  No.  It was Desperation.  With a big “D”.  They’d gotten so desperate that it took up residence in them, had its hand up their collective asses, moving them like puppets.  Desperation has teeth like needles, and big black desolate eyes full of want.

So, I ran.  Screaming and coughing up more of my belly with each step.  What was I supposed to do?  I hid in some bushes, damn near pissing myself from fright, trying to stop myself from crying, in case they were looking for me.  I prayed for God to let the cold take me before the guys found me.  But I’m guessing they weren’t looking, after all.  If they had been, you’d be picking up the leftovers instead of having this conversation.

Daylight comes, bringing with it a bit more sense.  See, I get me a plan.  I wait outside an office building, watching the stiffs walk in, looking for the right mark.  I ain’t one bit ashamed to admit I’ve snatched a few purses in my day, so I know how to pick the right victim.  Hurried, distracted, purse held in one hand or hanging loose on one shoulder.  Low and behold, that hag I told you about, the one from the park, comes walking up, another smart suit on, yammering into her phone.  She don’t recognize me, any more than she’d recognize any of the individual pigeons or squirrels.  Why would she?  I’m just part of the urban wildlife.

It’d be a surprise if she even saw me before I knocked her down and yanked her purse.  You can charge me with battery and theft by robbery too.  Please, I’m begging you.  Charge me.

Anyways, I take the money from her purse, dump it in a garbage can.  With the money, I buy two quarts of motor oil from that gas-station on 1st and Liberty.  As luck would have it, the hag was a smoker.  No one at the gas-station was going to be asking me uncomfortable questions.

I go back to the spot, where I last saw the guys.  See, when it got real cold, like it did last night, we’d crawl in the dumpsters together to sleep.  Get that stupid look off your face.  When you’re trying not to die of the cold, people thinking you’re into funny business is the last thing you worry about.  I risked a peek in the dumpster, and they were in there.  I looked just long enough to see how bad the desperation was.  Their skin had gone a pale.  Bald patches pock-marked their beards.

I dumped in the motor oil and dropped in a match.

And here we are.

I know it sounds like a bunch of nonsense.  No way in Hell you’re going to be crawling down in the sewers looking for the Old Church and the preacher man.  An autopsy won’t be done because they’re just street folk.  No one gives a damn how they die.  There may be a baby or two missing but you’ll just dismiss that as me having heard about it on the TV or in the papers.  Right?

Right.

Thing is, I couldn’t care less if you believe my story or not.  Either way, what you are left with is the fact I killed three men.  Send me to LaGrange or put me in loony farm at Central State.  I don’t care.  Everyday now until my last, I’m getting three square and a warm bed.

By Bruce Priddy

misterpriddysmarvels.wordpress.com.

She pirouettes
adorned in a dress
of black gossamer,

Spinning with blade
in hand to music only
she hears.

Flame red hair sweeps the air,
flinging outward, as
drops of crimson
drip from the tip
to the cold hard floor;
knives held tight by
delicate fingers.

Her hands move with
the intensity of the allegro.
Alive, brisk, and deadly.

The sharpness of her tools
keep up with her demands
of dissection and delving.

The other dancers
fall before her
as if in silent repose.

Arabesque to glissade,
her strong legs coupe
across the floor,
she cuts and cuts and cuts
and does a sourbresaut
like a cat jumping
onto her final partner
in this ensemble of now
only one.

She seeks his heart
as the point punches through.
Death follows
Yet still it beats
as she holds it,
Still it beats
as she takes a bite.
Still it beats
as she rises from
her grand plie.

and takes a bow
to the crowd
from
center stage.

