All Aboard The Human Centipede



Suggested Audio ♫

Steelers Wheel “Stuck In The Middle With You”




Where would we be without friends? I’d be lost without a bezzie, someone I know will always have my back in a fix and never talk shit about me when said back is turned. Should I be feeling put upon, then this person will be only too happy to bite the bullet so to speak and take one for the team. Naturally I wouldn’t dump my woes on my associate unless there was no other way but a problem shared is one halved I hear, and it feels good to be able to unload in good company. Thank the heavens then for Jenny, my BFF and the only person in this screwed up world I can truly count on. We’ve been best friends ever since kindergarten and, over the years, have become inseparable. Wherever one of us is, the other is usually not far behind and Jenny has always been fine with bringing up the rear. Indeed, I’d give her a hug right now if it weren’t for the fact that it’s currently physically impossible. You see, our cross-Atlantic trip to Germany hasn’t quite worked out how we’d hoped and I’m pretty sure she’s sick to the back teeth of me now.

It was all going so well on arrival. We had a full itinerary planned and numerous landmarks that we wished to visit during our stay but the sights we’ve seen having quite been what the brochure suggested. As American tourists, we expected to be well looked after, and have no problem securing ourselves a guide. However, Dr. Josef Heiter is hardly the kind of escort we had in mind and I’ve got grave doubts over whether his surgical license is authentic. Don’t get me wrong, there can be no questioning that he knows how to thread a needle and his sewing skills are there for all to see. It’s the bedside manner I’m not so taken with as we touched down in Düsseldorf Airport as fit as a pair of fiddles and our health has since deteriorated rather shockingly. Did we agree to being made guinea pigs? Absolutely not but you try making your polite excuses when you’re being drugged against your will. Never again will I trust a hire car as it’s lousy engineering that got us in this mess in the first place.

It’d been a grand time up until that point and the German nightclub scene had proved every bit as energetic as we’d heard. One breakdown later, in a secluded spot some way from the hustle and bustle I might add, and the evening suddenly took on a far darker complexion. Stranded miles away from nowhere, with the storm clouds above us threatening to break at any given moment, we were forced to trek through the wilderness and bank on some good old-fashioned backwoods hospitality to see us through our predicament. When we arrived at Dr. Heiter’s luxurious villa, soaked through to the skin and utterly exhausted, it appeared that our rotten run of fortune was about to change. Clean towels, a nice hot shower and accompanying meal, and perhaps a warm bed to crash out on until the woozy feeling passed – that didn’t seem like an unreasonable set of aspirations. Alas, things didn’t fall into place quite how we’d hoped.

To be fair, Heiter was a decent enough host at the beginning and prepared us a nice glass of tepid tap water, while he headed off into his study to call for roadside assistance. Considering we’d both had a skinful of alcohol, it seemed sound advice on his part to guzzle down some H2O before we went any further, so we did precisely that on doctor’s orders. From thereon in, things are a little muddy if I’m honest. I remember commenting to Jenny about how sparsely decorated his home was and we felt a tad sorry for him as he clearly didn’t get many visitors. That’s all I’ve got and the next thing I remember is coming to in a makeshift medical ward down in the basement; feeling like death warmed up and starting to panic as realization swiftly dawned. We were no longer free to come and go as we wished and about to learn more than we cared to about a pioneering surgical procedure he’d apparently been perfecting for years now. If that sounds ominous then no shit Sherlock; you don’t even know the half of it.

Have you ever heard the term “three’s a crowd”? I never really saw the logic in that one if I’m honest. Indeed, Jenny and I had been known to dabble with the old ménage à trois back in our trial and error days at high school, and a good time was had by all to my recollection. However, what Heiter was proposing was a darn sight more intimate than the kind of three-ways we’d experimented with and there was nothing even faintly erotic about the configuration he had planned. After informing us of his “three-dog” technique, the atmosphere soon took a turn for the most unsexy and, while I’ve never really been one for canines, I wouldn’t have wished this kind of indignity on Cujo, let alone sweet little Benji. Being sewn together mouth to anus seemed like little more than animal cruelty to me, regardless of the fact that dogs are only too happy to chow down on the fecal matter of fellow pooches. This had proved to be the case as, regrettably, the third mutt in his chain had fallen ill and succumbed to some short but decisive illness. I’m guessing you know where this is headed right?

