Trigger Warning: Extreme Horror: Contains Strong Sexual Content, Violence, Drug Use, and Language. (7 page)

I always hated hearing about that liberal twat Lincoln—yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up, I know he was actually a Republican (before they had balls)—in Introduction to American History. Fucking nigger apologists, I’ll tell you what, that’s all the college education system is: a bunch of goddam beta-male hippies preachin’ love and peace…and feminazis.

Kill ‘em all, that’s what I say. Let Odin sort out the rest.

I got kicked out of college for writing a paper that was too “pro-Aryan,” as my History professor put it. All I said was that the white race was superior and we should sterilize the lesser races, abort their children, and force them into servitude or kill them if they refuse. Apparently, these ideas were not allowed in the prestigious halls of academia, where people are supposedly “open-minded.” Once I shared my truths, their minds were suddenly tighter than a 12-year-old girl’s asshole (well, unless that 12-year-old girl was my sister; I loosened that bitch up when she was nine). Whatever happened to freedom of fucking speech?!

Most people hate the idea that there are lessers. They fear it, because they
are
the lesser, the weak, the ones not fit for life. Natural selection, bitch. It’s fucking science. There are alphas, and there are betas, and there are omegas (the most worthless, deserving rape and death).

For example, women are the lesser sex—which is why they should have no rights and submit to sex whenever the fuck an alpha male wants it. Rape is a bullshit political term. There is no such thing. A buzzword created by feminazis and beta-males to strike fear into the idiot masses. Bitches were created by Odin for alpha men to fuck, not to be standing around in the campus streets like cattle, chanting “NO MEANS NO,” “YES MEANS YES,” or whatever cutesy phrase they’ve come up with that week while painting their nails, crying into pillows, shopping for shoes, hashtagging “trigger warning” on their Tumblr posts, and pinning knitting patterns on Pinterest. We’ve already given them too much power, because society has become weak and kowtows to the weak, afraid of hurting feelings, of triggering negative “emotions.” Emotions are for pussies and faggots. If you can’t fight back, then fuck you. You toughen up or get fucked, bitch.

It’s a dog eat dog world, and if you’re not the one eating, you’re the one being eaten.

Which reminds me…that Captain Crunch is looking tastier than a dyke’s cunt right now, goddam. I think I’m not supposed to eat it, but I can’t remember the reason why. It’s poisoned, maybe? Oh well.

The red digital read-outs on the clock say 6:00.

Guess they’re going to kill me soon.

Let those faggots try. Bet
they’re
faggots. That’s why they chained a stud like me up. They get off on it. They’re probably watching me through a peephole, jerkin’ it. Fucking queers.

“Somebody let me out of here! I’m gonna kick your fuckin’ ass! I’m gonna rape your fuckin’ face!”

Probably shouldn’t have added that last part; might be makin’ them hornier.

Wait, why would the clown have threatened to kill me at dawn if it poisoned my cereal? Doesn’t make sense, does it? Clown would probably want to do it himself with a scalpel, like the one it used on that beta-male Steve Cheese over there. I can tell Steve’s a beta because he allowed his throat to get slit (and he said “hi” to me once, instead of grunting).

Pussy.

I’m not going out that way.

I’m an alpha, goddammit.

I do the fucking around here.

No one fucks Alex Rodriguez.

I wrestle the restraints, pulling my wrists in opposite directions, the thick muscles in my arms rippling, veins bulging (get off on this queers, while you still can—
before I fucking rip you apart!
)

The twine that binds my wrists snaps. Unfortunately, the chains around my waist and ankles are still tightly in place (the chains around my ankles looped through a tiny steel hoop on the floor).

Chained like a goddam nigger in a slave ship. No Aryan Alpha Male should be treated like a fucking slave. I’m a son of Odin, goddammit!

I stare at the bowl of soggy Captain Crunch.

“Poisoned, I bet ya. Motherfuckers.”

I pick up the rusty spoon, my stomach gurgling from sickness and hunger, the combination making me nauseated. I dip the spoon into the curdling milk, the stench sour in my nostrils, but I don’t give a shit. I raise the spoon to my lips. Take a bite.

I feel my face twist in disgust. But I force it down.

Another bite, another swallow.

Soggy, chunky, sour. I force it down.

Another bite, another swallow. A sharp pain rips into my throat and I choke, gag as something lodges there.

The blood drains from my face.

Black dots dance on my eyeballs.

Goddammit, something sharp and jagged.

I grapple at my throat. Scan the room frantically.

Everything becomes blurry, unfocused. Black spots shower over my retinas.

FOCUS.

The scalpel in the corpse’s hand!

I twist the scalpel from Steve’s dead clutches, cutting my palm in the process. And then I proceed to perform self-surgery: slicing open the bottom of my throat, right below the Adam’s apple. I gnash my teeth so hard I shatter my incisors, tiny bloody pieces of enamel tinkling onto the table and floor.

I pull the scalpel across, deep and fast—but the pain isn’t any worse than the sharp, jagged object clogging my air passage.

I finger my bloody throat-hole—I can feel membranes, like dripping wet meat. And then my finger pads are poked by something sharp, jagged; the offending object: a tiny, rusty circular saw blade.

I toss it onto the table, where it clatters with a metallic
clang
next to Steve’s frozen, rigor mortis fist. The fist that once gripped the bloody scalpel I now drop to the floor.

I struggle for breath and it rasps in and out of my newly acquired throat-hole, blowing blood bubbles as I exhale. Dinner
and
a show.

I hold my hands over the wound, futilely trying to stop the bleeding—but my throat has become a pouring crimson fountain. The gushing blood is warm, almost comforting, as my head goes light. My life, dripping down the front of my white (now mostly red) wife-beater—something I’ve worn while beating a few wives (not my own; marriage is for beta-males and cunts).

