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

  “LET ME OUT OF HER E OR I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

  “You’ve been a bad, bad boy, Alex,” the clown whispers into my ear through its latex mask-hole, “…and the wages of sin is death. At sunrise, the Lord will reveal his face to you. He will cast you into the valley of darkness.”

  The clown giggles and then leaves the room. The door clangs shut, the bolt sliding home (much like the steel door to the Kill Room) and I just sit here, bound to this chair, fear creeping into my guts.

  No, not fear.

  Fear is for pussies.

  Anger.

  Rage.

  Creeping into my balls.

  MUST. KILL.

  On the table in front of me: a box of Captain Crunch, a bowl of soggy cereal, and a rusty spoon; a small sticky note next to the bowl tells me to EAT UP! :)

  Not fucking likely.

  A newspaper, also spread out before me, tells me the time for sunrise, highlighted in yellow:

  6:09.

  An alarm clock with red digital read-outs warns that it is currently midnight. In other words: You have six hours to get the fuck out of here, bitch.

  Before this, before this shit, all I remember is the girl crying and the camera rolling and the stench of sweat and pussy and blood and I was laughing and the blade was at her neck and I was getting off on this and I had a raging hard-on and she wouldn’t quit screaming and this fact only made me harder and want to butcher her more…and then this guy in a rabbit suit popped up out of fucking nowhere and said, “You’ve been a naughty boy, Alex,” in this high-pitched faggot’s voice and started giggling madly and poked me with a syringe and I thought he was injecting me with AIDS and I was about to cut his throat with the machete but then I woke up here.

  Across the table from me is another man chained to a chair: Steve Cheese, aka The Film Guy (but that’s not possible). His face looks like it’s been sewn on. His throat has been slashed; his Hawaiian shirt stained a dark red. On the wall behind him, scrawled in blood (his?), are a cross and the words: HE LOVED YOU THIS MUCH!

  A scalpel is clenched in Steve’s cold dead grip.

  “LET ME OUT OF HERE YOU FUCKING JESUS FREAKS! LET ME OUT!”

  Robert

  I wake up in darkness, a red pulsating pain throbbing between my eyes; the thick stench of sewage putrefying in my nostrils. I retch onto the concrete. I retch until there is nothing left but strings of acidic bile hanging from my chapped lips. And then I wobble onto rubbery legs, stumbling through the darkness, heart pounding in the base of my throat, until I collide with a stone pillar—which I lean against for support.

  Swallowing deep breaths, I wait for my eyes to adjust to the room. There is a faint green glow, which tints the walls and floor—the latter spotted with black puddles of some noxious smelling substance. I squint, rub my eyes, and realize my hands are covered in it: Mud? Shit?

  I scan the room. No, not a room. A chamber. The size of it startles me. Concrete walls and floor, no windows. Some parts of the floor are covered in gravel.

  My heart skips and I nearly scream when I spot someone else in the chamber: a girl, blonde, sitting against the far wall, her knees drawn up to her chest, mascara smeared all over her cheeks. She’s wearing a mini-skirt and halter top and big pumps. Looks like a cheap whore.

  She doesn’t acknowledge me. Stares at the floor.

  “Where the fuck are we?” I try to yell, but it comes out a soft quiver. Almost sounds like a cry.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Hey!” My anger comes out this time.

  The girl looks up, glaring.

  Startles me.

  “Who are you? Where are we?”

  “I…don’t know,” she whispers, and it echoes eerily off the concrete walls.

  Her face scrunches up, and she starts sobbing.

  “Hey. Don’t cry. It’s going to be okay. I’m a cop. They’ll come looking for me.”

  “They say you’re the reason we’re here.”

  Warm dread flowers in my chest.

  “What? Who?”

  “The bunny,” she says.

  I lean against the pillar, hands shaking. I take a deep breath, choking on the humid stench of rot and shit.

  “The bunny.”

  “They’re wearing masks.” She breaks down sobbing again.

  “Pull yourself together. Who are you?”

  “J-J-Jennifer.”