I’ve never been more nauseated to confirm the worst as Heiter had grown tired of testing this procedure out on our four-legged friends and was looking to make us part of something utterly unthinkable, not to mention grossly unhygienic. It turned out that he’d also managed to secure a third subject in a Japanese tourist by the name of Katsuro and, while he was easy enough on the eye, I had no great desire to wind up with my pouting lips embroidered to his asshole. I’d read the story of Rumpelstiltskin way back in eighth grade as part of my curriculum and, though his cross-stitching skills were second to none, I don’t recall him doing much more than knit the odd pullover. What Heiter had in mind entailed consolidating all three of our assets so to speak; creating his very own triple-pronged human sheesh kebab with a solitary digestive system and nothing in the way of breathing space.

Soundly panicked, I made the foolish error of attempting an eleventh-hour escape and was promptly foiled; earning myself the dubious pleasure of central placement in this madman’s sick procession as punishment. That meant getting up close and personal with Katsuro’s sphincter and I baulked at the thought of all the teeth whitening costs I would accumulate on my eventual return to the land of the free. That said, he’d already thought ahead on this one, and extracted every last one of my pearly whites to allow for closer contact. Worse still, he mutilated Katsuro’s buttocks and mine too; so that ass-to-mouth access was made easier. A few agonizing grafts later and I was all set to savour some second-hand sushi and poor Jenny got even more of a raw deal at the business end. You see, for as wretched as it has been having a terrified man defecate between my prised open jaws (rather loosely I might add), it’s Jenny who ends up on ultimate sorting duties.

Excrement is an acquired taste at best, but one quick gulp and it’s over with, other than the hour or so of involuntary retching of course. But that buck has to end somewhere and it was my dear friend who copped the most bitter mouthful; acting effectively as the centipede’s abdomen and waste disposal unit. Needless to say, she was looking somewhat off-color long before Katsuro’s primary clench and only about to grow more peaky as nervous stool after nervous stool was passed back like the proverbial dutchie. From what I hear, septicemia is no laughing matter, and Jenny’s rapid decline in health was becoming more deadly serious with every third generation poop slithering through her bloodied gums. It’s times like these when a good course of antibiotics wouldn’t go amiss and, given that Heiter is in the business of patching people up, I just figured he’d prescribe Jenny some meds and see her back to good health. But this twisted Nazi fuck had other ideas.

The one thing I didn’t have him down as was an animal lover but he appears overjoyed at the prospect of having his very own pet. While you could forgive him for getting a chihuahua or long-haired cat to keep him company, human centipedes are hardly what I’d call domestic and I believe I speak for both Katsuro and Jenny when saying that rolling over and playing dead on command is not how we wish to see out our days. Of course, the fact that he severed our knee ligaments to prevent leg extension while attaching us together means that we’re only really fit for kennel but that doesn’t mean we have to like it. As the leader of this pack, Katsuro has voiced our collective disapproval on numerous occasions, but it only seems to be giving our new owner the ache. If he’s not careful, he’ll land all three of us in the dog house and that means belly scratches will be out of the question.

There has been light at the end of the tunnel, at least figuratively speaking, as a pair of flatfoots showed up at Heiter’s condo to investigate our disappearance and hope suddenly began to float once more. Kranz and Voller their names were and it appeared they had this crazed nutbag’s number from the very moment he invited them inside. Faint glimmer of hope aside, what bothered me most was that this might present opportunity for him to attach some fresh bolt-ons as it were. Think about it, Jenny’s in shabby shape right now, and surely cannot withstand a great deal more torture without becoming dead weight. Kranz and Voller would a rather tidy back-end and an even longer centipede. You guessed it, out with the old and in with the new, and that’d make my dear sweet Jenny surplus to requirements. While my heart bleeds for her, The Hills Have Eyes taught me that sometimes “the lucky ones die first”, and what truly sends chills down Katsuro’s spine, then mine, then Jenny’s is that the word centipede quite literally translates to “100-footed”. I mean, where does one stop?

