The Killing Floor – A Verse Style Story
Ten fathoms down
earth’s tears trickle down the limestone
it’s a quaint little hell room.
I have him strung up in chains
hands and feet bound
mouth gagged with his own boxers.
He thought he was oh so slick
slipping her a rufee while she powdered her nose
I was much the slicker one
I saw him
Saw what he did.
When she staggered out with him, barely conscious
I was following in the shadows.
His quaint little bachelor pad
in the bedroom, whips, chains, bindings.
I watched from the fire escape.
Stupid boy, left the window open
rain-soaked, I readied myself
his back was turned
he was a busy boy
She was bound, naked and gagged
He didn’t even hear me enter the room
and then I was behind him.
One swift crack to the back of his skull
down he went.
He lived in seclusion
perfect for me
no one to witness his disappearance.
Bound and gagged now himself
I drug him to my truck
left him in the flat-bed and made my way to my dark retreat deep into the woods.
His torture will be my pleasure
I slap his face until he awakens
dazed, confused, afraid
what a turn of events.
You thought you would be giving a rather good flogging to that girl tonight, didn’t you I say.
Bloody mumbles, static in my ears
no matter it won’t be to long now
I will be enjoying his complete silence.
First I remove his fuck-stick
that’s right, he rapes, doesn’t know any other way and doesn’t want to,
Shame, but non-the-less he chooses not to learn,
It’s left a bloody hole about the size of a golf ball
Messy… I am enjoying this.
You won’t be needing that where I’ll be sending you
I laugh, a devil’s type laugh, almost.
Now, these hands of yours, such evil things, I growl.
First, I break each finger at the knuckle
he screams and chokes on his own fear.
I grab the handsaw
this is going to hurt you fucking prick.
I cut ever so slowly
just as he did with his hunting knife the night he took me
tearing me to shreds, every part of me.
Escaping him after the horrid torture provided my clarity as to what I would do with the rest of my scared and disfigured life.
The second-hand fell to the floor
blood trailing and circling round the drain.
Hmm, your feet and legs, well, you won’t have any more use for them I’m afraid, they must come off.
This time I grab the chain saw, reve it up and cut off his feet first and I kick them across the room
I pause a moment, a good surgeon needs music, yes, Frank, sing to me.
I put on Frank Sinatra’s Fly me to the moon and continue my dismantling of our world’s predator.
Slicing through both legs at the knees comes at such ease
I then move up to the top of his thighs as “My Way” plays
My patient has ceased to be now
wish he could have felt the rest of his dismemberment.
I finish, with the last cut being the removal of his head
I have something special I want to do with that, so,I place it in a pot of boiling water for several hours.
The other parts go into the incinerator of the killing floor
I grab the hose and after admiring the blood and painting myself with it, I wash away the crimson river, down the drain it goes.
I pause moment more to dance around to “New York, New York”
Now the fire in the incinerator is burning bright, flames licking the body parts like the devil himself
I can turn to mister’s skull.
The flesh has been boiled off and the eyeballs fell from their sockets and where easy to scoop out of the pot.
I hang the skull to dry
tomorrow it will become my newest piece of artwork.
The killing floor is my art gallery you see. Filled with velvet numbness of my vengeful kills of those maniac butchers of women.
I may have survived his hell but he did not survive me.
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