  “Okay…Jennifer. Just calm down. Everything is going to be alright…I promise.”

  “They said you’d say that.”

  A chill racks my body, despite the fact that it’s hotter than hell down here. “Wha—who?”

  “The bunny,” she says.

  I sigh and sit down on the floor, against the pillar.

  “They said you’re an expert in evil.”

  I run my hands through my hair—greasier than a lubricated rat.

  “What do they mean by that?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  …YESTERDAY

  This is the part where we do a flashback to how my life used to be, before all this shit happened. Okay, well here it is.

  It was a Saturday and my wife Cindy was in the kitchen baking lasagna and pulling down bottles of wine, red and white, but hopefully not planning to serve both to each of her guests or else the house was going to be full of flatulence.

  I had just got done with a 16-hour shift and was pulling into the driveway in my squad car, when I imagine Cindy spotted me through the kitchen window, wiped her hands on one of those gaudy wedding towels her parents bought for us, and rushed to the door to invite me in.

  She was the perfect drone…I mean, housewife. She fit our cookie-cutter lifestyle and her gender role to a gingerbread woman T.

  We were white, upper class, Christian (meaning we went to church occasionally—Christmas, Easter, whenever someone we kinda knew croaked or got married), straight, and cis. No confusion about our sexuality, gender identity, or otherkinness. Nope. We were normal normal normal normal.

  Average.

  Ordinary.

  We were chameleons that could blend in and fit in anywhere, rendering us completely safe from predators…mainly, our own kind.

  What more could you want out of life?

  “Hi, Rob. How was your shift?” Cindy said, white teeth gleaming, blue eyes sparkling. I imagined if I shot her face open, there’d be nothing but wiring and circuit boards behind that mask.

  “Alright,” I said.

  I moved past her, slumped down on the couch, and did what any average Joe would do after a long day’s work: turned on the tube.

  “Ryan and Brandi are coming over tonight,” Cindy said.

  The thought of socializing after a 16-hour shift instantly filled me with anxiety and rage, but these feelings were too dulled by exhaustion and apathy for any of it to register on my face, or in my eyes, which were blankly fixed on the evening news: a new virus may wipe out humanity. Oh god, if only.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “My friend Brandi and her husband.”

  “Oh God, not that cunt.”

  “Be nice, Robert. Brandi is not a…c-word.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Brandi.”

  “I thought you liked Ryan.”

  “No,” I said. “I never said that. You’re living in your own fantasy world. You don’t listen to anything I say.”

  “But Ryan’s a nice guy.”

  “There are no nice guys.”

  “What about Brandi? Do you like her?”

  “I don’t talk to her. She’s your friend and you don’t even like her. Last time she was here all she did was complain about the wallpaper.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like her, it’s just that…”

  “She’s a vacuous bitch?”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem. I spent my night chasing meth heads down Sunset and the last thing I want to do is hang out with Brandi and her numb nuts husband.”

&
nbsp; “You just need to get to know Ryan better. I’m sure eventually you two will get along fine.”

  “Just like every other husband you try to hook me up with? Why do we have to socialize all the time? Can’t we just…be left alone?”

  “Socializing is normal, Robert. It’s what normal people do.”

  Cindy returned to the kitchen, and I continued to stare into the TV: all the bees are dying and it may be the end of humankind. Next: the weather. Looks like a sunny day all week.

  ***

  The horizon of the suburbs was tinted a yellowish-orange as the sun set where it usually sets (the west) and we were out on the back patio, staring at our acres of green lawn and my wife’s yam garden, which garnered her the award for best yams in the neighborhood three years in a row.

  Can you feel the excitement?

  I sat in a lawn chair with my shades on, taking long swallows from a beer. Unfortunately, Ryan was seated next to me, in his own lawn chair, as my wife and Brandi were setting out silverware on the patio table and talking about sales at the mall and some girl named Ashley who is pregnant AGAIN, even though she can barely afford rent on her condo.

  It was so stereotypical it felt almost…scripted.