Mercifully, Heiter’s plans were thwarted, at least for the time being, as neither Kranz or Voller were willing to sip from his tampered Evian and left a darn sight more suspicious than they arrived. With a bit of luck, they’ll put two and two together, come back with back-up, storm this hateful infirmary, and work out how to unravel a cross stitch. That’s my only hope right now and I’m clinging to it like a randy uncle in a conga line. We’re not in the 1940s anymore and this kind of mental and physical torment should not be permitted. I don’t recall signing up for Fräulein detail and I sure as shit don’t remember agreeing to play any kind of part in a human frigging centipede. We all have unresolved childhood trauma to unpick but there are far less mean-spirited ways to work through it. Aside from the one time I chased too much whiskey and mooned a passing school bus with my cheeks spread; I’d say I’ve held onto my dignity surprisingly well thus far. This isn’t dignified. I just copped a throatful of squirt-happy butt custard in case you were wondering.

Alas, shit breath is currently the very last of my worries as Katsuro just decided that enough was enough and snuffed himself by slicing open his jugular with a shard of glass. If you ask me, that was somewhat selfish on his part, as a train can’t hope to depart without someone pulling the lever and my lips are now sewn to dead meat. Just as he was commencing his death rattle, I hocked a loogie straight up his anus, just to let this wantaway scoundrel know precisely what I thought of his cowardice. Seconds later, he was no more, and I believe that makes me the sorry sap carrying the can. Jenny’s in wretched shape and looks set to drop at any given moment; which means that things will soon be going slack at the back also. I guess that would make me a “drag queen” of sorts. How long it is before Heiter tires of his defective pet then is anyone’s guess but I’m reasonably assured that spells curtains for yours truly.

Jenny’s gone. Well not gone exactly and certainly in no danger of being forgotten any time soon either. But she finally succumbed to her sickness and my current emotions comprise tremendous sadness and green-eyed envy. Granted, she’s worm meal now and that’s the second most bitter pill any human should ever be required to swallow, but at least she’s out of the poop loop and that’s sweet release if you ask me. It’s her long-term boyfriend Randy my heart goes out to as the pair had a blazing row just as we were leaving for the airport and I clearly recall his final words offering suggestion that Jenny should “eat shit and die”. Someone’s going to have some work to do in therapy methinks. As for me, I’m way beyond a shrink now. There are some things no human being should be forced to endure and my heinous host has seen to it that I know a number of these intimately. May he burn in fucking hell for what he has done.

In all this grieving for Jenny, I almost forgot to inform you of the other developments going on as we speak. You see, Kranz and Voller returned with their search warrant, just as I’d prayed, and it all went off big time. Both men perished during the resulting fracas but not before putting a bullet between Heiter’s beady little eyes and permanently relieving him of ward round duties. I can’t say I’m going to miss his after care and my only slight regret is that he didn’t suffer anywhere near enough, given the atrocities he’d committed. But that didn’t stop me letting out a joyous snort/belch/gag as he dropped to his knees before me. The villain has now been defeated and that means I’m well within my rights to make some trails out of here and become one of life’s little survivors. I bid that you refrain from pointing out anything obvious right now and just let me rejoice in my newfound freedom some. We can deal with those bummers in a jiffy. I’m all bummed out you see. Time to pucker up those buttercups.

Right then, I’ve engaged in a dash of crisis brainstorming and decided that only upsides should be entertained from hereon in. There’s no getting around certain harsh truths and I’m prepared for the funny looks I receive when dragging my brace of fast decomposing book-ends down Maine Street in the height of the midday rush. But sometimes life takes a sloppy crap on your tonsils and you either make the best of what you’ve got or fall or die trying, in my opinion. The way I see it, I have two distinct choices and neither entail bagging the window seat on the flight back home, I regret you inform you. I could get a gig at a fetish club under the title “Centipede Susie” or apply to the travelling circus as I hear they’re always recruiting and bearded ladies are now a sight of startling regularity, at least in my neighborhood. You see, it ain’t all bad. One thing I do know, my very first payday I’m treating myself to a T-shirt that says “I ate shit and survived” . And some strong antiseptic mouthwash perhaps.

Click here to read Date with a Human Centipede






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