Custom Search

life leaves scars

“If pleasures are greatest in anticipation, just remember that this is also true of trouble.”- Elbert Hubbard

The anticipation was killing him. She was so beautiful, tied to the bed like a helpless victim with her wide eyes locked on his in terror. She thrashed back and forth, and each time her body writhed on the mattress his fists clenched a bit more and the need for blood elevated in his mind. He slid his finger across her thigh; so smooth and pale. He touched her stomach, her hips. She tried to scream but the sounds were muffled thanks to the duct tape firmly sealed across her full, red lips. Tears began to run down her cheeks, taking make-up with them and leaving a streaked trail of black behind. He loved that look. Maybe someday this would come into style, he thought to himself. “Victim chic.” On the cover of Vogue, girls with tattered t-shirts and tear stained faces. What a great look that would be.

He breathed in deeply, savoring the moment. His favorite part about killing was the first cut. The first incision. Every victim believes they will escape or be saved or be spared until the cool steel blade drags across their flesh. Then at that moment a flash of recognition occurs in their eyes. They KNOW. Denial disappears and is replaced by the knowledge that death is by their side, waiting to tear them to pieces. The person stops fighting you and starts fighting death itself. Completely useless, of course. We all die. Some just more painfully than others.

He drove his fist into her face, hard. Little flecks of blood sprayed on to the pillow and the thrashing began again. She was pulling so hard at the ropes that her skin was raw and red. The frame of the bed was shaking almost as bad as she was and the tears on her face were really running free. He was ready.

He felt good.

He turned to his collection and selected a knife with a closed grip, razor sharp with a small hook welded on to the hilt. He went over to his little victim and gave her a nice little kick for no other reason than to torment and tore the string of her underwear that ran across her hip. That’s where the first cut would go. Just where her cute little “nautical star” tattoo was. He’d open her up and play with her blood. Paint his name across her thigh. It would have to be a big cut because he had a long name, he mused. He leaned over, slowly bringing the blade to the thrashing girl beneath him when there was a loud knock at the front door.

When she heard the knock his victim started to scream as loud as she could, thrashing with new hope as her back arched and her entire body lifted up from the bed. He took a pillow and laid it across her face, pushing it with all his might as he gave her a strong right hook to the ribs. He felt bone crack and she immediately stopped thrashing. A broken rib will take the fight out of most people, especially a battered victim tied to a bed with a pillow over her face.

He collected himself and went to answer the door, and when he saw the dark blue uniform through the window he began to panic. He grabbed the 9mm handgun from above the refrigerator, tucking into the waist of his pants and as calmly as he could turned the knob. He thought he would have gone a hell of a lot longer than this before getting caught but that’s how it goes sometimes. This cops face was disappearing, though. It would be backup that took him down if anything.

“Can I help you?” he asked as he opened the door. A sigh of relief was barely contained when he saw the uniform was that of a fire chief and the man was raising funds for a fire station nearby. He gave the man a $10 and said goodbye, shutting the door and returning to his little pet.

He looked at her and licked his lips. A little beat up now, but still hot. “Where were we, kitty?” he said just as something came crashing through the front window.

He dropped to his knees and pulled out the pistol from his back. Slowly he crept to the window, looking around each corner. Once in the kitchen he quickly stood and pointed the firearm at each area of the room, covering all the angles. Everything was clear, nothing out of place, except for the baseball sitting on the linoleum tile. He shook his head and laughed.

He looked up and down the sidewalk for a few minutes before he finally saw the kids half a block up the street. They were hiding, but doing a piss-poor job of doing so. He could see them watching him and he also could see the various baseball gloves and bats scattered around the field across the street from them. He jogged up to them and put the ball on the ground. “Here’s your ball. Next time try to aim a little better.” He walked away and hoped they would switch to hopscotch or something. Better yet, just go inside. Don t kids just play video games these days?

