Dissecting the Disabled - Redux

Posted by E

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Just for fun I thought I'd put my own spin on one of Korey666's horror tales. It's not perfect, but hey, I spat it out in no time. At least I don't use phrases like "sodomize the shit out of"...



I stood motionless, ensconced in the inky blackness that filled the room. My heart, though not racing, was pounding against my chest. Nervousness paced back and forth at the edge of my awareness, not quite fully settling in. I steeled myself and attempted to calm my rattled nerves.

This is what I have been waiting for. This is what I have been working towards. This is my...purpose.

A loud clack ratcheted the void, echoing hollowly off the walls; heralding the emergence of a singular beam of light, brilliant against the nullified background. It gazed unblinkingly at a stainless steel table, on top of which lay a man.

His naked frame was held by slackless leather straps on the hands and feet which bound him tightly, restricting any and all movement. The head was crowned by a titanium frame, bolts penetrating through skin and burrowing into the skull, rendering the subject incapable of even the slightest adjustment.

The screech of feedback sliced the stagnant air as a voice bellowed at me from an unseen loudspeaker.

"Well, number four, show us what you've learned."

I swiftly lumbered near my prey, eyes fixated on his feebly struggling frame. I leaned in towards my quarry, fixing my eyes on his, edging ever closer. He let out a whimpering moan, cut soft by the wires that held his jaw into place. I let a steely cold fall across my face as I pushed ever closer. The sputtering exhalations of thickened mucous belied his heightening anxiety as his breathing deepened and accelerated.

I reached over to the stand next to me, never breaking eye contact, while I felt around for my chosen implement. Finding it, I brought it to the space between us, its cold glint offered promises of untold horrors. His eyes widened and his pupils constricted to a single pixel.

My breath came slow but hot inside the surgical mask I wore, and I very deliberately moved the scalpel to the victim's right, outside of his peripheral vision. I pushed its point to the skin just behind the ear and held it in place.

His eyes darted towards the point, but finding himself unable to see it, they spun wildly around the room as panic began to set in. He mumbled what were doubtless pleadings for mercy, though they arrived as nothing more than a jumbled mass of plaintive wailings, held in place by his immovable jaw.

"Look at me," I intoned.

His muttering ceased for a moment and his eyes aligned with mine once more. As soon as they found my gaze I pushed in with the blade and made one continuous cut around his ear and up to the forehead.

He howled his restrained scream of pain as I set to work at stopping the bleeding and cleaning the wound.

Without so much as a second glance I repeated the process on the other side, his groans becoming louder and punctuated by a staccato rhythm as he struggled to breathe.

I worked my hands inside the cavernous wounds on either side of his face, separating muscle from skin and pulling the tissue free from its constraints. My gloved fingers luxured in the moist heat his insides provided, followed by the icy chill of rapid cooling when I pulled them free.

My patient was sliding in and out of consciousness, and though silent for a time, fell to bleating once again as I began removing the excess fat from its biological bondage.

I continued the incisions until I had managed a complete cut around the entire face. I took my time continuing to free the skin from the underlying matter, pausing occasionally to wipe the sweat from my brow.

Satisfied that I completed my prep work, I grabbed the skin at the forehead and began slowly pulling down to remove the face entirely. I made a cut here and there to finalize the separation and continued peeling until his identity had been stripped from him.

Once removed, I cast the soggy mass of flesh aside to begin work on my next project. I prepared the blade to commence another assault when I felt a prick in my right shoulder, immediately followed by the burning sting of fluid being injected into my body.

I came to in the darkness, cold and confused. My limbs were bound tightly. A dull ache resounded through my head as I realized the cold grind of implanted metal that assaulted my crown.

A blinding dash of light clicked on, followed by a disembodied voice.

"Well, number five, show us what you've learned."

The last thing I recall before fading to black was my futile attempt at screaming through my wired jaw.

Times Were Different Then

Posted by E

Monday, January 26, 2009

Sometimes you can't remember the start of a story. In a way that just makes it all the more fun.

Take me, for example. Here I am reminiscing about the time I was sent to kill Santa Claus and forgot how we got the gun in the first place.

I mean, I totally remember the three of us standing in line to meet him. The replica .45 was very heavy in the inside pocket of my coat.

The .45 was a replica. But it looked real. Hell, it WAS real aside from the lack of firing pin and plugged up barrel. For all intents and purposes, it appeared to be a real gun.

I couldn't tell you how it got in my pocket. I'm not stupid, I know I played a large role in this decision, but I simply cannot accept that I decided this was the best course of action all my own.

I spent the majority of my teenage years locked in a deadly game of one-upmanship that amazingly resulted in no fatalities.

Regardless of how it ended up there; there it was.

Understand that I hate guns. I feel very awkward being around something that is potentially fatal. I'm an accident prone person, so a firearm tends to make me more than a tad uneasy.

But fake guns? Meh, they feel nice. And bear in mind this was before Columbine.

And this was in an outlying town of Stumblebum. This wasn't the big city.

We stood in line, waiting for our chance to see Santa.

I recall looking to one youngster in line and warning him, "You'd better go ahead. We're here to kill Santa." He turned ashen with horror, no doubt stripped of another slice of innocence.

Santa was a drunken mess, reeking of vodka. Terry swore that Santa was a tad too friendly with the butt squeezing.

We got our picture and stopped to eat at Burger King. Terry and I acted out a scene where I pulled the gun on him for eating my fries.

The police were not contacted.

That entire day was spent flashing that weapon, jokingly telling people that we were here to do horrible things. But we never acted in malice.

People were stunned but they largely ignored our antics.

All day we flashed that gun.

The police were not contacted.

Times were different then.

