toe-to toe with the ballsack of G*D
I realize that every sperm begins its day looking forward to its melting demise retching up it's cellular structure in order to implant its innards into some other cell looking to be gang-raped.
I realize that somewhere right now there is a young girl wishing that she could be fed amphetamines and LSD by greasy bikers just before they gang-rape her incoherent mind to death, or to close enough to it that her decomposing corpse isn't found where it wandered off the roadway.
I realize that there is several entire nations that wish that a comet or asteroid or nuclear fire would rid them of having to stare at sand and camel shit while wishing for death.
I am that Fire, that merciful winged angel of enlightenment, that pinhole through which the average monkey cannot view the larger suffering. If ONLY they could view the exqusite horror that soakes even the edges of the world around them. They walk around in their little worlds and think nothing of tossing feces on the nearest monkey. There is some little filter that prevents them from seeing all of the beautiful misery around them, as this would certainly drive each and every one of them beyond their capacity for mortal comprehension.
I do mean Beautiful, Exquisite suffering. Something like that is a symphony of flavors of pain, agony, misery, remorse, depression, filth, disease, dismemberment, and on and on. Only that great ballsack in the sky, the universal come-sponge GOD would or could create a masterpiece of such suffering. But to fulfill the wishes of mrlawg, I humbly present my own voice of pain to the chorus:
TITLE: If it weren't for the chopstick, 110VAC, spatula and three thumbtacks I could make it into heaven...
By Ashfallen0
Somewhere about the time he realized that his scrotum was ablaze, he must have realized that god did invent such things that were worse than death. As each moment passed the structure of his inner theighs was rapidly losing any resemblance of anything but a waffle-house steak. Wondering if pain like this was a real consequence of his actions.
No, this is not hell, this is a seedy town, hungover and encrusted with the remains and old semen of days of new-jobs, new money, and false sympathy for those "less fortunate". This is the backside of what was, before the overgrowth of kudzu, a disreputable used car lot. At this time of night, even though the downtrodden rode ignorantly by only 20 feet away, his screams of torment were never meant to reach their ears. Besides, the ballgag would have prevented that even if the whole local PD was waiting out front. Hell, the sizzling noise coming from his flesh would have been louder.
Smothering the fire with chlorine bleach might have added to his misery if only the nerve endings weren't seared away shortly after his short-and-curlies. Once the center hatch of the ball gag was removed, only two quick insisions were needed to separate his charred testicles from their home, and one slow movement to force their remains into his mouth to complete the dinner portion of this date night. Somewhere in that mind of his, there must have been some thought of hope, of escape, or of a quick end.
All masters of torture around the world agree that the only way to ensure that you break a man's spirit, and will to live quickly is to keep the pain moderate and constant, so as not to cause unconsiousness. Passing-out gives the subject time to relax, to regroup and find more hope in rescue or escape. That must be dealt with properly, so the IV in his arm is feeding a steady mix of sodium pentathol and amphetamine will make sure that only extreme shock or trauma will cause any unwanted fainting.
Beyond that, the compressor feeding 16psi air up his rectum is inflating his intestinal tract to cause constant discomfort and keep his mind on the tasks at hand was a nice touch. The chopstick wedged in his ureter and wired into a voltage modulator got his attention 110 volts at a time. More and vastly entertaining was the attention that was recieved as I sloughed off the charred flesh with a broken maddog 20/20 bottle surely used by some vagrant for both drinking and as a restroom.
I'm not completely psycho, just tired, and a little bored. Working in my dead-end middle management post, little things would produce an emotion that was somewhere indescribably beyond anger or hatred. It strains against the front of my skull, where I could destroy the world about me in a fiery death with just the pure force of such an emotion. But I digress, maybe I shouldn't gouge a man's eyes out with a metal spatula just for scratching my car indifferently, or for refusing to help with something that only they can accomplish; with that expression of false sympathy and a "Sorry, I can't help you".