  Cindy announced that she was going to get the wine and Brandi offered to help her carry glasses.

  Then Cindy did something that I hate. She turned to me and Ryan and said: “You boys doin’ alright?”

  I’m not a fuckin’ boy, you cunt.

  “Super!” Ryan said.

  “Okay. We’ll be back in a sec. You two just keep talking about sports and cars and tools and other man stuff. Haha.”

  If Cindy loved me at all, cared about me one iota, she’d know that I could count the number of shits I give about sports, cars, and tools and “other man stuff” on one hand…if I were missing fingers.

  “Will do!” Ryan said.

  Twat.

  We sat in complete silence, until Ryan interrupted the calm with:

  “So, did you catch the Raiders game last night?”

  I took a swig of beer, emptied the bottle, and tossed it into the yard.

  Ryan laughed. “Nice throw.”

  “Quit the small talk crap,” I said. “I don’t care about you and you don’t care about me. So, just…stop…it.”

  “Hey, man. Just tryin’ to be friendly.”

  “Last year, I found a dead girl in a dumpster. She was eight. Her mom sold her into prostitution so she could pump more junk into her veins. A group of niggers bought this girl for the night. Eight years old. They violated her in every orifice…then they beat her skull in with a crowbar because she tried to fight back. When I found her…around 4am, I think it was…her hair was matted with blood and cum and shit. I don't know where the shit came from. I'm a grown ass man…and I cried. I fucking cried like a baby when I saw that baby doll…her innocence raped and violated…her whimsy crushed. Girls that age are supposed to like dolls and ponies and pink things. That girl…all she ever knew was dirt, puke, shit, grit, cum, blood, junk. She took it in the ass, the vag, the face, so her goddam mother could get her fix. Pathetic. Makes me sick.”

  Ryan said, “Jesus.”

  I reached into the cooler, cracked open another beer.

  “It’s a fucked up, monotonous world out there. Full of filth and shit. Monsters wearing human masks. It never ends. It’s like the goddam Energizer Bunny.”

  Cindy and Brandi brought out the wine, giggling about some vapid shit that didn’t matter, at the moment, or in the end.

  My wife asked: “Who wants Red Ass Rhubarb?”

  ***

  Angela’s body was hot and I was hard between her legs, caressing her erect pink nipples with the pads of my thumbs and grasping both breasts, as I eased myself deep inside her, thrusting, punching her cervix. She clawed at my back, breathing hard, coming to…

  We both orgasmed at the same time, and I buried my face between her breasts (slick with sweat) licking them like a puppy dog and crying with pleasure. Angela’s warm heavy breaths ruffled my hair and I could smell her. God, she smelled good: the musky scent of sex and the salty smell of sweat. I licked the cum off her cream pie and gave her another orgasm—massaging her clit in a slow, circular motion with my tongue as I fingered her.

  She started screaming a combination of God and I’s names, and then took the sweet Baby Jesus’ in vain.

  I met Angela at my gym. She was a yoga instructor who gave me a private lesson: aka she forced my chin down on the mat between her legs while she did the splits, her hot open cunt right in my face, lips spread. I breathed on her pink insides and she threw her head back and moaned as I stared up at her large heaving breasts and she forced my lips and tongue onto her gaping wetness and I devoured her.

  In her private shower room, she told me that she had been a dirty girl and ordered me to scrub her nubile body with soap and then to grope her breasts, ass, and pussy with my fingers under the hot running water. After I cleaned her up, she bent over, backed into my erect cock, and pushed me against the wall with her ass, which bounced against my groin as she forced me in and out, in and out…the hot water dancing on her back and the crack of her a—

  But back to the scene:

  I sat with my back against the headboard and lit a cigarette as Angela snuggled up against me.

  “Did you hear about those cannibal kids in Minnesota? They killed and ate like thirty people,” she said.

  I didn’t feel like talking about this crap. Not with her. She was my escape—not only from work, but my wife, my boring ass life. She was my fantasy girl, in the flesh—a gorgeous sex toy.