The Empty Cocoon - Part 2

Posted by Doodface

Thursday, January 22, 2009

To read part 1, click here

He continued his evil ramblings.

"..I like to explore the virgin body. Much like an explorer reaching uncharted territories. It is exhilirating to know that I am the first man to ever explore these areas." The look of pure ecstasy was back on his face now. He was enjoying the sick memories of the atrocities that he had committed. "The fear.. the submission.. The helplessness.. All so beautiful. They beg and plead, assuming that I care for their well being. Little do they know that it only excites me more."

"ENOUGH!! Where is my family!?"

"Thank you for trying to play along MR. D.A., but your screams do not excite me." He had a smile on his face as if he had just cracked a joke with an old friend.

"You think this is funny? You will pay for this!"

"And how do you expect to collect payment? Do you think that you can kill me? Torture me? I can only hope..."

"You will not be so sure of yourself in prison!"

"Prison? You don't have a chance, sir. I will take my own life before I ever reach such a melting pot of idiocy."

"Please Mr. Colmes.. please tell me where my family is. I will do anything you want!"

"The only thing I want, is for you to sit patiently while I reveal to you what you have done. Once I have finished, I may let you see your family."

I glanced to the tiny finger laying on the ground. The blood had dried completely, and it looked as if it was shriveling.

What kind of monster could do that to a little girl?

I thought about this man touching my daughters, and was overwhelmed with a feeling of nausea. I began to weep, but he interrupted my thoughts.

"There is no time for self-pity. You have brought this on yourself!"

"I have done nothing wrong!"

"The fact that you still proclaim innocence is proof that you deserve this. Now please, I would like to elaborate on my.. shall we say, processes." He closed his eyes "Once I have my beautiful subject completely naked and held still - I like to use duct tape, it doesn't leave marks on the flesh - I begin to explore. There is no part of these creatures that I do not find erotic." His eyes remained closed, and he was now rubbing himself slowly. "I like to taste them - not in a cannibalistic way, that's barbaric. I like to take little bites of flesh, and just taste their innocence. I can taste their fear, their adrenaline - so wonderful. I especially like the taste of earlobes, like a little piece of candy."

All I could picture was this psychopath tearing off the flesh of my daughters while they screamed and writhed in pain. I once again was overcome with nausea. This time, I could not hold in the sickness. I vomited at his feet. Instead of being disgusted, he seemed to be thrilled."I am glad to see that this is affecting you!

"You must understand exactly what you have done."YOU created this!" He screamed angrily. He was genuinely angry at me.

My mistakes had allowed him to release these inner demons.

IS this my fault? Have I unleashed this monster on the world? On my family?

He interrupted my thoughts. "Let me continue. After I have had a little nibble, I like to admire them. I clean up any wounds that were left from my tasting, and wash them thoroughly - unfortunately with the duct tape still intact. I forcibly put them in many different positions - under good lighting of course - and just admire them. I must admit, I pleasure myself repeatedly as I watch them." He was again rubbing himself.

"STOP PLEASE! I can't listen to any more! I am SORRY! I DID THIS!"

"Well, Mr D.A., we've had a breakthrough! I am so pleased that you are beginning to understand the consequences of your actions! You cannot simply 'make' someone guilty because it fits your agenda. You cannot fabricate evidence to obtain a conviction!" He reached for a folder that was laying on the ground. He opened it, and placed it on the coffee table.

"But this wasn't your first time, now was it? I have spent a considerable amount of time in the local library and records office lately. It is amazing the amount of information available to the public on historic murder cases! This folder contains 19 different instances of questionable evidence being used in a murder case. And they are all yours. 19 people that may or may not have been guilty. But that never mattered to you, did it? As long as you got your conviction, your picture in the paper, and a big fat paycheck. Who cares about the innocent man rotting away in a jail cell? I do, and I am here to make this right." He stood up from his chair, and reached behind his back to pull a knife from a sheath. It was coated in blood. The nausea returned immediately. I took a defensive stance, ready to defend his attack.

"Do not worry Mr. D.A. this is not intended for you. This tool has already served it's purpose today." The self-satisfied grin was back on his face. "But I expect it will serve another before the end." He placed the knife on the table, on top of the open folder. "I wanted you to see the tool that was used."

Is this what he used to dismember my children? What has he done to Sarah? I will kill him!

He watched me as I studied the knife, the serrated edges coated in dried blood. I wanted to grab it, and plunge it in to his chest. "Go ahead, take my life. You have already taken so many other lives. One more life is nothing to you." He was holding his arms up in invitation. I couldn't move. I just continued to stare at the knife. The blood of my family. "Wise choice Mr D.A., you may see your family after all."


To read part 3, click here

Christ, He's STILL ON About This?

I know, another day, another lack of major posts from E. Sorry about that. I have spent about 9 hours in the last couple of days working on the audio book of "Creepy Tales From the Darkside". I'm pretty satisfied with how it has turned out so far. I'd still like to add a little bit of creepy music and maybe the clicks and pops off an LP, just to give it an old school feel.

This stuff is HARD to record, though. Seriously, try and say phrases like "sneak attack of sodomy" or "pleasuring BJ of filth" without pissing yourself. It's nigh impossible to read this stuff with a straight face, let alone try and emote what you're reading.

For my money, it's all worth it. Korey's terrifying tales work even better as spoken word, and I can't recommend trying it out for yourself strongly enough. If you'd like to get a copy, let us know and we can arrange either a download or a physical copy (once everything is finished up).

For those that are interested, here are the rough cuts of each of Korey666's stories of unspeakable horror:

0 - Introduction of Doom
1 - Manual Abortion
2 - Doggystyle
3 - His Majesty
4 - A Bloodbath
5 - Dissecting the Disabled
6 - Three Hillbillies and a Stinky Member
7 - The Giant Member of Death
8 - Bloody Briss
9 - Dumb Bitch


Now that that is done, I should be able to concentrate on some actual writing tonight. I do have some treats lined up for the near future.