But back to the task at hand, One mutilation and demise per customer, and only one at a time I always say. "Customer Service" isn't just a phrase with me! I make sure that the ballgag is secured to it's host with the three extra long thumbtacks and the industrial cabling usually used to bale sheet metal. A quick check of consiousness, pulse and breathing makes sure that he will get the most out of our time together.
The portable tv's that are strapped in front of his eyes give a bluish glow of the images before him, to feed the correct emotions into his head at a steady pace. Images of landscapes and pornography, children starving and fast cars, oil fields and dying soldiers, warm holiday moments and anal rape, all the comforts of home and a jail cell. Images to aid his suffering, images to shame and degrade everything he loves. Hell, if I had images of his mother's every longing hole being used by 6 midgets and a leper in a pile of used needles and human waste I would BE god, not just his later-day saint. His future like his skin, has no use, no purpose, save to enlighten the masses that god can love him in ways that produce bile in the throat. God loves in ways that produce terror, cares in horrible anal spasms, casts you down and lifts you up, baptized in pain and fire.
All this warm feeling has slightly distracted me, and one of his toes goes in the ballgag, instead of dangling off his foot to mock his ideas of mobility and freedom. Who says that the way to a man's heart isn't through his stomach? The brief shivvering at the taste tells me that his heart knows what his stomach posseses now. With care and presicion his thumbs are transplanted to the blood vessels that used to irrigate his scrotum, for what's the use of having genitalia if you can't play with it? I've decided that it's time for the gag to come out, so the larynx need to go, I'll have none of that damnable racket that is sure to ensue from him if he can produce noise at will. Too many are allowed to use that privalege on a daily basis, and look what it has done to the world.
That taken care of, and the gag removed and discarded, as well as that pesky right ear that got in the way of my metal shears. Too bad, as this removes a degree of symmetry from my creation, my sculpture of flesh and entropy and pop culture. Guess that means the other one will have to go as well. A quick look through my bag of accesories shows me that a pair of oversized headphones would fit well beneath the skin on the side of his head. Ten minutes later and after the removal of his upper eyelids, the xmas wreath with the crown tips of dancing jesus figures finishes off the top of this masterpiece.
Just a few more touches to complete this work, and it dons on me that my erection has been throbbing for 3 straight hours now. Ironic that such a thing could be erotic as well as educational. His mind is in another place now, floating between the pit and the stars. Bolting his knees to the soles of his feet and sewing his remaining hands together between his legs requires the removal of the IV, so I must work quickly now. He is able to both view the stars and the tv's now, so I suppose a prayer or ten-thousand runs a second to the 100DB shrieks of babies in his new headphone-augmented ear canals. Attaching his new wings of rusted rebar and concrete and glass to his back only needs two insicions, and two metal hooks placed between his upper ribs.
Now on to the dissasembly of my workspace, removing tools, clearing trash and unused body parts. Bandaging wounds with catalog and coupon, filling holes with heated glass. A large hoist helps him onto his stage, for he is an actor for all of mankind now. The stage helps his effect on the audience, as two projection units now can display what he sees, and a third to make his image appear on the billboard above. Every theatre needs advertising, so superimposed on the JESUS SAVES sign above, his grim visage should attract rave reviews. The backdrops support the speakers so that everyone can share in what he hears, the lights that will keep him warm and illuminate him like the glory of god, and his name in lights. Every great performer deserves to be recognized for his work.
The Devil, is how they say, in the details, so a king-james edition bible is placed beneath his hands, xmas lights wrapped about his wings, and powered by the bursts of energy occasionally still running to his chopstick. Makeup and hair, 5 minutes to curtain folks! His stage is wheeled out to the curbside, and all of the power and lights checked, and the networks are notified of his debut time. As I hear the approaching news vans, the shroud of curtains are removed from the stage, and it's time! Time for the unveiling of my magnum opus, and his rise to stardom! LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!
FiN!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is fiction people, not a recount of an event, so before you get your midwestern soccer-mom gums-a-flappin at inane pace over this story, this is meant for selective consumption, not for everyone. If you managed to find it by keyword search, YOU are pretty sick for looking for this kind of thing.