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “I heard about it. They were both fast food mascots. They killed people while wearing their ridiculous costumes.”

  “I think it’s so sad—kids these days. I don’t know why they’re so mean. I blame the parents.”

  “The boy cannibalized both his father and mother.”

  “Probably served them right for raising such a fucked up kid.”

  “Yeah. It’s a fucked up world,” I said, bored, taking a drag off the cig.

  “People do stupid things.”

  “Yeah. People are stupid,” I said.

  This conversation was going nowhere and I had the sudden urge to just leave.

  “Did you ever hear about that serial killer in Chicago who cut out prostitute’s eyes and replaced them with big black buttons?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Richard Harris. He was a pecan.”

  “I think he hated women.”

  “Yeah, probably. I mean, he killed them.”

  “Why do so many men hate women?”

  “I…don’t know. They feel…like they’re better than them, I guess. And somehow that excuses their violent and sexually deviant behavior toward them. For Richard, I think it was partly his religious upbringing. His parents were pecans too.”

  “Did you ever hear about that brain surgeon who got shot in the head, ended up in a coma, and woke up a serial killer?”

  I got drowsy and started to doze off…said something like, “Um…ye-ah.”

  “ROBERT!”

  I jumped. “What?”

  Angela crawled on top of me, her breasts pushed against my chest, and I stared down into her cleavage, my dick getting hard against her ass and cunt. She started rubbing her wetness against me, and then she asked again, licking my lips, talking into my mouth.

  “Did you hear about that guy?” She sneaked her tongue between my lips, and I bit her softly.

  “What guy?” I asked, drawing away.

  “The guy who got shot in the head and turned into a serial killer?”

  “No. I haven’t heard of him. Sounds like Phineas Gage.”

  “Who’s Phineas Gage?”

  “Guy in the 1800s. Had a railroad spike go through his head. Used to be a charming guy like me, but then he turned into a complete asshole.”

  “Did Phineas kill anybody?”

  “Not that I know of.”

 
; “Talking about this turns me on,” she said, gripping my cock, and positioning it into her cunthole.

  “Not again, baby doll. I’m exhausted.”

  “Oh come on. I know you got more spunk in ya than that.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  I squeezed her firm ass as she humped my dick, over and over and over, until I felt sore down there, my head burning. I told her I needed a break and she pulled me out with a wet pop and turned around, presenting her wet, sopping lips to me from behind, and smashing her ass against my face, forcing me to rim her asshole and cunt. When she finally gave me some breathing room, I bit her on the ass, and she pulled her cheeks apart, inviting me inside. I pushed my throbbing dick inside her asshole and instantly shot a load. The orgasm burned my urethra this round, as if I was coming molten lead, and I winced, crawling out of the bed, my dick limp and throbbing, thinking that I needed to get out of here before this nympho made it fall off. I reached down and picked my boxers off the floor. “I better get going. Cindy will start worrying about me.”

  Angela lay sexily on the bed, stroking her breasts, sucking on her fingers, wetting her nipples.

  “Cindy, Cindy, Cindy. When are you going to leave that bitch?”

  “Never. She’s my wife. Besides, if I left her, what would I do? Marry you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “No, sweetheart. What we got…the reason it's so good is because it's wrong. It's sinful. If we got married, we'd be bored of each other in a week.”

  Sex with my wife Cindy was…banal (missionary, or a lackluster hand job beneath the sheets as I boredly fingered her). Sex with Angela was dangerous and erotic. It was wrong and it gave me a rush—like that rollercoaster, like shooting that fuckin’ nigger in the head.

  My excuse to leave that godawful dinner with Ryan and Brandi was that I had lots of paperwork at the office. I needed Angela’s pussy more than anything that night. Her pussy was like heroin. Soothing. Made me forget what a shit life I had.

  Angela pounced on me as I made my way toward the door, wrapping her strong legs around my waist, and poking her tongue in my mouth. I told her I had to go and put her back down on the ground.

  She bent over and told me I wasn’t allowed to leave unless I spanked her.