Friday, July 8, 2016


This one brought out the splatterpunk in me. Had a good time with this one as twisted as it may be. Kinda makes me wonder if I'm the one that's the psycho.


A homeless man has a sign that says "will work for food." A passer-by has a devilish job for him to perform.


The traffic whizzed by him as if he weren't even there. People nodding their heads, grinning and barely making eye contact.
Some would speed up to get through the stale yellow light in hopes of not having to deal with him on the corner.
Those that are forced to stop often look the other way or pretend to be working on something.
Anything so they didn't have to look at him.
His face held the appearance of sixty. Skin dark, wrinkled and leathery. Hair past his shoulders was thick and greasy. His fingers holding the sign WILL WORK FOR FOOD were caked with dirt under the nails. His hands were thick and calloused that once said he was a working man.
There was probably more to his story but remains hidden from deep within. The man standing there holding the sign will never tell anybody. Sure he could explain how he was in Iraq. And he could tell how his wife had left him two months after he came home because she couldn't take it anymore.
That all changed when a Mercedes came to a stop. The window came down and sitting behind the wheel was a well dressed man one could easily tell was in business of some sort. He wore black leather gloves and a scarf around his neck. Odd, considering it was the middle of July.
“I've got a job for you,” he said.
“Great.” Surprised somebody actually offered him a job. Sign holders standing on the corner don't have the greatest of reputations. Most people think they are either drunks or looking for drug money. “When do I start?”
“Hop in.”
He didn't think that it was such a good idea to get in a car with somebody he didn't know. Not in these days. For all he knew he could be some kind ax murderer or deranged psycho.
The man told him he would explain it all later and that it all would become very clear.
The job paid well.
One million dollars.
No way would he give that up. He'd take a chance in the man being a psycho.
Twenty minutes later they pulled into a driveway with a mansion. Which didn't surprise him.
“Follow me,” he said.
He must've saw some hesitation in the homeless because he assured him once again that everything was going to be okay.
The went inside through the basement door. Inside were tables with saws and blades and sharp yanking devices. Some for banging and something with a long tube attacked to the end of a large cup that appeared to be used for some of sucking.
Maybe to suck brains. Or blood,
Before he saw all that he thought he was going to be doing some yard work or gardening. He knew a thing or two about gardening.
The man closed the door and locked it. “ I like to make sure it's quiet.”
“What are you going to do to me?”
The man laughed. “To you? Nothing.” he paused when and pointed to the things on the table then he started laughing again. “Oh I see. You thought I brought you in here to do this?”
“I was getting the impression.”
“Don't be silly.”
“I thought maybe you were some sort of psycho or something that had something against homeless folk and you brought me in here to chop me up.”
“Wow. You do have an active imagination for sure.”
“I used to be a writer. That's my job.”
The man nodded and scratched his nose. “Are we ready to get started?”
He had no idea what this weirdo would have him do that warranted him paying out a million bucks. So far from what he was seeing he wasn't so sure.
“Maybe we should forget the whole thing. Don't worry about giving me a ride. I'll walk.”
“But it's along way back. Surely, you don't want to leave now. We're just getting started. Don't be afraid.”
“I don't think this is a great idea. I'm sorry. Hope I didn't insult you.”
“No a bit. But seriously. I'm not going to hurt you.”
Yeah, and that's what Hitler said to the Jews. He didn't trust this man. Looking at the many sharp tools he imagined himself in his mind grabbed one of those long rod thingys with the sharp point and jamming it into his throat.
Or bashing him in the head with the steel iron.
“What do you have this stuff for anyway?”
“You'll see.”
He arranged a few of the sharp utensils on a the table, lining them up nice and neat. He was actually pretty methodical about it. Like he was OCD or whatever they call it.
The man at in a chair and looked straight at him. “Ready?”
“I suppose.” Still not understanding what's going on or even if he really wanted to know.
“Good. I want you take that sledgehammer and bash my hand.”
“excuse me?” he wasn't expecting this by a long shot.
“Take that sledgehammer and bash my hand.”
“You mean hit you with it?”
“Right. And hit it hard, I want to hear the bones crack.”
Okay, now this dude really is sick only the other way around.
“C'mon. What are you waiting for. You don't have a weak stomach do you?”