He stood in front of his pet, frustrated and angry. She was quiet and breathing shallowly, very passive. His blood had cooled thanks to all the interruptions, which had him feeling deflated and let down. He sat down next to her on the bed and began to let his fingers dance across her side. Her flesh felt good as he touched her, so smooth and cool. He started to push down forcefully on her ribs, which made her yell out in pain. The muffled sound made his blood begin to flow again and he took her hair in his hands and looked her in her sharp, green eyes. “You are going to die. You don’t believe me yet, but you will. You will the second I cut you”. Then he threw her head back to the pillow and turned to get his knife. He was practically drooling, the need to open this girl was so bad that it was starting to take him over and make him crazy. He gripped the knife so hard his knuckles were white and he turned to her, jaw clenched and eyes wide with rage. That’s when the doorbell rang and a woman’s voice yelled “hello?”.

“Fuck!” he cursed. He couldn’t take it anymore. He was going to lose it. He stomped to the front door, opened it quickly without any concern for who was on the other side, and said “WHAT?” The woman on the other side was caught off guard but only for a second.

“Billy…he’s my son…he seems to have broken your window.” The woman looked very embarrassed. “I’m really sorry, “ she said. “I was wondering how much the damages were going to come to? I wouldn’t feel right without paying for it.” Her voice trailed off apologetically at the end.

He tried to relax. He just moved to the neighborhood and had to fit in. They traded information and he agreed to send her the bill. She was chatty, wanting to make small talk and he eventually had to lie and tell her he had something on the stove.

“Oh! Bill Senior…that’s my husband…he loves to cook. He cooks for us all the time!” she said with a smile. “What are you having?”

He almost punched her in the face.

“Pasta,” he said and shut the door. “Goodbye!” he yelled afterward through the broken glass but he knew it was too late. She thought he was a prick. Oh well. He was one.

“Here I come, kitty kitty! You better get ready!” He turned on the stereo and began flicking all the light switches on and off as he made his way down the hall, yelling loudly. When he entered the bedroom he lit a cigarette and began to burn her arms with it, so full of anger and frustration that he no longer had any composure. Normally he was calm, restrained, but now he was animalistic. He was going to carve this one to ribbons. His cellphone started to ring but he ignored it, letting it go to voicemail. It rang again but he ignored it and continued to burn her, grinding another cigarette into her forearm and working his way up to the first cut. Nothing was going to distract him from that now.

The home phone began to ring and the answering machine picked up.

“Yo, man”, a voice said. “It’s Thursday! We have Phillies tickets, remember? You better get your ass down here or I’m leaving without you, bro! Later!”

He sighed. His eyes began to focus and he looked at the girl, barely breathing, coughing up blood from the broken rib, a bit of the nasty phlegm starting to leak out from the side of the duct tape. Large searing burn holes covered her arms, her wrists and ankles torn apart so badly, raw from the ropes chewing at her flesh. Her eyes were so puffy from the tears and the black make-up was no longer a streak down her cheek but a circle around each swollen eye, making her look like a raccoon. Each time she breathed a small bubble of snot would expand and contract from her left nostril and he was pretty sure she had pissed herself.

“Fuck it” he said as he plunged the knife into her chest with disinterest and held it there for a moment as her heart ceased to beat. “The tickets are third row, right behind home plate.”

“Besides, you look like SHIT now.”

Here’s a film I made for class. I ran in to some technical problems and lost all the good audio we recorded, so all that we were left with was the crappy sound from the camera.

We ran in to a few other problems as well, so it didnt come out quite how I saw it, but in all I’d say it isn’t half bad. I still have lots to learn when it comes to laying out a really scary film, but I know I’ll get there. The little girl, Angel, really looked creepy during her scenes which is great and I hope to use her again when I reshoot this! She’s a huge fan of horror and loved helping out. Thanks, Angel! : )

I’ll keep you posted as to when I plan on reshooting this film. Till then, let me know what you think of this version.

Thanks for watching.

We Do Monsters (WDM) is a webisode inspired by B-horror films with a twist of David Lynch. Based on the short feature of the same name.

Malcolm Martin, a once humble makeup salesmen, retires his business to become a monster hunter for hire after unleashing a flood of monsters. Now Malcolm must face Zombies, other monster hunters, and Bigfoot himself to save his town from the threat he created.