By Philip Wardlow
http://philipwardlow.com/

Humanity has fruitlessly battled many horrid, devastating diseases in its brief history. In sub-Saharan Africa many a young child have had their last moments in writhing agony as the Malaria virus ravages their already abused bodies. Mercilessly it torments them with splenomegaly and hepatomegaly a condition where the sufferers spleen and liver balloon to cartoonish proportions before the rough choke of a coma engulfs them. Their pain only ended when the rusty blade of death is finally and without hurry slipped into their emaciated ribcage.
But atrocious diseases do not only plague those unfortunate enough to be born in third-world countries. In England, one of the healthiest, socially and technologically advanced nations the world has to offer a hundred and sixty five people fell victim to the private Hell commonly known as Mad Cows disease. A fantastically nasty disease that turns ones brain into a mushy discharge that would be more easily recognized as a broth served in the many poor houses scattered throughout London only a century or two ago.
Bleak isn’t it, inoculation and cures seem pointless. Even when created and widely distributed a new strand or entirely new disease is always at the ready to claim more innocent god-fearing persons whose only crime that cost them their content lives was to be a the wrong place at the wrong time.
But for all the viruses that make the sufferer uncontrollably shit out their vital organs or bleed their vital fluids out from every possible orifice there is only one that is truly rampant and of epidemic proportions in modern societies of every country. There is only one that causes daily deaths worldwide yet shows no discernible symptoms. Cures have never been researched solely because its existence, while known and acknowledged by society, is so basic and primal; it raises no cause for concern. It is of course sexual gratification. All-encompassing sexual gratification.
Not the physical release that is the sticky substance of spent seed and its residue, which ooze from the body upon climax like pus from an infected wound. But the trombone blast in the chest area and the crashing of waves in one’s temples right at the cusp of the ear, smacking the brain, rattling at one’s timid soul. A sensation that eludes nearly all sexually active persons throughout the entirety of their lives regardless of how many partners they engaged in sexual activities with. Nor can it be effectively described by any of mans most talented writers or captured by its most expressive artists, living or dead. For this is an almost ethereal experience, a force so powerful it latches onto ones core and bends it.
No one knew this better or as bitterly as Seth Ederton. An uninformed observer couldn’t be blamed for asking why not. For Seth possessed all the crucial factors an uninformed observer would assume would be required to make it easy for him to obtain this elusive feeling.
Handsome in a presentable, strikingly masculine way, achieving the fine balance between a male model and a relatable boy-next-door type, his appearance was as chameleon-like as his sexual gratification methods and tendencies prone to change as if accompanying his shift in emotions which were highly unstable at the best of times adhering to taking his prescribed medication. Aside from boasting a face lovingly crafted by the Gods, Seth was also very wealthy. Not just a respectable wealth that would be a source of equal parts admiration and condemnation from his friends, if he had any but a vast, can light Cuban cigars with a fistful of hundred dollars kind of wealth. An affluence which he was not born into but earned himself, like a Junkie shakily shining a light over their withered arm looking for that little blue line to bliss, Seth, found a means to getting exactly what he needed and exploited it. He was a self-taught computer programmer. Internet Website Designer to be specific and an exceptional one at that, it was a pursuit he had developed a fondness for a lifetime ago during his stay in the mental institution. He had found computers and the Internet much easier to understand and obsess over rather than facing the trauma of why he was committed in the first place.
It was with all this knowledge he had so voraciously absorbed, prowling around the countless corridors that comprise Hell that is the Internet that Seth first contracted the disease of permanent insatiable hunger for sexual gratification. It was an unprecedented case beggaring belief, one so severe it was worthy of a mention on the god-awful Amazing Medical Stories that pepper the putrid salad bowl of world television. Given Seth’s horrific past it was not surprising he would be instinctively drawn to and debilitated by his need for sexual gratification. What had happened to him as a child left a large void, demanding to be filled.
He would prowl through the most dank and sexually depraved corridors, casting an ominous digital silhouette as he did so. In his youngest of sexually active years Seth was somewhat satisfied by hardcore gangbangs and the like including Bukkake.
But quicker than a drunken fart he grew weary and bored by the same clichéd scenarios carried by out the same tired-looking women. Worse Seth could no longer obtain any gratification however faint or forced. Until the slightest groan of feigned satisfaction or a thin trickle of a half-hearted climax eluded him completely. It soon reached such a concerning stage, he could no longer even sustain an erection over the stale material. His traitorous genitals would lay limp and shrunken, refusing to rise and be the vehicle for pleasure. A lesser man would’ve immediately began to panic, perhaps suicidally so but not Seth. He would not allow himself to succumb to petty misery, not when so much was at stake.
