Trigger Warning: Extreme Horror: Contains Strong Sexual Content, Violence, Drug Use, and Language. Read online

  Trigger Warning:

  strong sexual content involving rape and incest; graphic descriptions of aberrant violence and torture; blood, puke, shit, and other bodily fluids; insects and their consumption; vermin; animal costumes and/or furries; pervasive vulgar language; racial, homophobic, and transphobic slurs; police brutality; misogyny; reference to the Confederate flag; religious abuse and/or portrayal of religion as abuse; profanities against god and criticism of the sacred.

  John Raptor

  Copyright © 2016 John Raptor

  Cover Art: Copyright © 2016 Heather Kannianen

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  …put sharp objects in their belly…make them suffer and scream and cry out with pain…fuck up their naughty parts…ruin them and make them plead until they lose all hope…and then laugh and giggle and make some tea…

  …1 YEAR AGO

  Robert

  On the outskirts of Hell, North Dakota, there are lots of Jesus signs. And on that hot-as-the-Devil’s-asscrack day in July (Jew-ly as my grandmother pronounced it; “goddam kikes!” as she called actual Jews), it was 87 degrees, and my hands were planted firmly on the wheel of my patrol car, which kicked up a column of dust in my rearview as I sped along the gravel roads. The large billboards (meant for whom, I do not know) whizzed by on my right and left, hanging out in the wheat and sunflower fields like fat, unwanted prom dates: faded, sun bleached, discolored, dog-eared, drooping. One poster was torn so badly you could see an ad for Hell’s Diner beneath: half Hell’s Diner, half “YOU’RE GOING TO HELL!” and I don’t think they were talking about the town 40 miles back.

  ABORTION STOPS A BEATING HEART: a blue poster with a red vulva-shaped heart that had blood dripping from it, as if it was on the rag (god’s natural abortion). Quite melodramatic.

  HE COMETH TO JUDGE THE EARTH! PSALM 98:9

  HELL IS REAL (indeed it is, I grew up there)

  FEAR GOD

  IT IS TIME FOR JESUS CHRIST! ACCEPT HIM!

  JESUS CHRIST PAID FOR MY SINS! WHO WILL PAY FOR YOURS?

  THE FOOL SAYS IN HIS HEART: THERE IS NO GOD!

  WHOREMONGERS AND ALL LIARS SHALL HAVE THEIR PLACE IN THE LAKE OF FIRE!

  WHERE ARE YOU GOING? HEAVEN OR HELL!

  So many exclamations and nagging questions about so much bullshit.

  The A/C hit me in the face at full force, turning the inside of the patrol car into an icebox. On the dash, the hula girl danced next to my pink Glock .40.

  Sweat trickled down from my pits even in the cold—so cold I could see my breath. That sweat was not from fear, but adrenaline (excitement) and that adrenaline only increased when I pulled up to a town called Flasher: population 232.

  The shades I wore tinted the gravel roads a sick orange, making it appear as if I was driving on some kinda alien planet, rather than toward Shitsplat, USA—just another small North Dakota town with nothing particularly interesting going on in it, except maybe that box in the gravel parking lot just off of ND-21.

  That box was a video store, which I deduced because of the weak graphic design on the front of the building: a poorly drawn magic lamp with a wavy cloud of seminal fluid spewing out its magic spout, and written in thatseminal fluid in boring Courier New font was:VIDEO MAGIC.Get it? Because it’s a movie store.

  I shouldn’t give the graphic designer too much shit, because in a bold move, he/she/it added these bells and whistles to the logo:VIDEO MAGIC.

  Whoa, dude. Edgy.

  But I digress.

  Have you ever had that moment where you feel sick with adrenaline? Like the moment the rollercoaster reaches the top of the first swell, or the first time you’re about to fuck a girl? Sorry ladies, let me rephrase that: or the first time you’re about to get fucked? That’s how I felt when I pulled into the dusty parking lot.

  Scrotum tight as a walnut, dick a tiny nub, hand reaching for the pink Glock.