Unspeakable Audio Horrors

Posted by E

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Okay folks, sorry to do this to you, but I've got to dip into the Korey666 well again. Look, I'm sure you're all getting tired of him, but the fact remains that he may be the single greatest undiscovered talent on the face of the earth.

I've been trying to work with ideas on how best to spread his love throughout the world. It occurred to me that audio books are all the rage nowadays, what with all the time we spend confined in vehicles.

What I have here is simply a rough draft, an early attempt, if you will, at helping Korey's words leap off the page and straight into your mind. I have done my best to make them as eerie and horrifying to the ear as they are to the eye.

And I'm working on other, non-Korey material at the moment, but hey, a man's gotta post.

Without further ado, I give you Dissecting the Disabled...

UPDATE: The link has been fixed. The file is now available again.

Truth in Advertising

Posted by E

Monday, January 19, 2009

I'm sure you can agree that if there's one thing that's always appreciated in life, it's honesty. Nobody likes to feel jerked around, and we can all get behind the sentiment of being up front about expectations. Unfortunately for the youth of America, ours is a culture which thrives on obfuscation and half truths.

Take television commercials. Day after day our kids are forced to watch commercials that either fill their heads with false promises or talk down to them as if they were...well...kids. Take the following commercials, for example. See if you can notice any similarities between them:





Did you spot the similarities? They're subtle, to be sure, but they're definitely there. I'll bet they were sweating it when somebody came up with Dragon Blaster.

"What the hell, Tim?!?! It's got TWO WORDS in it?!?!?"

I have a feeling that I would have fit in well with the marketing team over in Eternia.

"Quick, we need a name and jingle for this new toy!"

"Try a two syllable word and just fit it to a 'dum-dum' rhythm!"

After that I'd flip down my shades, pop my collar and leap into my Ferrari, content in the knowledge that I had batted yet another one out of the park.

But this is really what I consider one of the bad examples. Let's face it, those He-Man commercials are essentially bullshit, just repeating the name of the toy ad nauseum to try and ingrain it in the little bastards' heads.

I prefer a commercial that doesn't make pretenses, one that lets me know exactly what I'm getting. Perhaps like Tiger Force from G.I. Joe...



Did you hear what they just said?

"Get those captured Cobra vehicles repainted and rearmed, they're part of Tiger Force now!"

They honestly just told you that you're buying the SAME DAMN TOY you already own, only this time it's got 'rad' new colors! Hell yeah! It should be easy to justify mom and dad pumping out another twenty bucks for the same plane YOU ALREADY OWN.

Kids aren't stupid. We all knew that toy manufacturers pulled that crap all the time. It's one thing to look at your new helicopter and think, "Hey, that's the same helicopter I already had!" That crushing moment of awareness is an important part of our adolescent years. However, it's something else entirely to have the manufacturer brazenly announce to you that they intend to screw you over.

I guess that was just a sign of the times for the 80's though. Remember, this is the same decade that brought us keytars and colorized movies. It wasn't exactly rocket surgery every day.

There are more subtle forms of truth, though, and some marketers found ways to tell you what you really needed to know about a toy without outright saying it. Here's a fine example of that:



The message? This toy will haunt your dreams every night for the rest of your existence. It will crawl into the deepest recesses of your mind only to spring forward at times when you're alone and the room is dark. Baby Laughs A Lot dwells in that cold bead of sweat that rolls down your back whenever mortal terror burns in your being.

Seriously, this doll is to cute and cuddly what Requiem for a Dream is to "feel good romp of the decade". Who let this thing make it past the design stage? Had I been in the office the day the first prototype hit, I would have raised my hand and asked, "Has anybody here seen the original Evil Dead? Do you remember the character Linda? Need I say more?"

That's right, folks, here is a doll that is reminiscent in almost EVERY aspect to a woman possessed by a Candarian demon, sitting in an abandoned cabin and giggling with glee while a group of college kids is killed one by one in horrific ways. That's what I want to give my kids, I'll tell you.

"Daddy, how do I stop that terrifying laughter?"

"Well, honey, if my memory of that film serves me right, you'll have to dismember her with an axe."

Okay, on second thought, that does rather sound like the kind of conversation I'd have with my kids.

"Here you go, hon, enjoy. If it creeps you out, KILL IT WITH FIRE."

This final video really needs no introduction. I'm hardly the first person to find it, and I'm sure that nothing I will say below will be any wittier than the seven trillion jokes already told, but hey, it's my blog, ain't it?



There it is. The holy grail of "what the fuck?!?!", the queen mother of all inventions disturbing and wrong. This is a commercial that you simply cannot watch without reaction.

For those without Flash, let me explain this childrens' toy. (For the record, it is impossible to describe this toy without the term 'Money Shot'.)

The Oozinator is essentially a toy squirt gun where you are encouraged to wrap your hand tightly around a hard shaft so that a pumping motion can be made. The ultimate goal of this stroking? Why, the money shot, of course. Yep, this is basically a water gun that you jack off so that you can spit thick ropes of an unnamable sticky white substance on your friends. How can you possibly discuss this thing in polite company, let alone see that commercial and think of buying it?

"Ooh, look, that kid is LOVING IT! He's totally smearing it all over his chest and face! We should TOTALLY get one of these for Timmy!"

I don't even think they know who their target market is for this one. Watching that commercial, I would think it's geared more towards pedarasts than anything. I'm sure there's any number of lecherous old men who have tried to pay a little boy a quarter to film him being shot in the chest without a shirt on. It's all innocent fun, of course, it's JUST a squirt gun.