He realized the only way to tackle and hope to resolve the problem was to dive head first into the most hardcore, gruesome and sexually sickening pornography he could possibly find. Considering his remarkable skill at tweaking the tendrils that comprise the web, this provided a very large selection indeed, enough to last a hundred sex addicts for a thousand lifetimes.
He dabbled in anything and everything save anything involving minors. Focusing on one kind of filth, say a obscenely obese woman gorging herself on a King’s ransom in food then vomiting and defecating on herself, for a few weeks to a month at a time, never maintaining interest or arousal for longer than that just as suddenly as he had become infatuated with it, that sort of smut would be callously tossed into the digital ether of the rejection pile.
A runaway train, Seth barreled through literally tens of thousands of sites in a tornado frenzy, torrenting more terabytes of porn than all the other viewers in his country combined. His thirst never remotely sated, the more Seth saw, the more he craved, more than anything else in his empty and restless life. Sleep was a relic of the past or a figment of his imagination, definitely a hindrance he waged war against with opiates and energy drinks.
Pretty soon watching porn and mangling his long-suffering genitals was all that he did with his life, transforming the act into a demanding full-time job, one in which he was constantly on call and always worked graveyard shift. He wasted away as food was of no particular importance, he was a demented hermit, a terrible sight to behold yet on he went and his condition continued to worsen.
He found early on that fluids were his sexual vice. The glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel to sexual fulfillment, his own private Kingdom of Heaven.
No doubt some goatee stroking, thick glasses wearing psychologist would be able to write a whole paperweight of a doctorate on the origins of this fetish but Seth did not care in the slightest. He had his fill of shrinks trying to crack the facade and appraise his mind back at the institution, they had been of no help then and he would never trust another for the rest of his days. Their smug voices still haunted him but those years were tightly compacted into a trunk shoved deeply inside his closet of secrets in a cordoned off area in his head.
His sole reason for ongoing existence was for finding his itch and scratching it. A compulsion which he had so tirelessly worked to obtain since the tender age of fourteen and even now at the age of twenty five still eluded him.
Expanding his searching to pornography involving fluids, he began gliding through countless achieves of water sports, specifically groups of men urinating on women or vice versa. The women need not be attractive to draw his attention and not surprisingly the majority that he encountered were not. For it was the act, in all its filthy glory that resulted in his groin tighten and the faint crashing of waves in his temples pulsating from his big head to his small head in a series of intricate circuits. Sadly it was faint and always vanished as suddenly as it arrived, without the result he so desperately needed.
This constant abysmal failure brought him back to the brink of insanity that was where the memories and their vile sibling nightmares stemmed from. Each failure brought the fetus of his baby brother back imprinted on his eyelid whenever he closed it for longer than a second.
Seth had never been one to go out in the bright summer sunshine and embrace the day but he was becoming even more of a recluse, a stranded ghost in a mansion of impeccable taste and furnishing. He took to ordering all his essentials online thus preventing any human contact whatsoever, he supposed it was for the best, he had attracted a large amount of unwanted attention with his disheveled appearance whenever he ventured out – so never venturing out eliminated any danger of this.
His lover was his massive high tech computer; her breasts were the six giant monitors hovering in front of him. Their sex was the Internet and while it was long and passionate his electronic mistress would never let him properly climax. Reminding him of his dominatrix S&M days where less was better and deprived was divine, but this was not what he wanted, it was the exact opposite.
Seth kept calm though including taking his medication though he partly blamed it for his sporadic impotence. It was no use freaking out, it would only cripple his chances of striking gold, so he buckled himself in for the long haul and kept at it.
Eventually fate deemed that enough time was spent and he was rewarded for his exhaustive efforts with the liquid, that heavenly nectar that would sexually gratify him completely and utterly, without falter or failure. Finally the thing he had dedicated months of every waking minute to locate had graced his screen.
It was blood.