I caught the pilot episode for this web series on Youtube and loved it!  It started running on January 31st but it will be going on through the summer so there is plenty of time to catch up.  I recommend you check  it out!  Watch the trailer, go to the Youtube channel and subscribe.  If you like what you see, here are links to their social networking sites so you can stay connected and stay up to date on the latest happenings.

Twitter:
http://twitter.com/wedomonsters

Facebook fan page:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/We-Do-Monsters/177556894908

Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/wedomonsters

Myspace:
http://www.myspace.com/idomonsters

Ultimately we know deeply that the other side of every fear is freedom.

It was hard to breathe.  She had been dreaming of running up a flight of stairs, up and up, but never reaching the top.  Higher and higher she would climb, but each step she took would take her no closer to the light at the highest point of the staircase.  Her lungs were now begging for air, but it was difficult to answer the request for some reason.

Janice’s eyes wouldn’t open, no matter how many times she tried to make them do so.  They felt sealed shut, almost like there was something preventing them from doing what she wanted.

“Maybe I’m still asleep,” she thought.  “Maybe I’m dreaming.”  Her head felt heavy and sleep soon washed over her again.

Hours passed and Janice began to slip back into the waking world, this time with somewhat clearer thoughts.  Her eyes wouldn’t open,  not because of any dream, but because of the sticky thick tape across her eyes.  It was still hard to breathe, but it was due to the piece of adhesive firmly fixed across her mouth.  She couldn’t remove them thanks to the ropes tied to both her wrists.  She was face down on a mattress, her arms stretched out to her sides and tied to some unseen objects, and she had no idea how she had gotten there.

Panic set in.  Janice thrashed as hard as she could, but only succeeded in hurting herself.  Both her feet were tied as well, firmly secured to the foot of the steel metal frame of the bed.  The ropes bit into her flesh as she pulled and pushed and thrashed as best she could, but nothing happened.  Tears welled behind the tape and began to burn her eyes, mixing with the glue of the heavy duty tape and irritating the sensitive tissue of her eyelids.  Her flesh burned where the bindings cut through the skin, and her eyes stung.  Her throat was raw from forcing throaty screams that, although requiring much energy, would most likely have not been very audible thanks to the fact that her mouth was sealed shut.  Eventually Janice stopped fighting and simply went limp.

Everything was quiet.  There were no noises other than her labored breathing, and Janice found this fact very unsettling .  The unknown was far more terrifying than anything you could face head on, she had come to believe.  The stillness, the silence that offered no answers was maddening.  She spent what felt like an eternity listening for some sound, some clue as to her whereabouts, but nothing came.
Janice began to rack her memory, searching for anything that would explain how she ended up here.  She was a prisoner, a captive in some unknown horror chamber, and she had no idea how she ended up here.  Everything was cloudy  It hurt her head to think too hard, but Janice had no choice.  Lying here a helpless victim was not much of an option.

The last memory she had was sitting in history class with Dr. Meyers, taking notes and wishing 2:55 would hurry up and arrive.  How many days ago that was Janice had no idea.  It was impossible to put things into context laying face down on a musty smelling mattress with your eyes taped shut and your arms stretched out at your side and tied to something off in the distance.  The more she tried to fill in the blanks and failed, the more frustration returned and panic threatened to take over once again.  Her heart began to pound in her chest, her breath came in gasps through her nose.  Everything began to swim in her mind, and Janice almost passed out.  She tensed up in fear, which caused the ropes to dig into her flesh once again and the pain sent a jolt to her mind and brought her back to reality.  She drew in a slow and steady stream of air and forced herself to relax as best she could.  If there was a way out of this she wasn’t going to find it passed out waiting for her captor to return.

She pulled again on the ropes tied to her legs, but gently this time.  They were firmly secured, but the bed frame itself was not of the most sturdy construction.  The steel feet scraped against the floor, making a sound which sounded like concrete.  The echo was hollow and dead, her ears telling her the room was large and lightly furnished.  It was most likely a basement, judging from the concrete floor and the smell of mildew and earth that was now registering in her nose.  That fact send a new surge of fear, just knowing that she was below ground already; a grave of sorts prepared for her before she was even dead.