  I squeezed the grip and stared at the store: a great decoy. I was sure they even rented videos to nearby Flashites, even though Flasher probably had a gas station or drugstore in town that served the same function—most small ND towns did.

  The windows were pasted over with faded, sun bleached posters—like the Jesus posters, but instead, adverts for the Satan Hollywood machine: Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Monsters, Inc., Rush Hour 2, The Mummy Returns, Ocean’s Eleven, Jurassic Park III, Planet of the Apes, A Beautiful Mind

  I hadn’t seen any of them—didn’t watch many movies. The last movie I saw in theaters was Pearl Harbor and I wasn’t really eager to relive that experience.

  Why watch people be active when you can take action into your own hand?

  My fingers clenched the grip of the pink .40 and I kissed the fingertips (of my other hand) and touched them to the Hula Girl’s tiny lips.

  “You stay here, sweetheart. Daddy’s gonna catch some crooks. Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll be back soon.”

  I killed the engine, crawled out of the squad car (adrenaline pumping, coursing through my veins like cocaine) and slid the pink gun into the back of my pants.

  Only two cars in the gravel lot: a green Oldsmobile and a red Datsun with a confederate flag in the back window.

  I moved toward the glass door pasted over with the Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone poster—sweat trickling down my sides, hot sun baking my icy skin. As I entered the box, the bell above the door jingled, and I slid my shades back onto the top of my head.

  Rows and rows of shelves, stocked fully with VHS tapes: the first red flag. Probably no movies here filmed after the year 2001. Fuck, they probably had the Pearl Harbor VHS two-pack.

  Aside from antiquated film formats, they also had a fridge full of liter sodas and racks of chips, popcorn, and candy. I picked up a box of Hot Tamales, looked at the expiration date: May 2001.

  Probably everything in this store was as old as or older than Pearl fucking Harbor.

  It smelled like mildew and cat litter in here…also, a hint of lime and bleach.

  A humming noise, like heavy machinery, could be heard from somewhere in back.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the fat albino at the register.

  I almost didn’t notice him, even though he looked like a 400-pound Pillsbury Doughboy.

  My stomach gurgled. The adrenaline had loosened my bowels and I had to shit. The feeling of shit in my rectum only increased my excitement and pleasure (like being finger fucked) and as I approached the counter, a smile tugged at the corner of my blistered lips (Gramma said I licked them too much; bad habit for a bad boy).

  “Aladdin,” I said.

  “‘Scuse me?” the albino said.

  “Aladdin. That’s the password, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t what you’re talking about. The new releases are over there.”

  “Oh, you know what I’m talking about. I want some goddam snuff films. You know…cellophane dripping with the blood and gore and viscera of real people, tortured and mutilated and killed for my entertainment. Now quit being a fat albino bitch and show me where they’re at.”

  A long pause as my heart hammered in my ears, and the pulse in my neck twitched.

  This was better than a rollercoaster. Better than head.

  You couldn’t replica
te thrills like these on the silver screen.

  “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave,” Pillsbury Doughboy said.

  I laughed…dry as a Scotch and ginger ale.

  “I don’t have to do anything you tell me.”

  The power. Better than the coke. This was all natural, baby.

  I flashed my badge and realized my nub was now a hanging hard-on.

  The fat albino glared at me. “You got a warrant?”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking of making a snuff film of my own.”

  “We have the right to deny service to anyone.”

  “You know what I’m going to call it?”

  “Leave. NOW!”

  The punchline: “Dead Doughboy.”

  The cart you’re strapped into has reached the first swell and you feel your belly climb into your throat as you drop drop drop, screaming your fucking head off, the adrenaline coursing through you at full blast, a white bright light of pure ecstasy and thrill.

  I pulled the pink Glock and put four rounds into the albino. The shells discharged pop pop pop pop and hit the mildewy grey carpet with a soft pat pat pat pat.