Details can be spared but needless to say when a soul as corrupted as Seth’s first discovers something sexual or otherwise that fascinates them, they test their limits. Seth certainly tested his, browsing through some sites that could be classified as authentic snuff films. Some material repulsed him, most did not, but this intrepid trawling through the sites finally put a name to what he sought. Vampirism. Blood had been the canvas but vampirism had been the painting, which had been taking a shapeless form in his head tightening inexorably around his brain, defining itself through his imagination, beckoning from beyond the computer monitor and at that precise moment Seth had never been happier.
Then reality set in and Seth realized how absurd he was to let such senseless joy blind him. He was only at the beginning of his epic journey and such naivety would be a disservice to finally getting what he craved more than life itself.
Seth collected his thoughts after a particularly brutal masturbating session, planning how to proceed. The fundamental aspect of which was women. He needed beautiful women to engage in carnal acts with. For although with some of his other, sexual fetishes where the women participating need not be attractive in order for him to take pleasure, Vampirism was a different story altogether. For Seth and his Vampirism it was crucial women were as physically appealing as possible to truly get the most out of it. Though not in the traditional style as society has grown accustomed to with every glossy advert over the past few decades. The modelling world was all high cheekbones and skeletal frames with eyes as dead and soulless as a child’s stuffed toy. For Seth his perfect partner needed to be as angelic and sweet-looking as possible, a girl next door type but stunning in an undeniable way an individual that exuded beauty as if it were perfume emanating from her pores.
Vampirism. His fantasies were taking shape and clarity in his imagination, he felt like the ancient indigenous tribes that consumed peyote in the desert setting in an attempt to learn their purpose in life from a divine source. The desert was his equally isolated mansion, the Peyote was the Internet and the hallucinations were actually his fantasies flowing from the deepest, darkest pockets of his mind. He was the master of his destiny sure he had some niggling doubts but what pioneer could honestly claim they had not. He was whole again or rather yet to be whole pending finding a suitable partner. In the meantime his many fantasies kept bubbling to the surface, crying out to be carried out in the real world.
One of his favorites involved him descending upon some blonde big bosomed beauty in a darkened area somewhere. He would melt from the shadows, blocking her path and cross over to her as if floating on feet made of fog. She would gasp and her lip would quiver but her eyes would implore him to make haste. They would embrace and she would stare with her wild blue eyes darting around admiring the Hunter that had captured her and claimed her as his own.
Her perfume, a cheap flower number tinged with just the right amount of fear would invade his nostrils, more intoxicating than any liquor Seth kept in his well-stocked cabinet and to then give her the Vampires kiss. To not taste at first but feel the sticky heat of blood first on his lips and then slowly down into his belly and then the taste would slowly follow. A coppery taste sweetened by her pretty soul and at that very moment when her blood was mixed with his own he would enter her, wetness upon moistness, resulting in a whole atom bomb of a climax, the likes of which he had only dared to picture in his wildest dreams and even then only fleetingly. In that single act the pair of them would be bound together for all eternity and no amount of memories or nightmares could taint his existence again.
The sky was the limit; well actually there was no limit. Seth had always nurtured his imagination, for it was what kept him relatively sane after he discovered the photos that had been the cause of his mental breakdown. His imagination had grown into an out of control entity as a result, one that thanked its owner by turning him into a genius. But they were each other’s worst influence and right now they were conspiring together to make fantasies. It was a vicious cycle, reducing Seth to a sweaty bag of bones with sunken eyes and a temperament to match.
Yet the rushing of fantasies kept coming unbidden and Seth was happy to forego whatever slivers of sleep he allowed himself to give them audience. Seth relented, surrendering control to these gruesome impulses and desires as they popped into his head. Each more vivid and salivating inducing than the last.
Such as the Feast which was Seth’s initial fantasy on a grand scale. Where he would lead a group of true believer Vampires to an isolated location and they would hunt and prey upon each other as nature intended. Those afflicted with a faint heart need not apply this event would only be for true Vampires who survived on the blood sucked from the bodies of their victims and they would look to him as their unquestioned leader.
One must admire Seth’s tenacity with his pursuits however it did little to actually make such grandiose plans come to fruition. Finding a willing beautiful woman to perform actual acts of Vampirism was substantially more difficult than finding one willing to dress up in a naughty nurse outfit, or climb into an ill-fitting French maid outfit.
