Trigger Warning: Extreme Horror: Contains Strong Sexual Content, Violence, Drug Use, and Language. by John Raptor Page B
Authors: John Raptor
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kill niggers, queers, sluts, and trannies…you look like you might be all four. So yes.”
Clown Mask sets a pink Glock .40 on the table, next to the cereal bowl.
“Do you remember this gun?”
I don’t say a fucking thing.
“Well, you should. It almost ended your life.”
I don’t say a fucking thing.
“There are others in this place of death. In this Hell House. I’m not supposed to be doing this. Gramma Wilkins says it’s against the rules. But you see, I hate the others. I like you. Kill them, and you shall be free.”
Clown Mask sets a key next to the gun.
“This key will undo the chains that bind you. This is the key to your salvation. Kill them, Alex. Kill them all: the cop, the whore, and the nigger bitch.”
I snatch the pink Glock.
Raspy, coughing up blood: “Fuck you.”
BAM!
Right in the motherfucker’s clown face.
…BEFORE
I suppose you’re waiting for my backstory.
Well, fuck you.
I don’t waste time dwelling and bitching about the past. I don’t whine about how people hurt my feelings to try and justify why I’m such a big mean monster.
Alex Rodriguez is a fucking mean bad ass and always has been, straight out his mother’s loose flappy cunt, baby.
Alex Rodriguez doesn’t look back, only forward: to the next pussy to fuck, the next drug to swallow, smoke, shoot up, the next victim to beat and kill and rape (sometimes in that order).
Fuck you.
You ain’t gettin’ no backstory about my father slapping and molesting me.
In the end, it doesn’t matter anyway. It doesn’t justify me or the things I do. I’m a monster and I’m proud of it.
These whiny cunts that tell you their backstories are just masturbating.
Ooo look how damaged I am. Look what I’ve become. See what abuse does to people. Isn’t it sad?
Look at me look at me look at me.
Shut the fuck up.
No one gives a fuck!
Jennifer
We continue, deeper and deeper into the labyrinth (as Robert calls it). He keeps muttering to himself that he’s been here before. I try to ask him questions: What? When? Why? How? But he is non-responsive and just says the same things over and over: “I shouldn’t have cheated on Cindy. I shouldn’t have had sex with Angela. I’m a monster. I’m evil. It’s my fault, all my fault. I’m the reason we’re here. I couldn’t be man enough. It’s my fault she died. Oh Jesus Christ, I’ve been here before. The labyrinth, the labyrinth. We are the Minotaurs. I shouldn’t have cheated on Cindy…” and on and on and on.
I don’t know what to tell this babbling ape-man, so I just say: “It’s going to be okay,” and, “Do you think you can walk by yourself?”
Robert nods, steadying himself against the wall, releasing his death grip on my shoulder.
I departed with the pumps about five minutes ago. Those fuckers were killing me. Better to walk on cold concrete than destroy my ankles.
“I’m sorry,” Robert says.
I shrug, say, “It’s okay,” even though I don’t know what he’s apologizing for. Being an ape-man? Highly doubt it.
“I shouldn’t have called you a whore,” he says.
I don’t trust that an ape-man can ever truly apologize for anything without an agenda (usually sex aka rape; the only “sex” ape-men are capable of), but I smirk and say, “It’s okay. I am a whore.”
Robert just looks at me.
“Let’s keep moving,” I say.
Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth: the maze of winding stone corridors and the eerie green light.
Then:
“Look! Stairs!” I cry out (almost too hopeful; I should know better), pointing.
“Thank fucking god,” Robert says.
He rushes up the steep wooden staircase, and I follow close behind—thankful I took off my pumps. If I tripped on these risers, I’d break my fucking skull open.
At the top of the stairs is a door with a rusty knob (of course)—this place is a lockjaw factory.
Robert struggles to twist the knob, clockwise, counterclockwise, but it won’t budge
Clown Mask sets a pink Glock .40 on the table, next to the cereal bowl.
“Do you remember this gun?”
I don’t say a fucking thing.
“Well, you should. It almost ended your life.”
I don’t say a fucking thing.
“There are others in this place of death. In this Hell House. I’m not supposed to be doing this. Gramma Wilkins says it’s against the rules. But you see, I hate the others. I like you. Kill them, and you shall be free.”
Clown Mask sets a key next to the gun.
“This key will undo the chains that bind you. This is the key to your salvation. Kill them, Alex. Kill them all: the cop, the whore, and the nigger bitch.”
I snatch the pink Glock.
Raspy, coughing up blood: “Fuck you.”
BAM!
Right in the motherfucker’s clown face.
…BEFORE
I suppose you’re waiting for my backstory.
Well, fuck you.
I don’t waste time dwelling and bitching about the past. I don’t whine about how people hurt my feelings to try and justify why I’m such a big mean monster.
Alex Rodriguez is a fucking mean bad ass and always has been, straight out his mother’s loose flappy cunt, baby.
Alex Rodriguez doesn’t look back, only forward: to the next pussy to fuck, the next drug to swallow, smoke, shoot up, the next victim to beat and kill and rape (sometimes in that order).
Fuck you.
You ain’t gettin’ no backstory about my father slapping and molesting me.
In the end, it doesn’t matter anyway. It doesn’t justify me or the things I do. I’m a monster and I’m proud of it.
These whiny cunts that tell you their backstories are just masturbating.
Ooo look how damaged I am. Look what I’ve become. See what abuse does to people. Isn’t it sad?
Look at me look at me look at me.
Shut the fuck up.
No one gives a fuck!
Jennifer
We continue, deeper and deeper into the labyrinth (as Robert calls it). He keeps muttering to himself that he’s been here before. I try to ask him questions: What? When? Why? How? But he is non-responsive and just says the same things over and over: “I shouldn’t have cheated on Cindy. I shouldn’t have had sex with Angela. I’m a monster. I’m evil. It’s my fault, all my fault. I’m the reason we’re here. I couldn’t be man enough. It’s my fault she died. Oh Jesus Christ, I’ve been here before. The labyrinth, the labyrinth. We are the Minotaurs. I shouldn’t have cheated on Cindy…” and on and on and on.
I don’t know what to tell this babbling ape-man, so I just say: “It’s going to be okay,” and, “Do you think you can walk by yourself?”
Robert nods, steadying himself against the wall, releasing his death grip on my shoulder.
I departed with the pumps about five minutes ago. Those fuckers were killing me. Better to walk on cold concrete than destroy my ankles.
“I’m sorry,” Robert says.
I shrug, say, “It’s okay,” even though I don’t know what he’s apologizing for. Being an ape-man? Highly doubt it.
“I shouldn’t have called you a whore,” he says.
I don’t trust that an ape-man can ever truly apologize for anything without an agenda (usually sex aka rape; the only “sex” ape-men are capable of), but I smirk and say, “It’s okay. I am a whore.”
Robert just looks at me.
“Let’s keep moving,” I say.
Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth: the maze of winding stone corridors and the eerie green light.
Then:
“Look! Stairs!” I cry out (almost too hopeful; I should know better), pointing.
“Thank fucking god,” Robert says.
He rushes up the steep wooden staircase, and I follow close behind—thankful I took off my pumps. If I tripped on these risers, I’d break my fucking skull open.
At the top of the stairs is a door with a rusty knob (of course)—this place is a lockjaw factory.
Robert struggles to twist the knob, clockwise, counterclockwise, but it won’t budge
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