If you think I'm just being vulgar, I defy you to show that commercial to one single person who doesn't say the exact same thing. It's nothing but a pedophile's wet dream marketed in plastic form.

But hey, at least the commercial was honest about it.

Death in the First Person

Posted by E

Sunday, January 18, 2009

He lays prone in the debris, defenseless against his attackers. He is silent and nearly motionless. A large welt oozes blood from the center of his forehead as he studies his surroundings through a confused haze. He clumsily moves the box that partly obscures his chest before a voice is heard.

"So, let's do it," we hear from off screen, immediately followed by a teenager jumping into frame above the stunned man. Brandishing a hammer wrapped in a shopping bag, he swings at the man's face with as much force as he can muster.

Again and again he brings the mallet down at a shockingly quick pace. The hammer shatters bone and rends sinew, wrenching the head forward as the man's mutilated skull hooks on the head of the weapon. After seven blows the cameraman warns that he hears a car. The would be killers fall silent and look to the distance to make certain that their game will not be interrupted. Once they are assured that they have not been caught the camera returns to fetishistically study their fallen quarry.

Where once this man's face lay, there remains only an unrecognizable mass of shapeless tissue. The pulverized remains of his head have been precipitously rendered into a swollen landscape of indescribable horror.

The camera continues to focus closely on what remains of the man's face, as blood pours from the remnants of his nostrils in waves. His breathing comes in great rasping shakes as the cameraman pushes and prods his face to better survey their handiwork.

"Wait, wait, don't beat him. He is handsome, pretty!" the killers giggle as they zoom in even closer to admire what they have wrought. The man wheezes and gurgles as the blood from his face begins to snake its way down his throat and into his lungs. We see the hammer come back into frame as the killers nudge his head to the left and right. His jaw hangs slack with each labored breath.

The sanguine fluid continues to pour into the man's chest as his breathing takes on a rattling tone. Every jolting intake of air is accompanied by a deep bubbling groan and suffixed by a wailing moan.

"Dissect the abdomen," the killer says, and almost immediately the killer moves to hand a screwdriver to the cameraman. With hardly a moment's hesitation, the cameraman sets to work on the second phase of desecration.

Because of our vantage point, his hand becomes ours as the tool is inserted into the man's stomach, twisting and turning with each puncture to ensure maximum damage. We can see the movement of the shaft under the man's skin, pulling and stretching with each turn. The victim lets out the occasional frail whining to remind both us and the killer that he is still a living being, albeit one on the precipice of death.

Our attacks become more frenzied and we see our hand stabbing into the man's abdomen over and over in quick succession, his moans lurching in staccato rhythm with our actions.

Our eyes turn back to the man's face, his moans increasing in volume as the camera approaches. The screwdriver is pushed up to his face, pushing aside flaps of skin and bone that moments ago had been identifiable, now nothing but an obscured organic mass.

We back up in time to see the victim raise his hand feebly to his face. His breathing is faster but ever more violent. Each breath still pulls his body in paroxysmal spasms.

"He is still alive?" we hear the killers ask, seemingly surprised that the man has thus far avoided eternity.

The first killer moves forward and stomps his foot into the man's chest several times before stabbing him several more times. He drops his face into view and with a large predatory smile asks his victim how he's feeling.

Our hand returns to frame and stabs the abdomen a few more times before moving up, once again, to the man's face. Almost no time is wasted once there, before we force the implement into the man's eye, the hilt of the improvised weapon laying flush with his face. We thrust the tool into his socket several times, turning and twisting once again to maximize damage before pulling away.

And yet, again, the man still clings to life.

One final time our first killer returns to view, this time with a much larger sledge. He lines up with the man and lays three massive blows to the man's temple before appearing satisfied for the time being.

We rush from the woods to a nearby vehicle and wash the weapons while stealing furtive glances at our surroundings, apparently hopeful that no traffic happens by, as there would be much explaining to do.

The killer grins and shudders as the adrenaline continues to pump through his veins. He hides the hammer in the trunk and nervously looks around as he washes his face and hands. The camera cuts as they return to the woods to snap some still photographs with their victim.


There are many horrific videos one can bear witness to on the internet, showing all sorts of horrors both real and imagined being inflicted upon hapless victims. Where this one stands apart from the others is not just the sheer brutality of the act, but the seemingly random nature of it all.

One can watch any number of films from Chechnya and Iraq and see people losing their lives in all manner of horrific circumstances. Documenting brutal acts is certainly nothing new, but in all previous examples which have found their way online the victim had some foreknowledge, some warning that the acts could have been perpetrated.

Executing a prisoner or captive for the sake of propaganda or for inducing fear in your enemies is something that has been done since time immemorial. As horrible as these acts are to watch, one can always distance themselves by remembering that the people in these videos were in active war zones, typically involved in the conflict in some fashion.

Here this is not the case. The victim is just an unfortunate man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. This video was created solely for the entertainment of its creators, and to provide reminiscence when the perpetrators had grown fully into manhood.

Perhaps the most disturbing element for some people is the seeming first person perspective it gives. One is left with the impression that THEY are committing the acts here, though at best they are a mute witness. Nothing you can say or do will prevent the acts from happening, and you are forced to watch with horror as your own hand is used to perpetrate these crimes.

What you have just borne witness to was a piece of evidence from a murder trial that found its way onto the internet. These were the actions of the so called "Dnepropetrovsk Maniacs", a cadre of three bored teenagers whose murderous predilection led the Ukraine into a summer of terror in 2007.

Between June and July of 2007, Viktor Sayenko and Igo Suprunyuck moved from animal mutilation to the ultimate murder of 21 individuals. The third accomplice, Alexander Hanzha, was associated with the boys but not known to be one of the killers.

