The Killing Game.

[Lynchenberg]

WARNING: Contains graphic violence, language, sadistic cruelty, and sensitive material. Do not read if this sort of thing upsets you. It's not my intent to disturb people who do not wish to be disturbed.

“Boo-f***-hoo you're not the only one whose life's a piece of s***.
And yet miraculously somehow we all seem to deal with it.
Did anybody think that you would really, seriously slit your wrists?
In fact I think that everybody thinks you're seriously full of s***.”
-- James Euringer

Nothing happened for a few weeks. Then I flat-out killed a child. He and his mother were on their way home, having just seen a movie. I knocked them out with my bat. In my dungeon, I bound the female. Before her eyes, I stripped the boy naked. I cut off his penis, and then I crushed his nipples with wire cutters. Oh, how he screamed! I slit his throat, taking a moment to study his helpless face. His expression was so shocked, so confused, so frightened. Most of all, it was so frightened. I felt happy. I felt truly happy for the first time. I used to play with children. I used to think I loved them. In a way, I do. I love them when they bleed. I love them only when they bleed.

As he died, I started raping the little brat up his ass. I stopped after he expired. I no longer saw the point. It would not cause him pain. I looked up at his mother’s horrified expression. I knew that I had destroyed her life. The pain would never go away. I decided to let her live. I knew it was worse than killing her.

It was then I knew that Peter was right. I am evil. I did try to hurt him and I am a horrible person. Yet here is what pleasantly surprised me. I love being a horrible person. I love hurting him. I wish I were there during his childhood rape, to drink in his suffering.
I wish I could have been the one raping him myself. No matter, I certainly made up for that in spades, did I not? I printed out the photos of our memories together. Stapling them to his chest, I recounted their reminiscences aloud. “Oh God,” moaned Peter, typically pathetic. “Oh God, please Trevor, I’m so sorry. You’re right, I was a lousy friend and an even s*** excuse for a human being!”

I could not believe it. I had kidnapped him, and he was apologizing to me? “Look, Peter, darling,” I said with mock concern. “Please don’t apologize. I'm long since over it. There was no harm done in the long run, right?” I paused to watch the blood discharge down his chest. I poured myself a glass of orange juice. I drank it idly before him. Peter sat there gasping for breath for an extended period. His flabby chest heaved upwards and downwards like ocean waves. Eventually, he calmed down. “You’re right,” he gasped weakly. He looked down at his lap. Blood dribbled down his chin and dampened his groin. “I blamed you for how you treated me. I felt you treated me like s***. However, you were right. I deserved that treatment. I am nothing more than subhuman scum. I’m sorry; I’m just so, so…”

I heard enough. “Stop apologizing!” I bellowed. I smashed my glass over his head, shattering it. I watched the blood mix with the juice. It slid down his skull with the shards. Two remained lodged in his cranium. “Stop apologizing to me, you pathetic little s***,” I continued. “You had plenty of time for that before. Yet you never try to improve. You never try to change. It is either Trevor’s a monster, or you’re a piece of s***. Never any middle ground with you, is there? Never the chance to discuss honestly what happened. You’re not sorry. If I met you on the street, you wouldn’t know what you did wrong. You don’t miss me; you don’t feel bad that I’m not around. You just use this as another excuse to tarnish yourself. You’re just so damn comfortable being miserable.” I stuck a spoon into a pot of hydrochloric acid. “If misery is your comfort, think of this as your hotel,” I said as I approached Peter with the spoonful.

“Oh God, oh god Trevor, please don’t, this…this isn’t right, this…AIIIYYYEEEEEAGGH!”

"This isn't about what's right," I replied emotionlessly. "This is about what you want."

I burnt each of his limbs. He screamed like a retarded child. “There, there,” I soothed. “Surely it’s not that bad, is it Peter? I suppose it’s my turn to apologize now? Not that I’m going to.” I walked around behind Peter. My shadow danced across the chamber wall. I scooped up a machete from my collection. I swung it near my knees. I looked like a boy waving a stick through grass. Peter moaned in fear. “Oh please Trevor,” he whined. “Please don’t kill me…”

“And why not, Peter?” I asked him. “You’re always threatening to kill yourself. I thought you’d appreciate this gesture.”