I feel the world fading…my eyes roll upward…and then I’m falling, face first toward the soggy cereal—

SPLASH!

Black.

In the darkness, I hear the door to the room squeak open.

Latex gloves? grab me, pull me upright in the chair.

I gasp for oxygen, face dripping with spoilt milk and blood.

I don’t try to fight them, it, whatever—the fingers of my numb mind just barely grasping the fine threads of reality. All I see is a shape and a pair of hands.

I let the hands do their work.

They sew my throat-hole up…the needle pinching, stinging, but I’m already in so much pain that I’m barely lucid and don’t give a shit. Pain and terror has become my Novocaine—not as good as the shit in the dentist’s office, but it suffices.

The filament pulls tight, the thread is snipped, and then the sentient hands wrap gauze around the stitched wound.

The Shadow connected to the Hands comes into focus…

…the Clown Mask. Smiling down at me. A red smile which is frozen on the white soulless face.

“Fucker,” I tell it in a raspy, 50-year-smoker’s voice.

The Clown giggles, honks its nose, then very seriously says: “I just saved your life you ungrateful cunt.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re a killer, aren’t you?”

“I only kill niggers, queers, sluts, and trannies…you look like you might be all four. So yes.”

Clown Mask sets a pink Glock .40 on the table, next to the cereal bowl.

“Do you remember this gun?”

I don’t say a fucking thing.

“Well, you should. It almost ended your life.”

I don’t say a fucking thing.

“There are others in this place of death. In this Hell House. I’m not supposed to be doing this. Gramma Wilkins says it’s against the rules. But you see, I hate the others. I like you. Kill them, and you shall be free.”

Clown Mask sets a key next to the gun.

“This key will undo the chains that bind you. This is the key to your salvation. Kill them, Alex. Kill them all: the cop, the whore, and the nigger bitch.”

I snatch the pink Glock.

Raspy, coughing up blood: “Fuck you.”

BAM!
Right in the motherfucker’s clown face.

…BEFORE

I suppose you’re waiting for my backstory.

Well, fuck you.

I don’t waste time dwelling and bitching about the past. I don’t whine about how people hurt my feelings to try and justify why I’m such a big mean monster.

Alex Rodriguez is a fucking mean bad ass and always has been, straight out his mother’s loose flappy cunt, baby.

Alex Rodriguez doesn’t look back, only forward: to the next pussy to fuck, the next drug to swallow, smoke, shoot up, the next victim to beat and kill and rape (sometimes in that order).

Fuck you.

You ain’t gettin’ no backstory about my father slapping and molesting me.

In the end, it doesn’t matter anyway. It doesn’t justify me or the things I do. I’m a monster and I’m proud of it.

These whiny cunts that tell you their backstories are just masturbating.

Ooo look how damaged I am. Look what I’ve become. See what abuse does to people. Isn’t it sad?

Look at me look at me look at me.

Shut the fuck up.

No one gives a fuck!

Jennifer

We continue, deeper and deeper into the labyrinth (as Robert calls it). He keeps muttering to himself that he’s been here before. I try to ask him questions: What? When? Why? How? But he is non-responsive and just says the same things over and over: “I shouldn’t have cheated on Cindy. I shouldn’t have had sex with Angela. I’m a monster. I’m evil. It’s my fault, all my fault. I’m the reason we’re here. I couldn’t be man enough. It’s my fault she died. Oh Jesus Christ, I’ve been here before. The labyrinth, the labyrinth. We are the Minotaurs. I shouldn’t have cheated on Cindy…” and on and on and on.

I don’t know what to tell this babbling ape-man, so I just say: “It’s going to be okay,” and, “Do you think you can walk by yourself?”

Robert nods, steadying himself against the wall, releasing his death grip on my shoulder.

I departed with the pumps about five minutes ago. Those fuckers were killing me. Better to walk on cold concrete than destroy my ankles.

“I’m sorry,” Robert says.

I shrug, say, “It’s okay,” even though I don’t know what he’s apologizing for. Being an ape-man? Highly doubt it.

“I shouldn’t have called you a whore,” he says.

I don’t trust that an ape-man can ever truly apologize for anything without an agenda (usually sex aka rape; the only “sex” ape-men are capable of), but I smirk and say, “It’s okay. I am a whore.”

Robert just looks at me.

“Let’s keep moving,” I say.

Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth: the maze of winding stone corridors and the eerie green light.

Then:

“Look! Stairs!” I cry out (almost too hopeful; I should know better), pointing.

“Thank fucking god,” Robert says.

He rushes up the steep wooden staircase, and I follow close behind—thankful I took off my pumps. If I tripped on these risers, I’d break my fucking skull open.

At the top of the stairs is a door with a rusty knob (of course)—this place is a lockjaw factory.

Robert struggles to twist the knob, clockwise, counterclockwise, but it won’t budge either direction.

“Figures,” I mutter. “Couldn’t be
that
easy.”

“Stand back,” Robert says, raises his foot, and gives the door a solid kick. It flies open, smacking the wall on the other side. Guess sick fucks can’t afford door bumpers.

“Impressive, Copper.”

Robert smirks, as if to say:
I’m hot shit, I know.
(Don’t get too cocky, ape-man. You were sobbing and muttering like a bitch just a second ago.)

If the labyrinth was the basement of this hell hole, I’m assuming this is the ground level: more of the same bullshit. Narrow hallways, maze-like…except the floors are hardwood instead of concrete, and the walls are covered in peeling yellow paper.

The Yellow Wallpaper.

I shudder.

I’m going to end up like that woman in the story, thinking she’s trapped behind it—except I’ll have the sadistic smiley faces and flowers joining me as company.