The victim in the video is Sergei Yatzenko, a man who had recently been forced into retirement due to a cancerous tumor in his throat.

The teens would select their victims seemingly at random, and then dispense of them, typically with a blunt object. They murdered men, women, and children. The only criteria they seemed to look for was an inability to successfully fight back.

They documented their actions into film on multiple occasions. It is unknown how this particular video leaked, though it is assumed it came from someone close to the investigation.

Lightning Doesn't Usually Strike Twice

Posted by E

Thursday, January 15, 2009

There was a time a decade or so ago, that I actually considered buying a home down here. For me this is a fairly big deal, not so much from the "Ooh, he's buying a house, what an investment!" standpoint, but more from the, "Oh my god, he's actually planning on sticking around" point of view.

It's not that I'm exceptionally transient, or that I live the life of a vagabond, it's just that I've never been fond of putting down roots, as it were. I like the freedom to be able to say, "That's it! I'm moving to Winnipeg!" at a moment's breath, even if it's incredibly unlikely that I'd ever do so.

But at the time the mania had burrowed its way into my brain and I actually went and surveyed a few homes before ultimately deciding that apartment life better suited my style. (Let's face it, I've lived in the same place for 3 years and still haven't decorated it.)

Being the type that doesn't generally consider my home to be anything more than 4 walls surrounding my meager possessions, I didn't put a whole lot of concern into the neighborhoods that I looked at. Don't get me wrong, if I rolled up and two dudes were smoking rocks while a guy with a Burger King bag offered to fellate me for two bucks, there's a high likelihood that I wouldn't put an offer on that particular place.

But I'm definitely a man who doesn't want to spend boatloads of money on what is essentially a box with a door, so I opted to look at some of the HUD homes available in my area.

From my understanding at the time, HUD homes are the government owned "Housing and Urban Development" homes, generally fix 'r up type houses that you can buy on the cheap and probably turn over for a quick profit if you're the slumlord type. I have since come to the understanding that HUD homes are generally dens of filth that the government hopes to pawn off on some unlucky bastard.

The beauty of HUD homes was that they were generally rather affordable. Whereas most homes in my area were in the $120-150,000 range, I was able to track down a couple of HUD homes in the low to mid $70's. I certainly wasn't going to pass up on such a good offer, so I went to check out a few of them.

One in particular stands out in my memory.

The realtor was already a bit put off from having to deal with me. I'm a nice enough guy and probably look relatively harmless, but I do have a habit of letting my mouth say whatever my mind is thinking and that can sometimes lead to trouble when communicating with my fellow man. For instance; realtors do not like to be asked "if there's any crawlspace or any other area appropriate for storing 'the bodies'". In general, they seem to lack humor in that area.

I walk into the home, a standard little ranch styled affair, doing a quick rundown of the layout and obvious flaws. The living room seems rather nice, spacious but not extremely large. The two bedrooms are perfectly acceptable, nice closets, carpet looks clean for the most part. I'm wandering this house wondering why the price point is so low. Granted, the neighborhood isn't the nicest, but it's not really a slum either. When we get to the kitchen I can see the answer laid bare before me.

The kitchen joins the dining room and the garage, sort of an abutment between the two. The door to the garage seems slightly askew at first glance. A more thorough inspection reveals that it is pretty much hanging off its frame. Oh, and it's been ripped into two pieces, as if smashed or chopped apart with an axe.

Then there's the dining room, a small affair with a chandelier hanging in the middle. A chandelier (and ceiling!) with a spray of blood washed across it, droplets flecking the ceiling and rivulets of coagulated brown snaking their way down.

Okay, so maybe the house has a minor flaw.

But really, you have to think about these things realistically. So I asked the realtor the most obvious question about this setup that I could.

"Did whoever did this know the people who lived here?"

Unfortunately she couldn't answer that question. Sorry Holmes, no sale.

It seems pretty simple to me. Had this been a random act of extreme violence, some guy just snapping and running up off the street to split the skulls of everybody in that dining room...had it been that, I might have bought it.

My fear was that this was no random encounter, that this gentleman had it in for the people who occupied this home. Perhaps he was merely the facade for a more sinister cabal of ne'er do wells and malcontents intent on destroying the occupants of that home due to some ancient feud. If so, do you think they knew the old tenants had left? (Or died, for that matter?) Might they come back to finish the job?

Personally, I felt a lot more comfort in the random encounter thought, as what are the odds of a crazed individual smashing down a door to murder all the occupants in a house MORE THAN ONCE? Seems like a whole lightning never strikes twice thing to me.

Oh well, I never did buy the place. I've always wondered if they had to clean up the blood before they managed to sell it.

Korey666's Magnum Opus

Posted by E

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Empty Cocoon - Part 1

Posted by Doodface

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

OK, so it's easy to make fun of a horrible writer. But is it an easy thing to do? I want to give this a shot. I just started writing this on a whim tonight after reading the latest Korey666 story.



What?

What just happened?

my wife...Where is my - Holy shit why does my head hurt so bad?

Am I drunk? I can't focus.

Ok, I am at home in my bed... I must have blacked out drunk! Stupid.

Why is the bedroom light on?

where is Sarah?

Ohhh my head..

BLOOD. What the fuck?

Is it my blood? WHERE IS SARAH!?!

oh shit oh shit oh shit! Where is my fucking wife???

Calm down Sal, calm down.

Get down stairs. There is an explanation for this. Just check in on the twins first...

Oh no, oh no.. Where are the girls???? MORE BLOOD! Is that a fucking finger on the floor?!?

RUN

Lights on, front door open.... OH NO, OH NO, OH SHIT.

Mirror.. am I ok? Just a bump on the head. Someone hit me!

