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Chapter 1:
Perversion of the Flesh
(by Alex Tate, added on January 20, 2010)
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Nobody can really tell when they’ve encountered a serial killer, not until they see their police mug shot on the evening news. People will cover a hand over their mouths and say, “hey! That’s fucking Dan that lives down the street!” or, “oh my god, I never would have thought he could do something like that.” Fact of the matter is, nobody seems to realize that the person they acquaint and casually socialize with to be the kind of person to plummet an axe in and out of the bloody pulp of a teenage girls head. Nobody seems to think, hey, this guy’s a little off, I’m going to stay clear of him…he has the traits and tendencies of a psychopath or a cannibal or a sexual sadist. That quiet, quirky man. The kind of man you’d see in the schoolyard twenty or thirty years ago being the top of every class, occasionally being beaten senseless by the bullies that grow up to serve ten years in prison for robbing a convenient store. That guy that lives on his own in a crappy one-storey house, always keeping to himself. A good looking guy, but never scoring any chicks. The guy that enjoys those small pleasures like collecting stamps, or masturbating to cheap porn magazines.
No, nobody ever seems to talk about these kinds of things. It’s like a forbidden taboo. You wouldn’t talk about it at the dinner table with your wife; you wouldn’t talk about it at your golf club. Because, really, you can never just assume that somebody’s a murderer, it’s discourteous and misapprehending. It’s only when you sit down with a half cup of coffee sitting torpidly between your thighs and your wife’s preparing dessert when the news comes on. The anchor, with that melancholy tone droning on about some completely fucking boring story when all of a sudden the mug shot of a man with indolent eyelids listing lazily over the pair of irises and pupils that pierce through the TV and shock you just a little with dread. The man you thought was a friendly person that attended the weekly neighbourhood watch meeting last Saturday and made you both some sandwiches.
This man, he’s been charged with the murder of eight small children, all of them found in his bedroom with their eyes gouged out and their puckered assholes sodomized and mutilated, their bowels ruptured. Some of the kids gutted completely, the slimy entrails slathered about the room like some putrid confetti. It hits you; you’re completely in shock. No. There’s no fucking way that this man lived close to me. Someone in the neighbourhood would have told you by now. The news says that he was arrested at a café in the city centre, and was shot dead, when he pulled a gun and killed three officers. This man, his name is Lenny Hicox. This is where our little story comes to its main plot. This isn’t so much to do with Lenny Hicox. It’s more so to do with the aftermath, and all the horror that comes with it.
There was mass controversy. Press coverage. News headlines. The parents and families of these poor kids, mourning and wishing a worse fate for the man who did this to their children. Gutted, raped, their eyes gouged out. All of them bled to death…never a nice way to go. Then there was trouble with the burial plot. Nobody wanted to do it. Nobody wanted to bring any sort of closure to this man…this malevolent thing. Most people would have been happy for his body to decompose in a pile of bird shit in a near off forest for the insects and bacteria to consume the rest of him. But that’s just not the way things were done.
One man was willing to bury Lenny. A tall, skinny man. An undertaker. A man with long, grey hair that was knotted and dirty and hung loosely to his scrawny shoulders.
And this is where the story takes us.
The man stood, staring serenely down at the open coffin. The serial killer, Lenny Hicox. This was the man the undertaker was supposed to bury. The sky smeared with murky clouds, the undertaker spat to his right - not intentionally - onto another grave. He picked up his shovel with his somewhat rough hands, and contemplated his next few moves with hard concentration. He looked down at the body, dressed in a sleek mourning suit, the gun wounds in his head stitched and washed dry of blood. The undertaker licked his lips.
He thrust the shovel aside, and proceeded to jumping down into the grave. His eyes lit up in sadistic glee, he now had his fix all to himself. The graveyard was empty, and he was free to do whatever he pleased.
This man, dead, in the coffin. This amazing man. This man, not afraid to do as he pleased. The undertaker wanted this man to be a part of him forever. Lenny Hicox. He’d read the descriptions of his crimes online, and carried about to jack off in thought of these wonderful murders.
This man was sick, the undertaker, sick to every last bone in his lanky body.
Now it was time.
The undertaker kissed Lenny, his saliva coating the cold, dead lips of the corpse. He felt an erection bulge in his pants. He took off his belt, and then his pants; underwear. He squatted with his right hand laid flat under his buttocks. He forced out a big nugget of shit, and rubbed it all over torso, his face, his dick twitching and pulsing. The undertaker looked at Lenny again. He sat the body up and stripped him of his clothes. Now the body was naked, still inside the open coffin. The undertaker flipped him onto his stomach. In the space around the coffin, which only consisted of soil, the undertaker shat in his right hand again, and smothered his big, throbbing cock with it. He then smeared more of the shit around Lenny’s asshole, lathering his dick even more, he poked his penis unto the hole, and penetrated.
The undertaker howled into the sky as he fucked Lenny’s dead corpse, his asshole covered in shit, as was the undertaker’s dick. After moaning and heaving, the undertaker blew his load into the dead man’s anal cavity, in big, white gobs. His sickly impulses still framed in his mind, the undertaker flipped Lenny back over onto his stomach. He pulled a carving knife from his waistcoat pocket. He plunged the knife into Lenny’s chest, and sought the knife downward with great force, splaying out his guts. Blood sprayed out onto the undertaker’s face, his dick getting hard again. Lenny’s guts were now completely visible. All the internal organs were there to choose from. The undertaker grabbed the stomach and ripped it out, a vile liquid dripping as his sliced it open. He raised the stomach with one arm and let the liquid trickle into his mouth and with the other hand, rubbed his cock relentlessly.
After munching and chewing on the layers of stomach, he swallowed, and continued to look over the dissected cadaver. The undertaker pulled out five feet of lower intestine, gorging himself with it, sucking the intestinal seepage and gurgling it, savouring its fetid flavour, swallowing it. He was now on the verge of ejaculation again. He quickly climbed on top of Lenny and inserted his rod into the spliced oesophagus, ramming it with intensity. He blew the pearly gobs of sperm over Lenny’s guts, hanging, spewed out over the coffin now so the flies and insects begin to make their feasts.
The undertaker looked attentively at the heart in Lenny’s ribcage. He snapped it open and ripped out the heart, feeling it, squeezing it. He carved it up and devoured it, like a monkey would gobble peanuts.
This man was sick, depraved, covered in shit, blood and intestinal slime, the undertaker cummed for the third time, without doing anything. This meant the ritual was complete, that Lenny was always apart of him. His final act; he slashed the carving knife at his penis, his carotid artery, his jugular vein, and stabbed into his own heart, rubbing faecal matter into the wounds pumping crimson, he lay on the mutilated corpse of Lenny Hicox, and slowly bled to death, letting the flies and insects consume the rest of them both…both in unity…both together, forever.
NOTE: I do realize there are grammatical and plot errors in this, but bear with me, this was an hour’s work, let me work on it for a few days, and it will be unlike anything you’ve ever read. Email me at peow.mother.fxcker@hotmail.com and tell me what you think. ;) Pretty sick, eh? |
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