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4322P: Free Range Chickens

Darkness.

Out of the side of my eye, I could see his shadow approaching. Piano wire, check. As he knocks the door, I approach him and ask him for a light. Sure, he replies and digs into his pocket for his lighter. Lit my pipe and turned around back towards the bushes. Change of mind, quickly dash behind him, strap the wire around his neck and drag his flailing body into the shrubs.

Strangulation. Blood trickles down his neck as I reach into my belt for my cleaver. Three chops, complete decapitation. Strip the skin off his face, douse his head in diesel, ignite head, and throw the head through the bedroom window.

Crack smoke all around.

Convenience store: 2:45 am. Enter store, greet smelly fellow behind counter, buy him a stick of deodorant. Purchase cheap cigar, rolling papers, and a newspaper.

Quick glance around reveals a lonely looking woman in pink tights. Stroll over, take a seat behind her, ask her for her name. She answers Marissa, picks a carton of milk out of the cooler. I follow behind, take brief notice of my surroundings.

$3.67 is your change, he hacks as she takes her things and walks down the dimly lit street. Stealth.

Remember me?

Look at what I found, duck your head down a little bit and take a look. Double handed thrust down into the neck. Twist knife slowly, hum Greensleeves. Cut some hair off, put it into my pocket.

Can I have your milk?

Cut her eyeballs out and put them into the carton. Shake vigorously, then locate the nearest homeless man. Drive by and throw the carton at the man’s head. Stop and shove homeless Willy into his cardboard box. Use newspaper to ignite box, inhale soothing smells of burning hobo and have a drink of shine.

Smoke cigar, roll hair into a thick joint, sell to the elementary school children on Monday. Have sex with the principal, give her syphilis, toss her out the window. Jagged glass is the cure.

The less I think, the easier it becomes to live.

Go to local bar, order scotch neat, sit down. Commence drinking myself into a tolerable reality. Walk to jukebox, put a quarter in, select song.

What about love – Heart

Old bar hag approaches, asks if I’m having a rough time. Yes, give me free drinks or die, dirty skank.

Refusal.

Cautiously bring her into bathroom, prop door closed, tap dryer button. Grab her by the hair, smash her face against the tile, slam her head into the sink, tell her to keep it there.
Run up, axe kick to the back of the head, extraction of teeth. Cave her skull in with garbage can, clean myself up, pay my tab and walk home.

Maladjusted, jaded towards the world, addicted to opium. Every day is like the one before, save for the date. The long, dark street seemed tranquil for a short time.

Hey man, do you have a smoke?

Not for you, mongrel. Let me crack your dome open and stab your brain with a fork.

Large rock hoisted, run towards man, deliver crushing blow as promised. Use sharp rock to crack skull open, stab his brain with a stick, listen to the responses and laugh. Roll man in honey, cover him in oats, and throw him into the goat pen. Record how long it takes for complete consumption.

Repeat cycle indefinitely.
 
I don't know, ever since he started his fag band, I don't talk to him much. He's not my real brother though, thank salmon. I found him in a ditch and had a moment of pity.
 
You should still do it before he can spread the disease. You never know if he'll be fucking or getting fucked by a bisexual.
 
Nice work SG, like the stream of conciousness. Could be a gem in the rough...

Here's one I wrote last year:

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The slow swirl of reality escaping. My mind becoming numb. The blackness enters my soul. Things are easier now, I don't have to think any longer. Finally, I am at my base. Primordial. Emotional. Instinctual.

The smooth wood of the bat fits my hand perfectly. It is battered and scarred. Like me. My grip is intense, knuckles white, but I don't feel it. I don't feel anything. Except hate. And love. The moment is perfect. The moment is more real than anything I've ever experienced.

The darkness is my cover, my shroud. It cloaks me like the blackness that has covered my soul. I wait behind the bushes. At his house. The enemy. Stupid fucker. Should've known.

I peer between the branches, the scent of dirt and leaves pervades my nostrils. I'm motionless. For hours. Finally, lights. Twin beams piercing the night as his car pulls up the driveway by the shrubs.