Thoughts flew through her head.  She could think of nothing other than her plight; no plans came to mind, no ideas for how to save herself from her demise.  The longer she lay there the darker her thoughts became until she could think of nothing other than a cold steel knife being dragged across her back and the soft pink flesh parting beneath the blade, pools of blood welling up and spilling down her sides.  The tears began to come again, and this time she did not hold them back.  The thoughts of torture, the images of ghoulish deeds and hellish screams repeated themselves over and over inside her head.  Hours passed, all filled with this mental anguish, until eventually she was broken and her sanity was shattered, her will gone completely.  A final sob escaped her, and then she was silent.

At this moment the man sitting beside her stood and smiled.  His patience was rewarded, as he knew it would be.  The girls he brought down here never last long before they broke; usually twelve hours or so.  One had taken twenty-two, which required extraordinary self control on his part, but he never moved, never let a sound escape his lips as he watched her thrash and cry and torture herself inside her mind.  The pleasure of watching them fall to pieces far outweighed the discomfort of sitting still.

As the captor took the scissors from the table beside him,  Janice heard the movement and realized the man was there.  This should have terrified her, but she was far past all that.  As far as she was concerned, she was already dead.  In her mind, she had been tortured for days.

Unfortunately for her, it was just about to begin.

I saw this performance for the Viva Las Vegas 13 Burlesque Showcase Contest and I just had to get an interview with this girl. I’ve seen burlesque before, but never as a famous murder victim!

It turns out Mia Culpa is much more than a sexy, dancing corpse. Read the interview and see for yourself!

Play With Death:  Mia, I have to say, your routine was fantastic.  Burlesque has been around for quite some time, but your take on it is quite unique.  What first attracted you to the “Black Dahlia” murder?

Mia Culpa:  First, thanks for the love- i’m glad you liked the number!

I’ve always been a big true crime fan- much to my parents dismay, but it wasn’t until I read James Ellroy’s “The Black Dahlia” that I thought about incorporating elements of an actual true crime into my burlesque. I guess it’s the contrast of the Dahlia case- on one hand, it’s the story of a beautiful girl seeking fame in postwar Hollywood, but it’s also the story of that same girl meeting a hideous end. The light and the dark of the story, plus then enduring mystery enthralls me to no end….plus, I’m terribly morbid, so my mind tends to gravitate to the gruesome.

You are right about burlesque being around for a long time….it’s been around so long that it tends to be stale, so it needs a bit of fresh blood- literally.

PWD:  Aside from Burlesque, is there anything else you do performance wise?

MC:  Oh yeah, I do it all!  Fire, bellydance, flesh hook suspension, human pin cushion, glass walking, grinder acts…lots of sideshow.  I’ve also acted, done ballet, done improv, I’ve tried, and will continue to try any kind of performance art…I’m endlessly hungry for new stage experiences.

PWD:  Impressive.  How long have you been a performer of some sort?

MC:  Since the womb….my first “official” stage show was when I was 5 -it was my ballet recital, and I haven’t stopped since.

PWD:  Have you ever received any criticism for your performance involving the “Black Dahlia” murder?

MC:  I wish-pissing people off is the most fun….with Dahlia, people are either really into it, or don’t know what to make of it- they seem uncomfortable which is second to pissing people off….

I have gotten criticism in the past though- lots of it. People get really upset when they see me hurt myself …they think I’m doing it because I’m emo and hate myself, when really I do it for fun and profit.  Strangely, no one gets mad when I start taking my clothes off…

PWD:  Haha.  I know I wouldn’t.  So, what would you say draws you to the horror genre?

MC:  I think I’m just wired in such a way that I like blood and monsters….also, I like the honesty of the genre- it’s very unapologetic- I like people who are like this, so I have respect for films and books that are like this as well.  Plus, I’m deeply disturbed and twisted, for reasons unknown…

PWD:  Do you have any major influences in your life, either artistically or otherwise?

