Whoretopsy by Richard Bell

Warning: A bloody tale of horror for the weekend


Lascivious urges and the lure of the downstairs pulse. There are places in this city of grey granite and half-light that will paint you neon red for a night and your filthy soul for a lifetime.
In those pockets of sin, the depths that you can plumb reach into to the basest desires of man and mangle the entrails decency into a splattered pulp.
Any perversion or twist of the psyche can be satisfied.
Anything for the right price, of course!
Behind the deadbolt doors are shells of humanity. These wretched souls are kept in service until desiccated, used up and milked dry of desire and will.
But death is not a release for them. It is a gasp before an encore.
When they die a whole new clientele appear from under the rocks and stones and out of their tailor-made trousers. They love the cold dead flesh, the unresponsive and totally servile.
They are the necrophiles.
Behind these red-painted doors are sights that were reserved for the grave robbers of the nineteenth century. The livid, humming bags of gut shredding stench. Animal mask wearing men in leather aprons drag the ‘all used up’ into these grotesque rooms and lay them out on a plastic mattress.
The room is chilled and they’ve had their hides filled with formaldehyde by Pete Mortem, the prep guy.
Pete runs the ‘Pine box office’ web channel or The Charnel Channel and supplements this with his sideline, the night safaris. He puts the customers into a van and drives them out to the slums. There the bored and wealthy can bag an orphan, get a Selfie and cut their own trophy.
Just another night in the grey granite city with the onion ghouls and bored, rich deviants.
But the blackest revulsion, reserved for the elite, underneath the obscene zoetrope, felt the ripples in their strands of the web. The curious can never peek through the windows of their country club of obscenities.
That’s where taboo ends and hell becomes access all areas.
But hell is a curious beast. It wants to see the aspiring monsters to grace it’s holding pens.
So hell released a siren with a ‘Y’ incision. It gave Pete Mortem the most putrid, stinking, rancid psychotic she-devil straight from the demonic slab.
This creature was a razor fighting, poison tongued, hard-drinking, hell raising demoness in life. She lived for every excess and screwed like she was riding a derby winner. By the time they found her in the motel room, rolled up in the sheets and jammed under the bed, she was a stinking purple swollen mess. But the star she carved on her chest with a blood curse, ensured her place to the left of the black goat.
When the leather aprons brought her in for the judge to violate, they never imagined what bone chilling terror would be unleashed once he sunk his teeth into the star.
Her black shining eyes glowing red inside, opened up to meet his gaze and, as he opened his mouth to scream, she sucked his tongue into her mouth. With molten bruises dancing across her jaw and cheeks, she sunk her razor teeth into his tongue and chewed slowly, drinking the blood and agonised convulsions. As she swallowed the shredded mess, he vomited into her mouth and filled her stomach with hot puke. It began to leak out of her incision and stab wounds. She threw him off her and onto the floor. Pete Mortem sat in his chair and cheered as the punters logged on in their tens then hundreds to see a rotten corpse snuff a rich bastard and defile him.
She sat up and belched out puke and stinking air. Her bloody star smoking with the fire beneath her purple skin. Reaching down, she slid her black fingertips inside her and pulled out a long, slim razor. That’s when she smiled a cold grizzly bear sneer with a panther’s snarl dragging her brow to push her black eyes back into the green depths of her skull.
The judge crawled back towards the bolted door, spattered with black blood and flesh pieces from previous shows and clambered up the frame. His bleary view through searing pain could make out a hate filled figure writhing towards him unfolding a glinting blade.
He tried to speak, to plead his case but the jury was out and the executioner called.
When the first slice came, it took both his eyes, folding them inwards and releasing reddy black goo spilling down his cheeks. The second took his nose and lips and the third cut a deep leer from his jugular to his jaw. The blood spurted out all over her, releasing plumes of black smoke and an even viler stench. The room began to frost at the corners then travel in snake-like splinters up to the table. The ear-splitting holler that followed saw the room crack in two and the table sink then fall into a cavernous abyss.
As the frost broke the door apart, she tossed the judge’s body into the darkness, scooping his entrails and slashed apart genitals to follow his wretched carcass to hell.
The leather aprons charged at her with machetes drawn, screeching from beneath their masks. But she was as swift as a hunting hawk and slid between them, slicing their hamstrings and Achilles’ tendons. They fell to the floor hollering, slipping about in thick blood as she wound around them slicing and slashing, black eyes wide and sharp toothed grin wider. Crawling about on their twitching bodies, she licked their flowing blood like a cat lapping up its milk. When they stopped moving, she dug the razor deep into their necks and sawed away, growling in rasps until both heads were off. Taking both their machetes she furiously chopped them into small chunks, stuffing the heads between the cheeks of their arses. As she strode towards the control room and Pete Mortem, she chew through the fingers of the leather apron fiends, spitting their rings onto the concrete floor.
Pete had seen events unfold on his monitors and barricaded the door with tables and chairs.
Whack! Hack! Smash! Splinter!
Two machetes working in tandem broke apart the door and, just like Jack Torrance, her hideous bloody grinning head leered at the terrified Pete.
Her eyes darkened to pitch holes as she licked the blades of the machetes slicing her green black vesicle ridden tongue. Then she spewed thick blood and stinking vomit. It ran down her chin and blistered the door, chairs and tables stacked against it. They smouldered and cracked then hissed like cockroaches before melting into thick lumps.
The lights popped and the door swung open. Pete looked at his screens and yelped in horror. A myriad of horrific images featuring all forms of diseased depravity flashed and melted from one to another as terrible scherzo music and screaming blasted his ears.
He backed away from them convulsing and covering his eyes only to stop still against the cold blades of two greasy machetes.
As Pete swallowed hard, one of the blades sliced through his Adam’s apple and he gaped like a landed fish. The second blade clipped the top of his skull off and fell onto the keyboard on the desk.
As his eyes rolled up into his head, the machete in his throat sliced down through his chest, slicing open his stomach spilling its contents onto the power points in the floor and emerging from his scrotum. Pete fell into two pieces in front of the demoness and she grasped his topless head, staring into his blinking eyes.
Slowly the flames behind the black holes shone through and Pete’s severed head screamed in terror without making a sound.
Her evil smile that never broke soaked in the horrors on the screens before they succumbed to the thick frost that followed her from the slab.
Silence moved from white noise to sibilance then the sound of two machetes being dragged behind wet footsteps echoed round the building. It lasted for thirty-eight paces until the deafening bellow sounded again then the whole building slowly slid into the abyss until it was a wasteland covered in black frost.
Somewhere close by a woman lay face down clutching two machetes.


Original fiction by Richard Bell

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

Protected by The Freewill Writers Asylum Vaults since 2015

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