Of course, but those kind are a dime a dozen, I need a real woman. Damaged goods with a history of mental disorders, just like me. Then sparks will fly, this is how it was meant to be. With new found energy Seth returned once again to his beloved computer and the Internet his faith in them unshakeable, their devotion to the cause unquestionable. Seth had the presence of mind to accept that his current physical condition was unacceptable; he could not be expected to charm women if he looked like a meth-addicted vagrant so he vowed to shave off his unkempt beard and resume a strict training regime naturally between sessions on the computer.
With his physical and mental health markedly improved Seth found many networking sites for supposed Vampires. Over the course of the next few days they flocked to him without any real effort on his part as if the powers of the galaxy wanted him to succeed. Despite his enthusiasm Seth was still reluctant to engage in conversations in open chat rooms with other members, as he was deathly worried that many of these so-called Vampires were little more than attention seekers.
He could picture them in perfect clarity, ugly and boring charlatans in the extreme that had only gravitated towards Vampirism as a last resort because they were shunned by the rest of society. He couldn’t bear the thought of arranging to meet a prospective partner only to have her freak out at the all-important moment. Consent was crucial, he would never force himself on a woman he hated those that bullied and abused women with every fiber of his being and would rather kill himself than cause any female the slightest discomfort. So his selection and weeding process was grueling and mind-numbing but he persisted nevertheless.
Through message boards on the many sites Seth visited he discovered several questionable ‘clubs’ in his city. His skepticism was intact and as potent as always so for an age he ignored the invitations but as he happened across more and more there seemed to be a constant trend and matching in descriptions.
Although the clubs were scattered all over town from the affluent areas to those predominately occupied by industrial sites they were all basically the same. Missing were the regular fixtures attributed to night clubs, flashing neon lights out the front and a gorilla security guard jockeying a non-existent guest list and a vicious gleam in his eye. Far from it. Indistinguishable from the front, just a large heavy-looking door which you would rap on with your knuckles and wait until a slate was replaced with a pair of stern eyes staring at your fiercely at which point one would whisper a password obtained from the message board posting on the relevant websites. Oftentimes a hefty fee was charged just for the privilege of being told the password but it didn’t end there. Sometimes entry was only granted after performing an act of faith; one night required him to drain a glass of blood passed through a small latch. It could have been laced with AIDS for all Seth knew but he gulped it down without a moment’s hesitation anyway, that was the nature of the Vampire world he had so utterly immersed himself in.
The clubs interiors were mainly gritty industrial setups, Seth guessed many were old abattoirs or at least decked out to look as such. Complete with hanging rusty hooks, or flaked bloodstains on cracked white porcelain floors with lots of comfortable plush chairs and sofas thrown into the mix for good measure. Lighting was even poorer than average nightclubs allowing for patrons to recline in the shadows and observe those mingling around unnoticed before deciding to approach them. Women paced around restlessly or hung together in small groups in the more brightly-lit spaces, most were prey eager to be plucked but there as distinct number of predator women as well, hanging in the shadows and biding their time. Seth paid them no heed, he was after a worthy partner and armed with solid confidence he approached whoever he fancied on a whim.
Sadly most of the women he struck up conversations with were unsuitable for a varying degree of reasons. Primarily it was their looks or lack thereof, which made him decide against inviting them back to his humble abode for a little private feasting he was superficial and powerless to resist because that was what his fantasies and their fulfillment required. Also many of the girls he chatted to gave responses both verbal and physical to his carefully worded and expertly timed questions which he knew meant they were unsuitable.
Even with knowing them for only a night and introducing themselves with obviously fake names he could tell they were not hardcore mere timid lambs masquerading around in wolf-skins. There was a clear anxiousness that was etched into their features and exhaled with each breath like on a frosty morning. A poorly masked desperation to say the right thing as if seeking some petty approval from a paternal-like figure all the signs were there, painfully obvious to a bind man.
The way they lit cigarettes with trembling hands and subconsciously toyed with jet black or platinum blonde hair as a safeguard informed Seth they would never go through with the feasting when it finally came time.
You poor silly girl, why are you going through this charade? Why not accept who you are and be done with it, leave this place and never like back.
Seth felt only pity for these confused specimens he came into contact with. It made him think of how incredible and life changing it would be when he inevitably met that special lady that would gladly let him feast on her. The scope of how much they would enrich one another’s lives would be unfathomable.

By Samuel Elliott
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