“No. But I gotta admit, this is way out of my comfort zone.”
“I understand. That's why I pay so high.”
“So, you've done this sort of thing before?”
“Absolutely. It takes a while to mend but it's worth every bit. Go ahead. Bash me a goodn'”
“If you say so.”
He didn't have nothing to lose by doing it. It wasn't like he could turn on him or anything. He was too sick.
He grabbed the ten pounder.
“No that one. Use the fifty pound puppy. And really knock me a goodn.”
“That's gonna destroy every bone in your hand.”
“Now you're getting the idea.”
Come to think of it, that explains his crooked hands and warped nose. Looking closer he saw he was missing a left ear. Lord, he wondered what other body parts this man was missing.
The fifty pounder came down hard on the table. The bones crunching with a squishing sound that sounded like a tire running over a dead squirrel.
“Ohhhhh, gosh that hurt,” the man screamed. “That hurt bad.”
“I told you.”
Blood dripped from the sledge and the man's hand was smashed to smithereens and shaking vehemently.
He placed his hand back on the table. “Hit me up again.”
“What? No way. I did what I was supposed to. Give me my money so I can go.”
“Job ain't done yet. Don't be a woos and hit me again. Only harder.”
He held the sledge high.
“Higher. Make sure it drops really hard.”
he raised the sledge higher above his head. His arms began to shake and he let her rip.
Thuuuuuump. Crash.
“Oh yeah, Baby. That's what I'm talkn' bout right there. Oh God, that hurt so goooooood.” The man crunched his eyes closed. “One more time.”
He smacked the hand again and again. Making sure that he wasn't going to come back for more. All he wanted now was for this to be over.
“Oh yeah, that's right, baby. Ohhhhh, that hurts soooooo good.”
He noticed that the man was sexually aroused. He was getting off on this.
“Okay, net thing.”
“There's more?”
“Of course. We have a lot of fun activities set up for me.” He grabbed a pair of large metal cutters. “Cut my middle finger off.”
The cutters were large and made of steel. He wasn't so sure if he could really do this. It ws one thing to pound him with the sledge, it was something totally different cutting.
“C'mon. You can do it, Homey.”
He opened the blades wide and the man set the finger deep in the throat.
“Yeah, make sure I get it good n' tight back there so you get a clean cut. I like to hear the bones crackle.
He closed his eye and let her rip.
The bones crackling as the blade cut through reminding of the time his mother cut the chicken bones when she made dumplings.
The man closed his eyes in ecstasy. “That's right, baby. You done good. You done real good.”
The finger dropped to the floor.
He picked the finger up rubbing it all over his body. Letting the blood get on his clothes and then he licked it like he were licking grease from a piece of chicken. “I'm almost there,” he said.
He handed him a large steel iron. One of those heavy old fashioned ones and told him to smack him in the face with it.
He did.
Again and again.
Blood poured from the weird man's nose and puddled at his feet.
The jumped up and down with excitement. “Oh, that was awesome! So awesome!” He smiled a now toothless and bloody smile. His nose was more crooked than before. “You are so hot. Bash my face again.”
“As you wish.” He was starting to enjoy this.
“Ohhh, Baby. Do it all night long. WOWZA.”
He wondered how much more of this the man could take. He was really bashing him good.
“Now for the grand finale.” He handed him a hatchet. “Chop my arm off. Right here at the elbow.”
He laid his arm on the cutting table, rolled up his sleeve revealing a mermaid tattoo on his forearm.
He held the ax up to the light. There were dried blood splatters still on the blade from previous use. He ran his thumb over the blade. “Hmmm. Bit dull. Shouldn't we sharpen it first?”
“No way, dude. That would take all the fun out of it. I want you to really chop at me. I want you to have to work at it. I want to feel the pain as the hatchet chops at me over and over. I want to feel that burning sensation rise up my arm. I want to feel it go numb. I want to smell the blood as it pours from my socket. Ohhhh, so sweet sweet delicacy.”
“As you wish.”
The hatchet came down and it was chop chop... chopety... chop chop.
The arm fell off.
“Ohhh, Baby you are so good at this. Where have you been all my life?”
If he didn't know better he'd say this man reached a point of climax over this whole thing. As much as he hated to admit it, there was a point where doing all that cutting and chopping felt good. Really release some tension.
The man paid him his one million dollars as promised and the homeless man walked out the door leaving the man to bleed in his own way as he so desired.
“See you next week?” the man asked.
“Sure. If you say so.”
“Great. Be lookin' forward to it.”
The homeless man smiled his toothless smile. “So will I. So will I.”

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