MC:  I’m influenced by everything- I can be watching a Hype Williams and be inspired.  But I would say that my biggest influences are: Bob Flanagan, who was a performance artist who suffered from cystic fibrosis and used pain and performance to deal with his condition- I also have a chronic illness , and I think performing has been the best medicine.

Others who inspire me are: Madonna (cause she’s fuckin’ Madonna), Aron Ronston (the guy who cut his own arm off after it got crushed under a boulder while he was mountain climbing), Hunter S. Thompson (more of a life influence), William Styron , and existentialists (they changed my life)

PWD:  Do you have any projects in the works right now?

MC:  Always…right now, I’m focusing on my first short, a film called “The Kick Inside” that I’m in pre-production for. It’s taken me two years to create a script that I feel really deeply about, and now that I have it, I’m really excited to bring it to fruition.

PWD:  February is “Women in Horror” month.  For a long time it has been said that women are exploited by the horror industry or that horror is a “men only” genre.  What is your take on that?

MC:  Well, been “men only” only in the sense that there hasn’t been nearly enough women behind the scenes.  Part of horror is the fun, campy side, with boobs and blood and ridiculousness-it’s part of why people enjoy the genre. As I said before, it’s an honest genre, and some of its honesty is that those who make the films are unafraid to show girls with no clothes on running around screaming, and there is an audience that likes to watch this sort of thing. If that makes you uncomfortable, then you clearly are not the audience…move along and let the rest of us freaks enjoy the silliness.  Believe me, horror films are not contributing to a decline in women’s rights. I don’t think Dawn of the Dead and Halloween can exude that much power over society.

PWD:  Do you feel that we are moving past the female stereotype in horror movies with films like “The Descent” and “Resident Evil”, or do we have a long way to go?

MC:  I think in terms of stereotypes, we have a long way to go. Women are either victims or superheroines- which is fine, and we’re seeing more chicks like the ones in “The Decent”….but I think a shift will only come when a happy medium can be achieved….when a real, whole woman can be portrayed….not all vixen, not all ballbuster, but a little of both and something new altogether.

PWD:  What’s next for Miss Mia Culpa?

MC:  World Domination!   Time for some shameful self promotion: I’m trying to get to Vegas, but I need votes, votes, dammit!  Go here: http://www.vivalasvegas.net/intranet/vote_main.php to vote for my Black Dahlia routine!

You heard her, everyone.  Go to Viva Las Vegas and vote for Mia Culpa!

What would horror movies be without the women that make them great?  A bunch of axe wielding psychopaths aimlessly searching for victims, I suppose.  Imagine the movies you love without the “scream queens” you adore.  Pretty boring, right?

Women are thought to be exploited by the industry, helpless victims unaware of their victimization, yet some of the greatest films have been written and directed by these same “helpless victims”.  “American Psycho” has been hailed as one of the greatest horror films of all times, yet many have no idea it was directed by a woman, Mary Harron.  “Near Dark”, “Pet Sematary”, “Blood Diner”; all women directors.  And then there are the countless female actors who make these movies great.  Who can forget “The Descent”, with its female cast?  This movie was terrifying and action packed, and it shattered horror film stereotypes.

Its about time someone showed some recognition to the women that help make horror what it is today, so February is “Women In Horror Recognition Month”.

Click the link and support Women In Horror Month, brought to you by the lovely and talented Hannah Neurotica.  You should also check out her zine, “Ax Wound“, all about women in the horror genre.  Click the link and order a copy now!  You’ll be glad you did.

All of us here at playwithdeath.com want to thank our new readers for checking us out. We are currently working on a new short film that we plan to shoot in about 3 weeks, so keep an eye out for that. Till then you should check out the different stories here at Play With Death.

“Bunny’s Gutter” is sure to bring a smile to your face if you like it sick and twisted, and the “Deadjournal” story is a fictional tale of a serial killer written as if it were his blog, full of photos and video. It even has a great metal playlist to go with it.

