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Korn Freak Off The Leash
It is three days since the mangled remains of Mindy Swinson were discovered no more than two hundred yards from where I reside and, since then, the entire village has become gripped by terror. Curfews have been enforced and the once bustling streets become barren wastelands each time the sun sets. Paranoia has replaced serenity and folk have gotten used to moving in packs, far away from any shadowy recesses. Meanwhile, I haven’t enjoyed a full night’s sleep for days, as I’m convinced that the moment my head hits the pillow, bad shit happens. When I say convinced, I’m speaking quite literally. You see, I know precisely what happened to Mindy and even who committed this vile act. So I inform the authorities right? Only if I fancy spending the rest of my life rotting behind bars. Thanks to the correspondence I received the morning after, I’m now fully aware of what really happens when I let the Sandman claim me each night and it made for rather uncomfortable reading as I’m the only one implicated. The problem is, you can’t outfox the Sandman. Eventually one’s body starts to shut down and a decent night’s sleep is the only way to redress the balance. Tonight my weary shell can take no more and, if I don’t grab some shut-eye soon, then I will likely keel over so, with heavy heart and eyelids, I settle down for a handful of winks.
Sleeping like a baby, this is all too easy. Please allow me to inform you how this is going to play out from hereon in. You see, I plan for tonight to be different from the others. Tonight I shall live the kill, breathe in its foul aroma and further corrode my host’s fast blackening soul. While he suspects that he is sleeping peacefully in his chamber, I shall continue to use his sorry shell as my vessel for torment, until which time as he embraces his inner darkness and grants me full control. Death comes this night. Vile, gloating death. It stalks through the eventide searching for donors, holding nothing but contempt and a desire to callously cease all existence. As long as its lust for carnage is sated, it has no real preference. Screaming at smiles and smiling at screams, it collects its entitlements with blackened eyes and a sharp edge intent on shearing through flesh ignoring every last whisper of mercy. The streets shall run red this night, and as arch angel of suffering, it is my task to gift these last rites to anyone foolish enough to darken my path.
As you may have discerned by now, I’m feeling particularly vengeful this dusk. Thus, as I retrieve the hatchet from its cubby-hole, I also collect a second weapon. A black leather glove, wrapped in vicious barbed wire, is tucked away at the back of the cupboard directly above this fool’s bedstead. He has no idea both of its existence and the fact that he himself concocted this instrument of annihilation whilst under my spell last night. This proposes to be its maiden voyage, deflowering if you will, and tonight it will receive its very first taste of delicious suffering. So this is what is on tonight’s agenda. It just so happens that, about a kilometer from the house, there is a dense thicket covering around two acres in circumference, which is sufficiently removed from the public eye and sound-proofed by the tall trees that envelope it. Ordinarily the site of daytime rambling and dog-walking, it transforms each sundown into a haven of excess, and deep inside is a clearing that has doubles up as the perfect stoner’s hang-out. One group in particular inhabit this sanctuary every night without fail and I have studied these wasters closely for the past two nights in preparation for tonight’s “soirée”.
All are approaching their freshman year and about to rue their decision not to stay at home this cruel night. There are six of them in total, lifelong buddies from around the way, four boys and two girls. Jack appears to be alpha male here, the beacon they all clamor toward like sorry little moths to the flame. He is sickeningly handsome and full to the brim with misplaced swagger. Brogan crushes on him in a major way and, of course, he takes advantage of this at every available juncture. Her cousin Nina is particularly inept at holding a smoke, one blaze and she’s anybody’s. Charlie (or C-Minor to his crew) fancies himself as something of a gangster and is blissfully oblivious to his total lack of “street”. And finally we have Taylor and George who fit the sheep stereotype to the very letter. Neither of these cretins possess the faintest drizzle of individuality and, despite their outlandish claims at “getting a whole heap of pussy”, both are virgins, and that doesn’t appear subject to change either. As you’ve likely guessed by now, it hasn’t taken a great stretch figuring this lot out and it won’t take much of one slaying them.
Spirits appear to be high this evening, a tasty bit of home-grown skunk has loosened the group up, and they all huddle around their makeshift camp fire engaging in the usual kind of menial pursuits that adolescents do in such situations. Brogan’s suggestion of a round of spin the bottle is great news for George, sporting a faceful of gnarled acne, chapped lips and vague gingivitis, but not so positive for anyone unfortunate enough to draw the short straw. This is a cheap stunt by Brogan to seduce Jack but, little is she aware (and this has been a great source of amusement to me), that he far prefers Nina. In five years time, Jack will have realized he is gay and be in some seedy bar getting groped by a trucker named Hal. Speaking of Nina, she is currently busy doing what Nina does best, squatting for a pee in full view of the entire group with not as much as a dock leaf to wipe with. The boys have been privy to so many public viewings now that it has become wallpaper to them. But they’ll all knock one out in their tents introspectively regardless. George is already fully enlightened as to the course the evening will take and, as usual, it will culminate in hand cream and wet wipes. Never mind George, being the ugly duckling has its merits and you will learn that in later life son, believe me. Actually you’ll do no such thing as, right now, I’m advancing on your position from an unseen vantage and the hatchet is presently hovering above your head in preparation. I almost feel bad for him you know…almost.
One swing…straight down…and that head splits like a honeydew melon. Hapless George can but gargle out his discord as my hatchet embeds itself deep into his skull-cap, sending fragments of bone and globs of grey matter skyward as I immediately free the weapon from its fresh cavity. I do believe that may be my finest work to date, swift and entirely devoid of mercy. George can count himself fortunate not to have even see his demise coming. He slumps to his knees, then face and twitching all the way as the last few morsels of vitality glug from his callously opened wound. As his cadaver hits terra firma, C-Minor and Taylor both swing around 180 and, with eyes still widening at the sight of their fallen compadre, they too feel the steely glint on their pelts. I start by plunging it into Taylor’s shoulder-blade, about two inches deep and just enough to send him reeling as I then turn my attentions to the wannabee rapper. Same area, this time a horizontal stroke, embedding in his neck muscles and exposing a ventricle which gushes forth crimson as he stumbles back stunned.
