Trigger Warning: Extreme Horror: Contains Strong Sexual Content, Violence, Drug Use, and Language. by John Raptor Page A
Authors: John Raptor
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Rodriguez.
I wrestle the restraints, pulling my wrists in opposite directions, the thick muscles in my arms rippling, veins bulging (get off on this queers, while you still can— before I fucking rip you apart! )
The twine that binds my wrists snaps. Unfortunately, the chains around my waist and ankles are still tightly in place (the chains around my ankles looped through a tiny steel hoop on the floor).
Chained like a goddam nigger in a slave ship. No Aryan Alpha Male should be treated like a fucking slave. I’m a son of Odin, goddammit!
I stare at the bowl of soggy Captain Crunch.
“Poisoned, I bet ya. Motherfuckers.”
I pick up the rusty spoon, my stomach gurgling from sickness and hunger, the combination making me nauseated. I dip the spoon into the curdling milk, the stench sour in my nostrils, but I don’t give a shit. I raise the spoon to my lips. Take a bite.
I feel my face twist in disgust. But I force it down.
Another bite, another swallow.
Soggy, chunky, sour. I force it down.
Another bite, another swallow. A sharp pain rips into my throat and I choke, gag as something lodges there.
The blood drains from my face.
Black dots dance on my eyeballs.
Goddammit, something sharp and jagged.
I grapple at my throat. Scan the room frantically.
Everything becomes blurry, unfocused. Black spots shower over my retinas.
FOCUS.
The scalpel in the corpse’s hand!
I twist the scalpel from Steve’s dead clutches, cutting my palm in the process. And then I proceed to perform self-surgery: slicing open the bottom of my throat, right below the Adam’s apple. I gnash my teeth so hard I shatter my incisors, tiny bloody pieces of enamel tinkling onto the table and floor.
I pull the scalpel across, deep and fast—but the pain isn’t any worse than the sharp, jagged object clogging my air passage.
I finger my bloody throat-hole—I can feel membranes, like dripping wet meat. And then my finger pads are poked by something sharp, jagged; the offending object: a tiny, rusty circular saw blade.
I toss it onto the table, where it clatters with a metallic clang next to Steve’s frozen, rigor mortis fist. The fist that once gripped the bloody scalpel I now drop to the floor.
I struggle for breath and it rasps in and out of my newly acquired throat-hole, blowing blood bubbles as I exhale. Dinner and a show.
I hold my hands over the wound, futilely trying to stop the bleeding—but my throat has become a pouring crimson fountain. The gushing blood is warm, almost comforting, as my head goes light. My life, dripping down the front of my white (now mostly red) wife-beater—something I’ve worn while beating a few wives (not my own; marriage is for beta-males and cunts).
I feel the world fading…my eyes roll upward…and then I’m falling, face first toward the soggy cereal—
SPLASH!
Black.
In the darkness, I hear the door to the room squeak open.
Latex gloves? grab me, pull me upright in the chair.
I gasp for oxygen, face dripping with spoilt milk and blood.
I don’t try to fight them, it, whatever—the fingers of my numb mind just barely grasping the fine threads of reality. All I see is a shape and a pair of hands.
I let the hands do their work.
They sew my throat-hole up…the needle pinching, stinging, but I’m already in so much pain that I’m barely lucid and don’t give a shit. Pain and terror has become my Novocaine—not as good as the shit in the dentist’s office, but it suffices.
The filament pulls tight, the thread is snipped, and then the sentient hands wrap gauze around the stitched wound.
The Shadow connected to the Hands comes into focus…
…the Clown Mask. Smiling down at me. A red smile which is frozen on the white soulless face.
“Fucker,” I tell it in a raspy, 50-year-smoker’s voice.
The Clown giggles, honks its nose, then very seriously says: “I just saved your life you ungrateful cunt.”
“What do you want?”
“You’re a killer, aren’t you?”
“I only
I wrestle the restraints, pulling my wrists in opposite directions, the thick muscles in my arms rippling, veins bulging (get off on this queers, while you still can— before I fucking rip you apart! )
The twine that binds my wrists snaps. Unfortunately, the chains around my waist and ankles are still tightly in place (the chains around my ankles looped through a tiny steel hoop on the floor).
Chained like a goddam nigger in a slave ship. No Aryan Alpha Male should be treated like a fucking slave. I’m a son of Odin, goddammit!
I stare at the bowl of soggy Captain Crunch.
“Poisoned, I bet ya. Motherfuckers.”
I pick up the rusty spoon, my stomach gurgling from sickness and hunger, the combination making me nauseated. I dip the spoon into the curdling milk, the stench sour in my nostrils, but I don’t give a shit. I raise the spoon to my lips. Take a bite.
I feel my face twist in disgust. But I force it down.
Another bite, another swallow.
Soggy, chunky, sour. I force it down.
Another bite, another swallow. A sharp pain rips into my throat and I choke, gag as something lodges there.
The blood drains from my face.
Black dots dance on my eyeballs.
Goddammit, something sharp and jagged.
I grapple at my throat. Scan the room frantically.
Everything becomes blurry, unfocused. Black spots shower over my retinas.
FOCUS.
The scalpel in the corpse’s hand!
I twist the scalpel from Steve’s dead clutches, cutting my palm in the process. And then I proceed to perform self-surgery: slicing open the bottom of my throat, right below the Adam’s apple. I gnash my teeth so hard I shatter my incisors, tiny bloody pieces of enamel tinkling onto the table and floor.
I pull the scalpel across, deep and fast—but the pain isn’t any worse than the sharp, jagged object clogging my air passage.
I finger my bloody throat-hole—I can feel membranes, like dripping wet meat. And then my finger pads are poked by something sharp, jagged; the offending object: a tiny, rusty circular saw blade.
I toss it onto the table, where it clatters with a metallic clang next to Steve’s frozen, rigor mortis fist. The fist that once gripped the bloody scalpel I now drop to the floor.
I struggle for breath and it rasps in and out of my newly acquired throat-hole, blowing blood bubbles as I exhale. Dinner and a show.
I hold my hands over the wound, futilely trying to stop the bleeding—but my throat has become a pouring crimson fountain. The gushing blood is warm, almost comforting, as my head goes light. My life, dripping down the front of my white (now mostly red) wife-beater—something I’ve worn while beating a few wives (not my own; marriage is for beta-males and cunts).
I feel the world fading…my eyes roll upward…and then I’m falling, face first toward the soggy cereal—
SPLASH!
Black.
In the darkness, I hear the door to the room squeak open.
Latex gloves? grab me, pull me upright in the chair.
I gasp for oxygen, face dripping with spoilt milk and blood.
I don’t try to fight them, it, whatever—the fingers of my numb mind just barely grasping the fine threads of reality. All I see is a shape and a pair of hands.
I let the hands do their work.
They sew my throat-hole up…the needle pinching, stinging, but I’m already in so much pain that I’m barely lucid and don’t give a shit. Pain and terror has become my Novocaine—not as good as the shit in the dentist’s office, but it suffices.
The filament pulls tight, the thread is snipped, and then the sentient hands wrap gauze around the stitched wound.
The Shadow connected to the Hands comes into focus…
…the Clown Mask. Smiling down at me. A red smile which is frozen on the white soulless face.
“Fucker,” I tell it in a raspy, 50-year-smoker’s voice.
The Clown giggles, honks its nose, then very seriously says: “I just saved your life you ungrateful cunt.”
“What do you want?”
“You’re a killer, aren’t you?”
“I only
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