Ok Ok.. Gather your thoughts here Sal. What do I do?

Cops..... 9-1-1

No dial tone.. What the fuck is going on here?!?!

Who have I convicted lately that could have done this?

STEPHEN COLMES. OH NO.



"Hello Mr. D.A."

He had been sitting calmly on the couch, watching me the whole time. I immediately jumped at him.

I would kill him with my bare hands.

"Not so fast Mr. D.A." He was holding up a tiny finger.

It stopped me cold. I felt as if I had been stabbed with a shard of ice. I immediately dropped to my knees from paralyzing panic and fear.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE YOU SICK BASTARD?!?"

He smiled at me as if I were a child. He did not respond, but seemed to enjoy watching my panic grow.

"ANSWER ME!!! Where is my family??? I will fucking kill you!"

"Not if you want to spare their lives, you won't" he replied calmly. "Do you remember the trial Mr. D.A.?"

“FUCK YOU! Where is My family?!?!”

“Answer my question. NOW.”

"OF COURSE I Remember!! I failed! Because of my sloppy case work, you walk free. Because a FUCKING swatch of carpet went missing from evidence, a killer walks our streets. You committed 3 of the most brutal murders in Virginia history!!"

"Allegedly." He responded quietly.

"Fucking LIAR! You are a murderer! WHERE IS MY FAMILY?!"

"You are only partly right MR D.A. – I AM a murderer, but I did not kill THOSE women."

"LIAR! We found pictures of them in your apartment."

"Along with 100's of other pictures."

"They had knife wounds drawn on them!"

"It was only a fantasy... then. You sir, made it a reality. You see, before you entered my life, I spent my life supressing the urge to hurt. But you… You made me a free man. You labeled me as a rapist and a murderer. There was no one in this city that would have ever thought otherwise.”

“WHERE IS MY FAMILY?!?! PLEASE!!!!”

“In due time. First, you will know what you have done, and what you have created.” He held up the tiny finger. “This is your fault” He thoughtlessly discarded the bloody finger as if it were a gum wrapper.

My girls. What has he done?


“I WILL kill you for this!”

“You probably won’t get the chance, but you are welcome to try. Just know that if my life ends, your beautiful little family dies with me. Now please, you are being rude.”

He continued his story..

”So, after the trial, I got fired from my job. No warning, no nothing. Just "Get out of here you fucking Psycho!" Then I got jumped outside of my house – twice. My house was burnt to the ground while I was sleeping – I barely made it out alive. All because of YOU. I was INNOCENT, but you convinced this entire town otherwise.” He was supressing pain, trying to remain in total control.

I started to beleive him. This man had no reason to lie to me.

What have I done?

“If not you, then.. who?”

“How should I know? I was not involved in their demise in any fashion.”

“Then why did you have their pictures?”

“Those women fit in to my fantasy. I find lesbians irresistible. Untainted by men, Forever virgins, Clean, and suitable for my purpose.” His eyes were closed, and he was smiling. He looked as if he was going to reach climax at any time. "The fact that their killer also appreciated untainted flesh was purely coincidence." His looked changed to that of controlled anger.

“But not until you forever stamped me as a murderer did I allow myself to sample these wonderful creatures.” He had an evil look on his face now. He had rehearsed this moment, and planned to enjoy every second.

“Since my release from captivity, 7 women have been sacrificed to my needs. Well I say women, but “females” is more accurate. Not all of them were of age. As long as they are still pure, they can serve my desires.”

THE TWINS

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!?!”

“Please be patient, Mr. D.A. Your answers will come soon enough.”


To read part 2, click here

I'm a Glutton for Punishment

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Yaaaarrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhh

Posted by E

Monday, January 12, 2009

I will openly admit that I am as geektacular a person as you're ever likely to meet. Anywhere you look around me you're likely to find toys, movies, books and games all around. I take great glee in having unholy amounts of knowledge in the most trivial and pointless endeavors.

I have mentioned in the past that I have a collecting personality. I'm always on the lookout for something that I can spend years trying to finish a collection of. I find myself happiest when it's a collection that can never be completed. One of these unfinishable collections is autographs, a hobby I have admittedly cooled on in my later years, but which I pursued with a burning passion for many years.

In my teens I would constantly scour the newspapers and magazines looking for any kind of signing by any notables. Amongst the many in my collection are Johnnie Cochrane, Emo Phillips, Dimebag Darrell, and a whole host of others. (Sorry for lumping you with the dead guys, Emo.) One of my favorites is my autographed copy of "Seasons in the Abyss" by Slayer.

Let's get something clear. I like Slayer. I am not a fan of Slayer. Those guys you see decked out in the Naziesque tattoos looking to beat somebody's ass for looking at them? Yeah, not me. I'm more the doughy guy in the background who looks really out of place at a Slayer show. I know this for certain, as I've seen them three times.

Anyways, the year was 1994 and Slayer had just released their album Divine Intervention. Big changes were afoot in the lollipop lane world of Slayer, and drummer Dave Lombardo had left the band only to be replaced by Paul Bostaph. (Lombardo would later rejoin the band, but that's irrelevant to this story.)

I heard on the radio that Slayer would be doing a signing not too far from my home. Being a whore for autographs and a minor fan of Slayer (Hell Awaits and Reign in Blood are pretty good), I decided to make my way down and check out the goings on. My girlfriend Stacie got dragged along so that I wouldn't be too bored.

Stacie was the antithesis of a Slayer fan. In the grander scheme of things King Diamond would stand a better chance of fitting in at a Sikh revival than Stacie would at a Slayer signing.