I sliced off a piece of his right calve and fried it in a pan. I cut it into strips, and mixed it with some macaroni and cheese. “There now, hush, hush Peter…” I told him. “Don’t you worry; I’m not going to kill you.” I sat down in from of him with my meal. “I wouldn’t do it for the world. All I want to do is show you something.” While I ate in front of him, I showed him each spoonful before it went into my mouth. “Delicious,” I said. “Take a whiff of that! Just delectable, is it not? I simply cannot recall the last time I felt so creative. What should I call this dish?” He did not hear me. All he did was continue to beg. “Nuuuuhhhunnn,” he moaned in a drunken slur. “Please Trevor, please…nunnnnnhhnnn…”

“Please what?”

“You can’t do this to me,” he cried. “Whatever happened between us, I’m still a human being, I’m still…”

“Wrong. You are an asexual. Asexuals are not human. They lack a key factor defining humanity. Therefore, they do not deserve the human rights of sexual people. They are less than animals. Even insects procreate. You’re less than a slug. You’re not even bacteria. Yet I was your friend anyway. And what did you do?”

I broke each of his arms with a metal bat. “You abandoned me,” I roared. “You spent all the time in the world with me when you had no one to talk to. For comfort over what a pathetic, snivelling little toad you are, but the SECOND you had other people to turn to, you completely lost interest in me, didn’t you?”

“I—I…”

“DIDN’T YOU?” I screamed, breaking his legs.

“AAAA--HHHH!” screamed Peter. “AHHHH! AHHHH! Jesus! Jesus, God! Ahh! Yes! Yes, I abandoned you, I…”

Before he finished, I smashed the bat across his mouth. It shattered his teeth and dislocated his jaw. “Yes Peter,” I sighed coldly. “Yes you did.”

I broke each bone in his fingers and toes individually. I started with his fingers, the tarsal bones. Then I hung him from a meat hook, and used him as a punching bag. "You abandoned me," I seethed between punches. "You abandoned me when I needed you most. However, that is not why I am doing this Peter. I’m doing this because it’s what you want.” I tore him off the meat hook, and plunked him onto the floor. He did his best to scream in spite of the broken jaw. "I'm doing this to satisfy your psychological needs. In doing so, I'm a better friend to you than you ever were to me. Now turn around."

“N…nuh..n…ninninnn…n…, cuh—cuh..” was all he could manage. I kicked him aggressively in the gut, and turned him onto his belly myself. “You’re not a person, you know,” I whispered as I pulled down his pants. “What did you describe yourself as, agender was it? Is that even a word, you f*** idiot? Why the f*** do you think that you have no gender? Because you can’t get erections? Listen here boy, that’s right, boy, you’re a man, and you know why? Because you have one of these.” I grabbed his testicles and yanked on them firmly, causing him to squeal like a piglet. “But you don’t want it, do you? And you don’t want a vagina either, right? Because you have no ‘gender,’ mm? Well Peter old boy, I can help you out with that. What are friends for?” I inserted a hunting knife up his rectum with agonizing slowness. I moved it down until I sliced his penis in two. Next, I boiled his scrotum in a pot. I eat his testicles as if they were eggs, taking special care to chew loudly and say “yum,” right next to his ears. “I feel alive,” I whispered sublimely, mainly to myself.

He moaned again, child-like. “Shh, there, there,” I soothed, almost whining. “It’s not that bad, is it darling? I hope not. It’s about to get a lot worse.” I picked up a hunting knife, and stroked his fat gut with it. “You poor thing,” I cooed. “Your intestines must simply be sweltering in there!” In one quick motion, I pulled my arm back and slashed. The blade hit on target. It was pure skill. I was like an artist, rendering a figure perfectly in seconds. His guts spilled out like a waterfall. “You know what I hate most about you?” I asked while I wrapped his intestines around his neck. “I hate you because I’m just like you.” I strangled him with them. “I’m just as whiny and pathetic. But at least I don’t abandon people.” I forced myself to stop before he died. In agony, he fought for breath. “This isn’t just about me,” I told him in a raspy whisper. “I’m not the only person in your life who didn't like being thrown away like a used tampon.”