  The shots rang loud in the enclosed space, making my eardrums sing. The stench of gunpowder burned in my nasal passages: a mixture of sawdust, nitroglycerine, and graphite. (There was no smell of cordite, as many cop shows falsely assume—that’d only be possible if I was using a WWII-era gun).

  Blood spattered a crooked Fargo poster that had been Scotch-taped to the wall behind Pillsbury Doughboy. This blood probably came from the exit wound in his head, because I doubt there were any exits in his midsection, as it was too thick for 40 cals to pass through.

  TL;DR: the albino was dead.

  …EARLIER

  Alex

  Parked the shitty Datsun I stole from mom next to the nigger’s green Oldsmobile. She never reported me. She didn’t care. She loves her lil’ Alex, no matter what he does, because she loves Jesus and she’s all forgiving and she turns the other cheek. Dumb bitch.

  Hot day in July, back at Video Magic to film another scene. Bought this lil’ shack from some guy in town who owned it; some farmer from Flasher who used to run it as a General Store or some shit. Now, it was my devil’s playground: torture, drugs, and rape. Sold most the drugs (meth, heroin, coke—none of that pussy LSD or weed shit) to kids who went to Hell High. High school was about 40 some miles away, but they’d make the drive. Some of those same kids even rented out the snuff tapes—usually pasty white dudes with acne and a hard-on for sex and murder. But what male doesn’t have a hard-on for sex and murder? It’s primal; it’s animal. We’re all animals, and males are the dominant animal.

  Of course, some males are more dominant than others. Some males are beta-males. Pussies and bitches. The kinda faggots that can’t bench 400lbs and drop to their knees to eat a bitch out.

  But me, I’m an alpha male. I’m the ultra-male.

  I am the devil, and I like to have fun.

  I have the devil tattooed on my bicep, and the mark of the beast on my forehead and the back of my right hand. When I bought the shack from the Flasherite cowhand, I covered those tats up: baseball cap, long sleeves, and gloves. Didn’t want to scare away the local yokels—religious nuts, all of ‘em. Out in the boonies of ND, you get all kinds of weirdos. It’s one of the few places in the US deserted and empty enough to house such simple minded folk. Just miles and miles of cows and idiots.

  Good country people.

  Salt of the earth.

  Before entering Video Magic, I rubbed the Thor’s hammer hanging around my neck between my fingers as I quickly scanned the dusty parking lot. Empty (except for the Niggermobile), as were the gravel roads and ND-21.

  Good.

  Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and Tubs (the fat nigger himself) greeted me. Although Odin created all of Midgar, niggers are part of the inferior races and I only associated with Tubs because if there’s one thing niggers are good at, it’s pimping girls, scoring coke, and killing (and he’s albino). They do it better than any Aryan I’ve ever met—which is a goddam shame. Wotanism (Will of the Aryan Nation) is my religion and I’m goddamned proud of it.

  But I’m not religious like the other wackos out here. My religion is the true religion and it makes sense, unlike Xianity. The thing that pisses me off the most about Xians is that they pretend to love everybody and turn the other cheek, instead of realizing there are superior and inferior: the strong and the weak, the alpha and the beta. And only the strong will inherit the earth. The meek are too pussy to do shit. They will be trampled by those of us who don’t give a fuck about their morals or values or trigger warnings or safe places or social justice.

  They will die by our blood soaked hands because we don’t have feelings. We don’t cry and bitch. We party and kill. We enjoy the spoils of the earth and don’t apologize to some fucking hippie savior who let kikes nail him to a cross (fucking pussy!) Odin created the white man as the dominant race to plunder and destroy; to enjoy the lust of his creation: rape, murder, drink and drug.

  The white man’s point of view is the only one that matters. Niggers, faggots, sandworms, chinks, kikes, trannies, crackers (wait, scratch that; I just got on a roll), you can all shut your fucking mouths unless you want me to rip out your fucking teeth or rape it, you pieces of shit.

  My favorite books are The Turner Diaries, Behold a Pale Horse, and the White Man’s Bible. Also, I like Atlas Shrugged.

  “You got the girl?” I asked Tubs.