At the time of this story her two favorite albums were "Heart in Motion" by Amy Grant and "Time, Love and Tenderness" by some no-talent ass clown. (Sadly, I know all the words to both albums to this day because of her.) After convincing my preppie girlfriend that spending the day surrounded by Satan worshipping rioters would be a hoot, we made our way down to the signing.

As is usually the case in Michigan, it was cold and wet that day and we found ourselves standing outside while winter's elements did their best to chase the last remnants of heat and comfort from our bodies. The Slayer crowd took it in stride and we stood around cracking the occasional joke and discussing our favorite songs. (My personal favorite is that one that goes really fast until Tom Araya starts screaming the lyrics.)

After the better part of three hours had passed, we reached the point where we could enter the building to meet the unholy quartet themselves. As we walked through the door we were handed cutouts that we could choose to have signed, delightful photographs of a person's arm, with Slayer carved in with a razor, blood streaming from the fresh wound.

I had brought a copy of "Seasons" to get signed, so I opted away from the free cutout. Stacie, having little to no interest in the whole affair, grabbed one of the cardboard affairs so she could at least go through the motions.

The items to be signed were placed on a table and pushed down past each member of the band. First was Paul Bostaph, the new guy, apparently enjoying his newfound fame. Beyond him lay Jeff Hanneman, one of the two guitarist. Next came Kerry King, one of the scariest looking guys I had ever laid eyes on up to that point. His bald head, smothering tattoos, and intimidating stare was enough to send my testicles back up into my midsection.

Finally there was Tom Araya, bassist and lead singer, a man demonstrating no lack of energy and enthusiasm for the fans. As he was last at the table, the fans would ultimately end up in front of him waiting for their autograph. He'd smile, get their name, scribble out a signature and then hop up from the table and scream in their faces. Full on "YAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH" scream.

Stacie wades through the endless waves of Slayer t-shirts and makes her way down the table to Tom. As her placard is placed in front of him he asks her name so that he can sign it.

"It's Stacie. Please don't scream at me."

A glint of mischief flashed through Tom's eye. He glanced up at her and as politely as he could said, "Please?"

"No," she said.

"Please," said Tom, his Cheshire grin widening.

"No."

"Pleeeeeeeease," he asked, almost whining.

"No."

"Fine," he said with a resigned sigh as he handed the autograph to her.

My turn was next, I got the signature and the scream and then headed out to see Stacie. She stood at the side of the building, staring at her autograph, giggling. I walked over and took a look at it myself.

The sheet bore 4 signatures, the three other members of the band and Tom's. Tom's had the word "please" written four times over the signature.

It may have ultimately been hers to keep, but that was the best autograph I ever saw.

It's a Trap!!!

Posted by Markoni

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Korey666's Triumphant Return

Posted by E

Thursday, January 8, 2009

8. Bloody Briss

I decided to avoid traffic by taking the back roads in an attempt to hopefully arrive sooner. I was already late and knew that the attendants were all waiting on me now. I also didn’t want to get pulled over by a cop on one of the main roads and have him arrest me for being drunk as fuck. After taking another swig of rum I tossed the now empty bottle to the backseat and slammed the pedal to the floor. There were no pedestrians or other vehicles in sight. As my ride soared down the country road, I estimated it would take another five to ten minutes until I arrived at the house.
When I finally did arrive, I stumbled from out of my car and headed lethargically towards the front door. While knocking on the door, I glanced down at my watch and realized I was later than I had expected. They had now been waiting for me for over an hour. The door opened revealing about twenty friends and relatives gathered within the house. I was greeted by Sherin, the mother of the baby. “We’ve been waiting for you!” she said with a smile.
“I’m sorry Sherin, something came up at the last minute.”
“Oh? Is everything alright?” she asked with a concerned look.
“Don’t worry, everything is fine now,” I assured her. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
As I removed my jacket and boots, I peered into the living room and noticed there were even more guests than I had seen from the doorway. There were almost twice as many in sight now, all standing with fancy wine glasses in hand. They stood throughout the living room, dining room and kitchen casually chatting with one another. In my drunken mind state, their voices sounded like nothing more than a loud buzzing of incoherent babble.
Having finally arrived, the briss could now begin. If you don’t already know what a briss is, it’s the traditional Jewish ceremony where a newborn infant is circumcised exactly eight days after he has been born. The parents had hired me to remove the foreskin from the child.
I joined the family in the living room and was told to have a seat in the chair that was placed in the center of the room by the babies father. I sat down comfortably and asked Sherin to hold the baby for me. She complied and restrained her son while I reached into my large black bag filled with circumcision tools and prepared to go to work.
Without warning, a murderous, senile expression formed on my face and instead, I pulled out a giant axe from the bag and held it over my head. I swung the axe down towards the infants dick, detaching his shaft and leaving the little faggot forever celibate. Veins began bulging from my neck and biceps as the attendants of the briss gasped in horror. I turned the axe around in my hand and sent it sailing towards my head, splitting my own face in half. Chunks of my brain shot from out of my head and sprayed the guests as my body collapsed to the floor in a pool of my own blood.


"Ooh, scary," as Count Floyd might say.

Yet another tragic tale of misery and horror spun for us by the great Korey666, master of the macabre, tyrant of terror, the hierophant of horror.

Okay, maybe not. More like another heapin' helpin' of Korey666's inscrutable misanthropy. A story so horrific that you can smell the odor of sun-warmed garbage wafting through your nostrils as you choke and heave your way to the end.

In this unnerving fright fest we join Rabbi Korey666, as he goes about his rabbi business in a drunken haze, making his way towards his unsuspecting victims' home, in order that he might perform what will ultimately become a fatal "briss" on a young child.

Note number one to Korey... Check your spelling. We're all guilty of a minor spelling error here and there, but spelling bris with an extra "s" is kind of a biggie. Especially when you're trying to make us believe that YOU ARE A RABBI. Jewish holy men tend to know the vocabulary associated with their religion.