NOTE TO MRLAWG: This took quite awhile to complete, and is the first time I fell asleep while attempting to visualize something for fiction purposes, enjoy!
I realize that somewhere right now there is a young girl wishing that she could be fed amphetamines and LSD by greasy bikers just before they gang-rape her incoherent mind to death, or to close enough to it that her decomposing corpse isn't found where it wandered off the roadway.
I realize that there is several entire nations that wish that a comet or asteroid or nuclear fire would rid them of having to stare at sand and camel shit while wishing for death.
I am that Fire, that merciful winged angel of enlightenment, that pinhole through which the average monkey cannot view the larger suffering. If ONLY they could view the exqusite horror that soakes even the edges of the world around them. They walk around in their little worlds and think nothing of tossing feces on the nearest monkey. There is some little filter that prevents them from seeing all of the beautiful misery around them, as this would certainly drive each and every one of them beyond their capacity for mortal comprehension.
I do mean Beautiful, Exquisite suffering. Something like that is a symphony of flavors of pain, agony, misery, remorse, depression, filth, disease, dismemberment, and on and on. Only that great ballsack in the sky, the universal come-sponge GOD would or could create a masterpiece of such suffering. But to fulfill the wishes of mrlawg, I humbly present my own voice of pain to the chorus:
TITLE: If it weren't for the chopstick, 110VAC, spatula and three thumbtacks I could make it into heaven...
By Ashfallen0
Somewhere about the time he realized that his scrotum was ablaze, he must have realized that god did invent such things that were worse than death. As each moment passed the structure of his inner theighs was rapidly losing any resemblance of anything but a waffle-house steak. Wondering if pain like this was a real consequence of his actions.
No, this is not hell, this is a seedy town, hungover and encrusted with the remains and old semen of days of new-jobs, new money, and false sympathy for those "less fortunate". This is the backside of what was, before the overgrowth of kudzu, a disreputable used car lot. At this time of night, even though the downtrodden rode ignorantly by only 20 feet away, his screams of torment were never meant to reach their ears. Besides, the ballgag would have prevented that even if the whole local PD was waiting out front. Hell, the sizzling noise coming from his flesh would have been louder.
Smothering the fire with chlorine bleach might have added to his misery if only the nerve endings weren't seared away shortly after his short-and-curlies. Once the center hatch of the ball gag was removed, only two quick insisions were needed to separate his charred testicles from their home, and one slow movement to force their remains into his mouth to complete the dinner portion of this date night. Somewhere in that mind of his, there must have been some thought of hope, of escape, or of a quick end.
All masters of torture around the world agree that the only way to ensure that you break a man's spirit, and will to live quickly is to keep the pain moderate and constant, so as not to cause unconsiousness. Passing-out gives the subject time to relax, to regroup and find more hope in rescue or escape. That must be dealt with properly, so the IV in his arm is feeding a steady mix of sodium pentathol and amphetamine will make sure that only extreme shock or trauma will cause any unwanted fainting.
Beyond that, the compressor feeding 16psi air up his rectum is inflating his intestinal tract to cause constant discomfort and keep his mind on the tasks at hand was a nice touch. The chopstick wedged in his ureter and wired into a voltage modulator got his attention 110 volts at a time. More and vastly entertaining was the attention that was recieved as I sloughed off the charred flesh with a broken maddog 20/20 bottle surely used by some vagrant for both drinking and as a restroom.
I'm not completely psycho, just tired, and a little bored. Working in my dead-end middle management post, little things would produce an emotion that was somewhere indescribably beyond anger or hatred. It strains against the front of my skull, where I could destroy the world about me in a fiery death with just the pure force of such an emotion. But I digress, maybe I shouldn't gouge a man's eyes out with a metal spatula just for scratching my car indifferently, or for refusing to help with something that only they can accomplish; with that expression of false sympathy and a "Sorry, I can't help you".
But back to the task at hand, One mutilation and demise per customer, and only one at a time I always say. "Customer Service" isn't just a phrase with me! I make sure that the ballgag is secured to it's host with the three extra long thumbtacks and the industrial cabling usually used to bale sheet metal. A quick check of consiousness, pulse and breathing makes sure that he will get the most out of our time together.