Nina’s now pulling up her panties, blissfully unaware of the dismantlement of her friends, so I seize the initiative and lunge towards her, grasping her throat and dragging her kicking and screaming to the nearest environmental hazard. A yard-long iron rod juts from the earth and would make the perfect hanging place for my new trophy so I impale her vagina first on the rusted pole, and send its business end womb-deep. I take a moment just to soak in the glorious sight, then I lick her cheek and leave her there like a pig on a spit while I take care of any unfinished business. George has bled out, the abrasion was evidently a little too deep, exposing his wide open jugular which, in turn, glugged free too many pints of blood to be without. C-Minor isn’t faring much better, dragging his dead weight through the leaves in a frantic last-ditch attempt to flee. I step over him and, sensing his desperation, see him as no tangible threat right now so allow him to suffer on. Jack and Brogan, on the other hand, have far more hopeful designs on escape. They have set off screaming but, little are they aware, that I have done my recon on this thicket. I’ve always wanted to say that I cut someone off at the pass and now I finally can. I cut them off at the pass.
As I leap out in front of the pair, Jack instantly reveals his true colors by pushing Brogan into my path in sacrifice. The blubbering belle drops to her knees, accepting her demise and just praying for swiftness, but I decide to leave her be and, fully incensed by Jack’s cowardly demeanor, slide on the barbed glove for the very first time. This one has to pay…and a princely sum no less. Just as expected, he whimpers like a sniveling hound as the first blow lands. Straight in the center of his calf goes my hatchet, carving away cartilage as it descends layer by layer. Blood spurts freely as I hook four digits into the gaping wound and haul him screaming back to the clearing to rejoin his friends, leaving Brogan free to run should she wish. In truth she is rather a fortunate young woman as, had it not been for Jack’s cowardly display, she wouldn’t have gotten off so lightly. Granted, no amount of brain scrubbery will ever remove the stain of what she has been made privy to this night, but her food will taste better tomorrow than ever before and she’ll feel eternally blessed for being allowed continuation. For Jack however, the last few minutes of his tortured existence are to be filled with unparalleled agony and the barbed wire mitten is clutched at the ready the whole way back to base camp.
On arrival I fling him face down in the topsoil as any unfinished business needs taken care of before it’s time for this particular pleasure. C-Minor has now managed to drag himself around twelve feet, leaving a slick of cruor in his wake, and I refocus my attentions on him once more. Resting my heel on the back of his head, I press his face down into the dirt, and pin him there with my knee. Two more openings are then fashioned, one each side of his wings and, by the time the second blow lands, he has already passed out through sheer shock. This is just as well as I tear both arms from their ligaments and fling them to the ground as my encore. Meanwhile, Nina still straddles the iron bar and, despite having relinquished a fair share of her vital fluids already, has still been forced to involuntarily witness this most heinous of acts. The crimson tide is high and, at long last, I unleash the barbed glove on the other surviving party still present.
Flipping Jack’s carcass over like a dime store hooker, I set to work on his raggedy ass post-haste. First I lift his t-shirt and tease my customized signature tool across his appetite, carving it wide open in the process. Then I continue to knead until afforded access and needle his intestines, snagging them up in the fencing. After pulling a length of his life-cord from his gut, I cram it into his mouth, forcing him to taste his own pain. Once more, the gauntlet is put to use and things are only getting started. I bring the knotted glove up to his face and stroke his cheek harshly, grafting like an unlicensed surgeon as I carve out those pretty boy looks once and for all. I can hear whimpering behind as Nina watches on in sheer terror, still glugging crimson from her haunch and rapidly losing her healthy glow. Jack is barely conscious at this point and I know I have to work fast. The idea of him slipping into catatonic shock saddens me as I wish to share in his torment for just a little longer. Thus I bring the hatchet back into play.
Teasing it along his jugular, I press at the middle of his windpipe just forcefully enough to break the surface and a sickening spray of blood fills my mouth. Sickening to most, to me it makes the most exquisite mouthwash, and I swill that shit around before spitting the whole lot straight back into his peeled away face. Deeper traverses the blade and he commences choking on the clotting blood gargling about his windpipe. One tiny hack and it will signal the end for Jack although this simply doesn’t present the darkened enjoyment I crave. So I leave him there percolating in his own brew of sludge and return my focus to the impaled girl before she too passes out. Her scalp would look grand on my mantle so my attentions turn to her crown. I can now hear sirens approaching so will have to work fast. Fortunately I am well-enough versed in the woodland to know of an exit but have mere seconds to flee before the whole place is riddled with law enforcement. I cannot leave without a memento so I start whittling away Nina’s epidermis. With no time for neat incisions, I hurriedly hack it off and stuff it into my pocket. Leaving the party in full swing, I take one last look at Jack and decide to leave him to enjoy his demise, but not before straddling him and shearing through his vocal chords. Nobody likes a blabber mouth after all.
With that I slink back into the shadows and head directly back to my chamber, with the police none the wiser and set for another round of chase the tail. As I return my props to their rightful places and hang the young girl’s scalp over my nightshade, I pause momentarily to smear my hand along the wall as has become customary now and reflect on a job well done. At this rate, I’ll have claimed this sorry sucker’s soul completely soon, and it is then that the fun really starts.
Sinning is compulsory,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Revised Edition 2016)