Though his windows are closed, I hear the bump of his music through the car. Muffled. He opens the car door and the dome light illuminates him as he pulls himself out of the car using the door and steering wheel as crutches. All I see where his eyes are is shadows. He is pathetic, weak and undeserving. To think, I once called him my friend.

As he gets out, a beer can drops to the ground. Drunk again. Good. It'll make things easier.

He staggers up the dark driveway. Towards me. Towards the end. I think at the last minute he must have sensed something because he looks towards me as I spring from the bush. Too late. Sucker. The arc of the bat is perfect, a slow, downward swing that lands squarely on his shoulder. Did you know that it only takes eight pounds of pressure per square inch to break a bone? His collarbone is shattered. He drops. Strangely, without a sound.

I pace towards his fallen figure, fire racing through my veins. The moon illuminates me from behind, he can't make out my face as he peers up from the ground. But he knows. And he is ready. I swing the bat four more times, once on each knee, once on each elbow. He's beginning to scream now. The reality of the situation has come to him. He realizes he's going to die. Right then, right there, in pool of his own beer-laden vomit and piss.

I straddle him standing and hold the bat over my head like an axe. With everything I have, I slam it down into his face. Blood sprays, it is warm on my face. I bring the bat down twice more for good measure and it is over. All of it. My whole life I've been waiting for this moment, and the moment only took thirty seconds.

But it was perfect. As perfect as anything I've ever felt.
 
LOL!!!
your choice of music used throughout these slaughters is one of the most entertaining parts of your recanting. get thee to a clinic and get that syphilis checked out my nigga.
 
Machine I would have to say you are a wonderful writer. Your subject matter is rather morbid which leads me to recommend getting into the horror or crime writing field but definately something you should persue.

Star
 
Satanic Goatslayer said:
Very nice Machine. Never has a baseball bat death sounded so eloquent.

I take it you write often?

I'm glad you enjoyed it :)

Yes I write daily. Sadly, I rarely write fiction anymore. I hope to get back into the habit... It is the one job (?) that I truly love.

Star -- Horror and Sci-Fi are my fiction genres of choice. Years ago, I even had a couple of horror shorts adapted for late-night radio productions (you've never heard of them -- one was callled THE WITCH IN THE VALLEY, the other was THE HARBINGER'S CURE), and the editor of the now defunct INIQUITIES horror mag had expressed interest in some of my work (too bad I lacked the discipline at the time to carry through with some of his rewrite requests). At one point, I was 100 pages into a horror story, when I scrapped the entire project. *sigh*
 
Bump for Machine.

Insanity.

Some call it a disease, detrimental to society. It's my life.

Walking into the nearest hardware store, looking for a new belt sander, I notice the man behind the counter. Small and withering, like the leaves in the fall. His life is of no consequence to me.

I ask him for his opinion on a double sided axe that I found near the register.

"That's our finest model there....."

The blade penetrates his skull, a dull thud eminates, and I'm left standing there, holding the handle in my hand, staring at his dead body. Cheap axe, the man selling it deserved to die, trying to sell a piece of shit as if it were gold. I steal his money and his scalp, stuff them both in my toolbelt and leave.

When empathy, compassion, and love leave, they're replaced with something more powerful.

Hate.

Getting into my late 70's model Monza, I see a scratch on my door. The paint is red. The car next to me is red. It could be a coincidence, but I don't care. Justice must be served.

A lady carrying bags of groceries walks to the car, puts the keys in, but is interrupted.

"Excuse me miss, I think you dropped this"

"But that's a rusty shuriken. And you just pulled it from your toolb...."

I slash her throat, tear her shirt off, and cut her abdomen open. Not knowing what to do next, I begin to worry. I start to shove my fists into her now opened midsection, hoping to grab a hold of something, anything. I feel a kidney. I start to punch at it. All the while she's moaning, almost orgasmically. I feel, for the first time ever, a bit of regret. It passes in 1.54 seconds. I reach into her bag, grab a can of coffee and smash her face into a heap of mush.