Let me give you a couple of examples:

So I cut off the infadels head in the name of Alah.
I held aloft the crusafix and said, "The power of Krist compels you" as I cast the demon out.

And therein lies the lesson. No Muslim would misspell Allah or infidel, much as no Christian would miss crucifix or Christ.

I know it might seem like I'm splitting hairs here, but again, you're supposed to be portraying a man who has studied the Torah his entire life. I would suspect that the ceremonies you are granted the power to perform would be understood by you.

But don't let yourself be saddened by all this. I'm really just trying to help you out. I know you really want nothing more than to shock and offend your audience. More power to you, man. There's a lot of fun to be had in that type of writing.

If you want to do that, why not take the bris to its logical conclusion? A little bit of research gives you some opportunities to work with here.

Ever heard of Metzitzah? That's a controversial practice wherein the newly circumcised genitals of the baby are sucked on by the mohel (that'd be you, Korey) in order to promote healing. Besides conjuring a sickening mental image, you get another bonus. Know why it's controversial and infrequently practiced nowadays? Because it has been shown to transmit herpes from the mohel to the baby in some cases.

There you go, man. Baby circumcision sucking followed by herpetic transmission. That's some pretty nasty stuff. For an added bonus, pop the foreskin in your mouth for the seudat mitzvah (a celebratory meal enjoyed after the bris).

Wow, see what TEN MINUTES of research can do for you? You get to take it to a new level while maintaining at least an air of believability.

There's what I would suggest to help sicken the mood and offend the reader. I'd use some clever wording, no doubt, but that's the gist of it. What route did you take?

OH YEAH, you produced an AXE out of your "large black bag filled with circumcision tools" (which would only consist of a scalpel, gloves, sterilization pouch and a glass tube for the metzitzah) and somehow managed to swing a chop DOWNARDS and remove the penis of a baby which is being held by its mother.

Dude. Seriously?

So, you bust onto the scene, all slick like a semitic Steve McQueen, and after convincing AN ENTIRE HOUSE FULL of people that you're actually a rabbi, you try to chop off the penis of a baby WHILE ITS MOTHER HOLDS IT.

Let me give you a visual aid. (Click on the picture to see an AWESOME animation.)



Clever mom, isn't she? She happened to notice you pulling an axe out of your bag, drawing it back, swinging it over your head and bringing it down towards her future grandchildren and just pulled it out of the way.

See, Korey, that's how this story really ends.

In my version of the story they would have noticed the drunk kid in the Slipknot shirt pretending to be a middle-aged rabbi and called you on it. But even for shits and giggles I'll pretend that you made it in the house.

The fact of the matter is: you didn't cut off that baby's junk. His wang maintained entirety. There is simply NO WAY IN HELL you pulled that off. Even if mother DIDN'T pull the baby out of the way, how did you manage to (and I paraphrase) detach his shaft and leave the little faggot forever celibate?

Look at the picture closely, Korey.

Baby junk is tiny. Really, really tiny. The edge of an axe is rather blunt. They're not sharp instruments. Beheadings by axe were a pretty messy affair, because they're much better at mushing things than perfectly slicing them.

Even then, the baby is held in its mother's arms. Do you think she's going to leave him there and absorb the impact so that you can manage a clean cut? Are you so precise that you can cut off an object smaller than half a tube of Rolaids with an axe? Are you Shaggy 2 Dope, pulling your axe from your holster with a quickness?

No, you're just an idiot from a literary perspective.

At best you would have managed to smash the baby's midriff up a bit. Very unlikely that you would manage any severe damage. And either way, the other 30 people or so in the house would be "fucking the shit out of your anus" or some such drivel by the time that axe got within 5 feet of that baby. But, whatever. You're the master spinner of stories here.

So, after determining that an infant is a "faggot" (something medical science has yet to be able to figure out) you go for the ultimate finish, the famed "axe through the head suicide".

I take two issues with this ending to your story.

The first is simple. I defy you to do that. Go ahead. (This isn't just for Korey, we can ALL play along, kids.) Grab an axe, turn it towards your face and split your head in half. Bet you can't.

Hell, grab a knife and make a deep and injurious cut on yourself. (Emo cutters, no fair, you can't play.) You can't.

Why? Because our bodies are kind of programmed to NOT KILL OURSELVES.

Suicide is not an easy thing to do, man. Many, many people fail at their attempt to end their own life. The reasons being that A) we're wired to survive at all costs and B) WE'RE WIRED TO SURVIVE AT ALL COSTS. Anybody with the fortuity to actually split their own head in half with an axe is not likely to be performing a bris beforehand. They will be so detached from reality as to be nonfunctional in society.

But again, hey, whatever. It's your story.

But there's still one thing left that's bothering me.

Oh, I know what it is! You killed yourself in THIRD PERSON PAST TENSE.

"Chunks of my brain shot from out of my head and sprayed the guests as my body collapsed to the floor in a pool of my own blood."

Really? That happened? When did you find time to write about it?

For fuck's sake, man, if you're going to "shock" your audience by engaing in an act like AXE SUICIDE, at least take the time to write it, I don't know, from your OWN perspective? Maybe, just maybe write it as if it were happening NOW, so that the shock was, errr, SHOCKING?

One day I will sit down and rewrite your stories and hand them back. It would really be a fun challenge.

But, as rough as I treat you Korey666, I do have to thank you for one thing. You have given me the single greatest line ever written in the history of language. If I could end every comedy piece I'd ever written with this line I would.


"AWWW FUCKIN' GOD, MY BLOODY PETE, A-HOLE AND NIPPLES HAVE BEEN TRANSFORMED TO ASHES!!!"