  Tubs pointed to the back of the store…toward the Kill Room.

  I moved through the video aisles (mostly porn, horror, and children’s flicks) into a skinny white hallway with a heavy steel door at the end. A light-up dancing Snowman (leftover from Christmas) stood next to the door, its eyes glowing red, its stick hands waving back and forth as it sang “Frosty the Snowman.”

  I kicked Frosty aside and slid the bolt back. These words were scrawled on the door in red spray paint: NO EXIT.

  Inside the Kill Room: eggshell cartons covered the walls, splattered with a coppery brown substance. Chunks of grey clay crunched beneath the heels of my shoes—cat litter, to absorb the blood. A trick I learned when I worked at a gun range and a man went in, not to fire at targets, but his own fucking head. My boss shrugged, went into a backroom, retrieved some cat litter, and dumped it on the body. “Shitty way to go out,” he said, and laughed. I laughed too.

  In the center of the Kill Room: a girl tied to a chair, gag in her mouth. Her eyes wide, terrified. Mascara dripping down her cheeks. Nothing original. Typical shit you’d see in any horror flick you’d let the kiddies watch—but this is motherfuckin’ reality, ladies and germs.

  Steve Cheese—long ratty hair pulled into a pony tail (called it his “p-tail,” fuckin’ queer), Hawaiian shirt, cross around his neck, joint between his thin pale lips—had a camera on a tripod pointed at the girl.

  “Hiya, Alex. Whassup, my man?”

  I grunted.

  Greetings are for pussies.

  Steve offered me the joint. “You wanna hit?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Alright, alright. Let’s kill this bitch.”

  On the floor, lying in cat litter, were several torture instruments: chainsaw, ax, hammer, nail gun, wire snips.

  I reached for the chainsaw, because I’m classic.

  I like the simple things in life.

  I put my foot in the rear handle and tugged the starter cord, squeezed the throttle, and the Texas Massacre Instrument revved to life.

  The girl thrashed in the chair, red ball gag in her mouth—wet and dripping with her saliva and tears.

  “Okay, we are ROLLIN’!” Steve announced, staring into the viewfinder, his yellow rotting teeth grinning from his droopy acne-pocked face.

  He pointed the camera at the action—but I could care less about the snuff films we released on the deep web and rented out to horny teenage boys. I was just in it for the kill. The thrill.

/>   I am the devil, and I like to have fun.

  “You wanna fuck this? You wanna suck this?” I screamed at the girl.

  I held the chainsaw centimeters from her face so she could feel it vibrating in her fillings, feel the wind coming off the spinning chain.

  She screamed and cried behind the gag.

  In some pansy-ass liberal college the professor would probably want to know the girl’s point of view. What’s she feeling right now? Who are her family and friends that will miss her? Does she have a boyfriend or husband, kids? Or is she bisexual, a dyke? What does this scene say about male privilege and its undeniable connection to violence against women?

  Who gives a fuck?!

  I touched her eye with the spinning chain and it spread open like a fresh cunt. Blood sprayed. I reached into my pants and started jerkin’ it.

  “You’re makin’ me so hot, bitch! Suck it! Suck that metal cock, you filthy fucking whore. You cunt!”

  Steve giggled. “Good shit, man. Good shit!”

  …PRESENTLY

  Alex

  I wake up in a dark, cramped room. No, a confinement chamber. With the kinda wallpaper you’d expect to find in the house of some old bitch with lots of cats: yellow with flowers and fucking smiley faces ever-fucking-where. The windows have black garbage bags duct-taped over them. The only light comes from a dim bulb that swings on a chain above my head.

  I am bound to a steel chair, which is bolted into the floor, rusty chains wrapped around my waist and ankles, my hands tied behind my back with twine, and seated in front of a small fold-out table.

  A wave of nausea rolls through me. The inside of my head feels like a garden of barbed wire…probably effects from the sedative the bastard bunny used on me.

  Fuck! FUCK!

  A clown enters the room. I shit you not.