An old lady and her husband approach.

I ask them to leave politely. They don't listen, their curiosity will be the end of them.

As they observe my handiwork, I go to my car and turn on some music.

King of Pain.

Coming from my monstrous system consisting of a 30 watt amp and 1 6x9, they get nervous and begin to walk away, their brittle bones not allowing for a quick getaway.

I had brought a cordless drill with me today.

I get in front of the old woman and drill a hole into her skull. She falls to the ground, the mix of shock and massive head trauma surprising her. The old man begins to flail at me. I grab his cane and shove it into his spine, sending him to the asphalt. Looking down at him, I feel another strange feeling.

Sympathy.

I check myself, amazed at this new sensation.

Not for long.

I grab my butterfly knife and cut his shoulders and elbows to the bone. I then obtained his breathing tube and shoved it into one of his wounds. Using the tank of helium I always bring with me, I managed to attach it to the tubes and force some of the noble gas into his wounds. He is dead now. I think.

I want to be sure, so I get in my car and run him over 6 times.

Hearing the sirens, I pack up my things and go.

I long to be normal, maybe a plumber or a doctor, but not in this lifetime. For now I have to settle. Settle on being a deranged sheep herder with an opium/alcohol addiction and a little shanty town in the middle of nowhere.

Always look on the bright side of life.

Do do, do do do do do do.
 
lol more good shit. the noble gas part struck a chord with me. too much damn chemistry in high school. i would be greatly honored to be maimed or delimbed in one of your stories, goat. i don't even need a big part, just to appear briefly and be slaughtered in some special way would be nice.
 
SG...this is a great one bro...nice choice on the heart tune.
 
I was thinking of writing an elite story in the near future. You will most definately have a role, perhaps as havoc's dominatrix.

Oh, I think my pm's are fucked. Did you get the two I sent you regarding the destruction of certain threads, where you tricked me into almost committing suicide?
 
I like it. It seems like you were experimenting with another writing style/form of expression towards the beginning half -- something a little different than what I am used to seeing from you. I liked it -- very dark and foreboding... keep going down that path and it could very well turn chilling... Of course, by the second half it was looking a little more familiar (dark comedy) and I had a smile by the time I finished.

Both styles are interesting and have their respective merits. I enjoy reading what you come up with. There is probably more you could bring out in this one (in the way of edits/revisions) if you wanted to...

I haven't done any horror lately, but I did start a sci-fi episode if you're interested...
 
goat i got one of them and from the read of it, it seemed like you were going to send another one which i never got. i hope the general message i was trying to get across was accurately conveyed.
 
By all means Machine, post it, I enjoy reading your work. When I write things for the board, I just flow, and don't really edit or revise anything. If I did, I could make it a whole lot better, but it would take too much time that my ADD couldn't handle. Maybe I should.

vixen - Merci beaucoup. I will include you in my upcoming story as well. You can be Mrs. Robinson, or maybe Sister Mary Alice - Lord of Chastity.

and super - Yeah I sent another, cursing you out for making me read such babble. My pm's are officially screwed.

Gosh darn it.
 
Satanic Goatslayer said:
fantom, you silly twat, I mailed it last week. Any complaints you can take up with the mail sevice.

Ingrate.

I just hopes it not the china man's severed head.........but then again...... maybe that would be cool............ hmmmmm
 
thefantom1 said:


I just hopes it not the china man's severed head.........but then again...... maybe that would be cool............ hmmmmm

It would only be cool if stored in a cooler of dry ice. When you get it, you could stuff his noggin with candy dip him in liquid nitrogen and have one hell of a pinata. :^}>
 
Satanic Goatslayer said:
By all means Machine, post it, I enjoy reading your work. When I write things for the board, I just flow, and don't really edit or revise anything. If I did, I could make it a whole lot better, but it would take too much time that my ADD couldn't handle. Maybe I should.

Missed this first time you posted... Yes, I think you should take some time, go back and revise/edit as necessary. I think you have talent that you could further...

Did you ever pick up that Skipp and Spector?
 
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