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...presents... That Which Strikes Terror
Into the Hearts of Men
by Lady Carolin
>>> a cDc publication.......1993 <<<
-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
____ _ ____ _ ____ _ ____ _ ____
|____digital_media____digital_culture____digital_media____digital_culture____|
That sound. That frightening sound.
He could hear it.
Coming closer.
Too close.
It was the kind of sound that reverberates off one's spine, sending
tingling chills down to the tips of one's extremities, causing one's entire
body to shake and quiver pathetically.
A sound that makes even a brave man lose control of his sphincter muscle.
After he heard it he began running through the house, checking all the
doors, hunting feebly for some means of escape. It was a big old house, bare
of all but a few pieces of furniture scattered here and there. Lace curtains
hung limp and dusty in the windows. Mice scratched in the walls. A sheeted
couch graced the parlor, sitting on a ratty red velvet rug.
He was not quite panicking, yet. He moved calmly, systematically,
investigating his potential escape routes. None of the heavy oaken doors gave
way at his touch. None of the doorknobs turned in his hand. None of the
windows opened.
Little did he know that he was locked in, nor did he know that each and
every door was secured from the outside by six padlocks, iron gratings, bolts
and bars. Every window was shatterproof and encased in iron bars too thin for
his fat body to crawl through should a window even give way.
He raised his oh-so-manly cowboy boot to kick out a glass window. His
foot resonated with the impact and the window remained unbroken. He limped
over to try to pick up a chair to throw through the window but discovered the
chair was bolted to the floor. It was chained to the cement by big, long rusty
nails which had been thrust through the legs. Just like his limp, overweight,
smelly body might be as soon as she found him.
She stood in her sanctuary downstairs, directly beneath his feet. She was
licking her lips, shaking her hips, and flicking the power switch on, then off.
On, then off. RRRRRRRRRRRRRR. Then silence. RRRRRRRRRRR. Then silence.
This man was not a quitter. He did not give up and lay on the floor
sucking his thumb with tears streaming down his eyes like the last man-victim
had. No sirreee... not him. He ran upstairs, with the faint thought that
perhaps the windows up there would be made of thinner stuff. As he waddled
limping upstairs he tripped on a loose board. He fell and hit his nose, hard
enough to break it. As he continued up the stairs, now gripping the rickety
banister tightly, he could still hear the sound, coming from somewhere far
below... RRRRRRR... RRRRRR.... He wiped his bloody nose on his filthy sweat
shirt and continued upwards.
Downstairs she stood in awe of the power of the sound which coursed
through her body. She stroked that which gave her power, that which gave her
options. The metal between her fingers felt like ice, like heaven, like love.
She thought to herself that afterwards she should build a shrine to Black &
Decker, prostate herself in front of it in awe, reverence, and worship. She
wondered briefly if she should end the game now, putting him out of his misery.
Then she shrugged off that idea. She was enjoying the game too much. Ecstasy
was her visualization of him running through the house like a fox trapped in
the green or a frightened rat in a deadly maze. RRRRRRRR. The sound comforted
her.
Above her head she could hear him running, stomping his hefty weight
through the house on the hard wood floors. She could even hear him cursing to
himself aloud, calling out names of ancient, obsolete patriarchal deities.
He had given up on the windows and was now pounding on the walls, hoping
for some sort of secret passageway to appear. He was certain of it; an old
house like this surely must have its secrets, its exits, its escapes.
It did, but she had long ago bricked and mortared them in. Too much Poe
reading for her and she'd left more than a few dickless bodies behind in the
walls. She stood revving up the motor higher, remembering how this particular
victim had approached her on that fateful night.
"Hey baby, let me buy you a drink!" he had said as he lumbered up
uninvited to invade her sacred space at the bar. She had let him buy her a
drink, all right, more than one even. She drank them with great pleasure. She
enjoyed having men pay hard earned money for drinks she would use to work up
the anger to do something about them, the nuisances of the world. He had
assumed that his drinks had entitled him to something more than conversation,
as his hand had worked its slimy way down her blouse.
He had assumed wrong.
Deadly wrong.
Oh it entitled him to something, all right. It entitled him to meet
his death, his destiny.
She had lured him home with a promise of more. She could hardly bear to
have his flabby, jiggling buttocks seated in her truck, his greasy pants
leaving a pale stain on the vinyl. She endured it as long as she could, and
then told him to lay back in the truck bed. He complained of the cold but
quieted when she promised to warm him up later when they got to her house. She
smiled to herself as she drove, knowing that blood spurts warm as it drips out
of wounds to cover a body, warming it indeed.
Now he was running from room to room like a caged animal (of the porcine
variety) banging on doors and windows. He was screaming and becoming more and
more frantic by the minute. She feared he would hurt himself in the process
and therefore rob the ultimate pleasure from her. She had no mercy, yet
decided to end the game now. It was getting late and her warm bed and cold
beer were calling to her.
Chainsaw in hand, she followed his trail of sweat, tears, urine and blood
upstairs to where he lay in the bathroom with his head in the toilet, slaking
his thirst.
"I DO have the power of life and death," she decreed, standing over him,
wielding the Black & Decker like a sword, like vengeance. Not revenge, merely
justice. RRRRRRRRR purred the catknife in her hands as she sliced off a leg
here, an arm there. Saving the best for last.
She ripped his jeans off with her bare hands, discovering to her disgust
that he didn't wear underwear and had left skid marks in the crotch of his
Levi's. "Disgusting!!" she screeched with the voice of a banshee. The
chainsaw in her hands roared to life again as she sliced his penis off at the
base with a single quick flick of her wrist. Two sharp stabs and both
testicles were punctured. The all-too familiar hiss of the air escaping from
the deflating balls was music to her ears. She even powered down the B&D to
enjoy the sound. The acoustics in the bathroom were wonderful, making the hiss
and his screams fly up at her in her face in her ears, surrounding her with
sounds of pain and release.
As he died, blood poured from his nose and his wounds, joining with the
pus and semen from his now-empty testicles to pool on the floor. She got down
on her hands and knees with an excited cry of "Ooohh! Fingerpaints!" She put
her hands into the warm blood and pus and mixed it around, leaving beautiful
artistic patterns on the white tile floor and on the yellow bathroom wallpaper.
Better than kindergarten!
After she had dumped his bloody stiff body in the basement and cleaned up,
she polished off the B&D with her tongue, drying it with her hair, Mary style.
She dressed in a soft warm blue bathrobe and lay in bed with a cup of hot cocoa
and Kahlua. She watched Santa Sangre on her VCR until her mind melted, then
went downstairs for a snack. She opened the freezer door to behold her prize
trophy and found the snack she quested for. More than a dozen wieners hung on
strings from the top of the freezer. She selected a choice one, let it defrost
in the microwave for a couple of minutes, then slapped it into a hot dog bun.
She was biting down to crunch, then swallowing sticky slimy softness. Wiping
her lips, licking her fingers with satisfaction.
_______ __________________________________________________________________
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(U) |==================================================================|
.ooM |Copr. 1993 cDc communications by Lady Carolin 01/01/93-#205|
\_______/|All Rights Drooled Away. SIX GLORIOUS YEARS of cDc|