I will try to post a short story or two over the next few weeks, but I am working on the script for the film so I am a bit strapped for time. Thanks again for stopping by and feel free to leave comments. Any fans that want to submit their photos for the photo gallery can send them to playwithdeath@gmail.com, or if you have any feedback or suggestions for the site feel free to send them as well. Take care, and ignore those noises coming from under the bed.

Its nothing…I swear.

“Whatever is in the heart will come up to the tongue.” Persian Proverb

I like it here. The room is smaller than my apartment, but not much. The only people talking to me are the guards or the doctor, and if I ignore them they eventually go away. As long as I take the medication, that is. That’s ok, they cant stop me with a few pills. I’m much stronger than that.
This is definitely better than other places I have been. Not like the hospital, with all the patients and the nurses and the psych techs bothering you constantly. I can just sit here all day and listen to my friends inside my head.

Before I got here there were so many distractions. Always someone trying to interact with me and force me to hear their stupid thoughts put into words. Why everyone was born with a tongue I have no idea. You should have to take an I.Q. test in order to get one, in my opinion. Imagine the world if we didn’t have to listen to stupid people go on and on about stupid things. Like themselves, mainly.

I grew up with doctors and counselors and group home administrators speaking to me every day for hours, their fleshy tongues flapping around in their mouths like trout on a dry riverbed. I never understood why they wasted their time, like they believed suddenly I would decide to think like a dumb fuck and say “OH! Now I see! You make so much sense now! Why didn’t I see it before?” Instead I would just sit there and imagine cutting out that annoying muscle that was dancing between their teeth and eating it as I watched their mouths fill with blood and their eyes filled with horror. I rarely responded when they talked to me. If I did, I think I would have had a much tougher time growing up. The things I wanted to say would have gotten much more attention than my silence.

A few times I did speak up. I spent a few years in a boys home in Boston where a priest by the name of Father O’Rourke spent hours reaching out to the wayward souls in hopes of saving at least one of us from the emptiness of life in the system. Emptiness is pristine in my opinion, so when he asked me to sit with him I asked him to let me cut off his head first. “So I can shove it on the end of a pike,” I told him when he tried to shake off the shock and ask me why. “That way we can talk for hours but I don’t have to hear you say a thing.” Then I spit on him and told him his mother speaks to me from hell.

I was eight years old. Quickly I learned that speaking my mind, no matter how bad I wanted to, would only lead to trouble. At least Father O’Rourke never bothered me again.

It took a long time, but eventually I found myself with some form of independence. I learned to do what I had to do to pass for what this hated world called “normal” and was moved to an apartment building shared with other unwanted outcasts cramped into small studio apartments like abandoned pets at the SPCA. I cooked my own meals, washed my own clothes, bought my own food, but the state made sure they sent their watchdogs every day to reassure that I hadn’t gone off the deep end and started hiding bodies in the floorboards.

Each caseworker was more annoying than the next. Constant questions that I was expected to answer, prying into my private thoughts. Silence wouldn’t work, or else I would be deemed unfit to care for myself and it would be back to the hospital or a group home, with much less privacy and much more questions. So, I played ball. They’d ask me how I felt. “Fine,” I’d say. They’d ask if I was taking my medication. “Yes,” I’d say. Have I made any new friends? “I have,” I would reply. “His name is Legion, for he is many.”

I spent years in that same apartment, keeping it clean but not immaculate, never wanting to appear like an obsessive psychopath needing to be meticulous, one step away from strangling puppies or sorority girls. I just went about my days and nights, carrying on conversations in my head with the friends I have grown to know so well. Caseworkers came and went, some moving on to better jobs, some feeling disturbed by me and requesting to be reassigned I am sure. That was just fine, though. I had enough friends inside my head. Every human I encountered struck me as a foolish waste of flesh, taking an animal and infusing it with emotion to create a crippled, flawed being incapable of anything but foolishness and embarrassment. The last caseworker decided he wanted to break through my defenses and be my friend, however. No matter what the cost.

What a poor choice on his part.