The portable tv's that are strapped in front of his eyes give a bluish glow of the images before him, to feed the correct emotions into his head at a steady pace. Images of landscapes and pornography, children starving and fast cars, oil fields and dying soldiers, warm holiday moments and anal rape, all the comforts of home and a jail cell. Images to aid his suffering, images to shame and degrade everything he loves. Hell, if I had images of his mother's every longing hole being used by 6 midgets and a leper in a pile of used needles and human waste I would BE god, not just his later-day saint. His future like his skin, has no use, no purpose, save to enlighten the masses that god can love him in ways that produce bile in the throat. God loves in ways that produce terror, cares in horrible anal spasms, casts you down and lifts you up, baptized in pain and fire.
All this warm feeling has slightly distracted me, and one of his toes goes in the ballgag, instead of dangling off his foot to mock his ideas of mobility and freedom. Who says that the way to a man's heart isn't through his stomach? The brief shivvering at the taste tells me that his heart knows what his stomach posseses now. With care and presicion his thumbs are transplanted to the blood vessels that used to irrigate his scrotum, for what's the use of having genitalia if you can't play with it? I've decided that it's time for the gag to come out, so the larynx need to go, I'll have none of that damnable racket that is sure to ensue from him if he can produce noise at will. Too many are allowed to use that privalege on a daily basis, and look what it has done to the world.
That taken care of, and the gag removed and discarded, as well as that pesky right ear that got in the way of my metal shears. Too bad, as this removes a degree of symmetry from my creation, my sculpture of flesh and entropy and pop culture. Guess that means the other one will have to go as well. A quick look through my bag of accesories shows me that a pair of oversized headphones would fit well beneath the skin on the side of his head. Ten minutes later and after the removal of his upper eyelids, the xmas wreath with the crown tips of dancing jesus figures finishes off the top of this masterpiece.
Just a few more touches to complete this work, and it dons on me that my erection has been throbbing for 3 straight hours now. Ironic that such a thing could be erotic as well as educational. His mind is in another place now, floating between the pit and the stars. Bolting his knees to the soles of his feet and sewing his remaining hands together between his legs requires the removal of the IV, so I must work quickly now. He is able to both view the stars and the tv's now, so I suppose a prayer or ten-thousand runs a second to the 100DB shrieks of babies in his new headphone-augmented ear canals. Attaching his new wings of rusted rebar and concrete and glass to his back only needs two insicions, and two metal hooks placed between his upper ribs.
Now on to the dissasembly of my workspace, removing tools, clearing trash and unused body parts. Bandaging wounds with catalog and coupon, filling holes with heated glass. A large hoist helps him onto his stage, for he is an actor for all of mankind now. The stage helps his effect on the audience, as two projection units now can display what he sees, and a third to make his image appear on the billboard above. Every theatre needs advertising, so superimposed on the JESUS SAVES sign above, his grim visage should attract rave reviews. The backdrops support the speakers so that everyone can share in what he hears, the lights that will keep him warm and illuminate him like the glory of god, and his name in lights. Every great performer deserves to be recognized for his work.
The Devil, is how they say, in the details, so a king-james edition bible is placed beneath his hands, xmas lights wrapped about his wings, and powered by the bursts of energy occasionally still running to his chopstick. Makeup and hair, 5 minutes to curtain folks! His stage is wheeled out to the curbside, and all of the power and lights checked, and the networks are notified of his debut time. As I hear the approaching news vans, the shroud of curtains are removed from the stage, and it's time! Time for the unveiling of my magnum opus, and his rise to stardom! LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION!
FiN!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is fiction people, not a recount of an event, so before you get your midwestern soccer-mom gums-a-flappin at inane pace over this story, this is meant for selective consumption, not for everyone. If you managed to find it by keyword search, YOU are pretty sick for looking for this kind of thing.
NOTE TO MRLAWG: This took quite awhile to complete, and is the first time I fell asleep while attempting to visualize something for fiction purposes, enjoy!