He introduced himself as Chuck, and shook my hand with a vigorous pumping action, locking his eyes on mine with the bright and cheery intent of someone that wants to become fast friends. I hated him immediately. He had more questions than a game show host, asking about my likes and dislikes, my hopes and dreams. I tried giving him the rehearsed answers but he wasn’t having any of that. This guy wanted to get down to my core; to my soul. He thought he could save me.

Venom came spewing up from that core which he sought to know so well, and as I watched his meaty jowls move up and down I realized that the time I had waited for my entire life was finally at hand. I was told from the time I could remember that I would be a part of the cleansing. A part of the scourge that moved across this planet, bringing blood and murder to mankind with a hatred and brutality they had only seen in glimpses. Chuck was here as a sacrifice, and I was supposed to cut out his tongue.

I stood up as he was in mid-sentence and said “Thank you”. He looked up, a bit surprised, and I pulled out the knife I kept tucked in the waist of my jeans with one hand and grabbed a handful of his hair with the other. His hands immediately went up defensively to block his face, and I plunged the blade through his palm and into the soft flesh of his neck. He began to scream, but I released the knife and grabbed his hair with both hands and began to slam his head violently into the concrete floor beneath us. As he lay unconscious, I cut his throat and then cut out his tongue.

I felt years of anticipation wash away as I hacked away at him. It was better than I hoped, the feeling of the razor sharp steel slicing through flesh, the warm blood running down my chin as I chewed on his tongue. This is what I was here for. Silencing the talking sheep, putting an end to their blather.

Tongue is impossible to chew up unless it’s cooked, and I wasn’t really hungry, so I spit it on his corpse and enjoyed the experience for a bit. Eventually my friends began to speak to me, telling me I had to make sure I wasn’t caught. Someone would be waiting home for him, they said. Anyone as kind and caring as this fool would surely have a wife at home, eating up every word he had to say like M&Ms. I got his ID from his wallet and took his keys from his jacket, helping myself to his car. A hybrid. It figured.

I sat for a few hours outside his small house, and eventually his wife came home with an armload of groceries. I gave her a minute to make it into the house and then followed behind her, letting myself in the door with Chuck’s key. The moment she saw me, she immediately started screaming and pissed herself all over her tan khakis. That’s when I remembered I forgot to wash my face.

What a sight I must have been; bloody mouth, knife in hand. It did made things much easier, however. She was frozen in shock and barely put up a fight. A few scratches on my face, but I kind of liked it. Her tongue was out and in my mouth soon enough, an experience I now know I would need again and again and again.

As I left the kitchen I noticed the collection of hallmark cards on the counter. “Congratulations”, they said. “A new baby”. Two for the price of one. I thought about going inside her for the little one’s tongue, but she couldn’t have been more than a month or two pregnant so even finding the tongue on a fetus that small would have been nearly impossible. Like surgery on a stewed tomato. I just took satisfaction in the fact that it would never get to use it.

This time I did stop to clean my face up, a choice which proved to be my undoing. Apparently in a neighborhood like this, when someone shrieks bloody murder people actually call the cops. I exited the front door and was greeted with two police cars screeching to a halt in front of the house. They jumped out and began to question me as to why I was there, hands resting firmly on their weapons.

I once heard Father O’Rourke tell someone that “the truth shall set you free”. Nonsense, but maybe it worked on these goodie goodies. It was worth a shot, since one of the officers was already making his way inside the house and would soon see the truth for himself. “Cutting the tongue out of some dumb bitch”, I told them, which promptly got me tackled and shackled.

So now here I sit. The correctional facility for the criminally insane. I wont be here long, though. My friends assure me of that. They tell me I will be transformed. That I will break free from this prison and from my earthly body. Then I can join their ranks and do the works I was meant to do.

All I have to do is chew off my tongue.

Heres a fun little film I made for class.  My tribute to the slasher films I grew up on.  Cute girls, senseless violence and heavy metal.  I was fortunate enough to get some help from some great people and had a good time shooting it.  I hope you enjoy.

© 2010 playwithdeath.com Suffusion WordPress theme by Sayontan Sinha