Over a number of months, I nursed him back to health. I was not kind about it though. I cut off his eyelids and force-fed him sleeping pills. With each one I sneered, “I’m not sorry Peter, not for ANY of this.” I reminded him he is responsible for his father’s murder. “Your parents got a divorce because of you. It was because you were such a s*** son. If you had been worthy of affection, you would have received it. They would have stayed together. That other woman he married never would have murdered him. It’s. All. Your. Fault.” I went on for weeks, showing him pictures of his father and laughing. I made fun of his tears, and generally berated him. Soon he was healthy enough to live through more bodily punishment.

“Time for round two,” I said. My hands sat proudly at my sides. I looked like a perverse superhero. I used a saw to remove his fingers. They healed poorly, and looked broken. I was able to use them to paint portraits though. With the stubs, I drew cartoon characters he loved. Then I showed them to him. “Your art is absolute s*** Peter, you know that?” I said. “I mean, I’ve never attempted to draw anything before. But even I can get a better picture from your fingers than you ever could.” Peter looked away, ashamed. In his eyes, I could see he wanted to defend his work. “Funny isn’t it Peter?” I laughed. “You’re everyone else’s harshest critic. Every movie you see is terrible; every artist is horrible and getting worse. Yet the minute the slightest criticism goes in your direction, you cannot deal with it. Here, I’ll save you some embarrassment.” I surgically removed his eyes, one after the other. Then I athe them. “HI! I’m PETER!” I drooled in a guttural moan. “And every-f***-thing has to be EXACTLY the way I like it, or else it’s CRAP!” Then I knelt and brushed his hair from his sockets. I gleefully peed in them. “I wish I had AIDS so I could give it to you,” I sneered. “Dumb f***.”

The next part of my plan took a long time. I skinned him alive, and boiled some hot water. With it, I prepared a cup of tea for myself. Then I poured the rest over his skinless hide. He screamed, and I quickly applied a synthetic skin I prepared. “Wouldn’t want this to end prematurely,” I remarked warmly. Afterwards, I got around to his rump. “You know Peter, this is a wonderful opportunity,” I said. “I mean, think about it. You said being raped was what made you asexual, correct?” I paused for him to reply, but he was silent. I grabbed his shoulders and jerked them back. His forehead smashed upon the ground. “I ASKED YOU A QUESTION YOU RETARDED s***-HEAD, AM I CORRECT?”

Peter murmured weakly behind the syrupy blood coating his lips. I took it as an affirmation. “Oh, thank you so much for taking the time to confirm that Peter,” I answered cheerily. “Anyway, I’m a scientist. I think it’s time we did a little experiment. Maybe that little bit of butt-spelunking felt SO good, afterwards, no other sex would do, mm?”

“Murruhhh?” Peter moaned with terror. He attempted to look around with his empty eye sockets. “Muuurraahahgghh?”

“Oh, that’s nice,” I said with satisfaction as I pulled down my pants. I inserted my penis into his cut, infected rectum. “Very nice indeed…”

“MMYYYAHAHRHR!” he screamed. “MMYYYAHAHRHR!”

“Brings back fond memories, eh Peter ol’ chum?” I said proudly as I ground against him violently.

“MMYYYAHAHRHR! MMYYYAHAHRHR! MMYYYAHAHRHR!”

I figured that was enough. I shot him low in the stomach so that his guts filled up with s***. He spent a week, perhaps more, perhaps less, dying of blood poisoning. I explained the irony of this demise. “I treated you like s***, because you ARE s*** Peter,” I grinned. “Therefore, it’s only fitting that as s***, you die from s***. From s*** you originate and so to s*** you return.” I left him alone in the dungeon to die. I filmed it all on a hidden camera, to watch for comfort whenever I felt down. After he died, I dismembered his body. I tore out his larynx and squeezed it tight.

“WAAAH!” I screamed as blood coated my fingers. “WAAAH! I’m Peter! I’m a pathetic piece of s***! Nobody loves me! Nobody likes me! I have no talents! I should just kill myself but I never will! WAAAH! WAAAH! WAAAH!” Then I threw it to the floor. I trampled it, and peeled off the vocals cords. I threw them in my garbage disposal. Beads of sweat formed on my brow. I had a bath. Then I connected his limbs with barbed wire. I hung them around my house like Christmas lights. I took the limbs and tossed them from a building. They splattered on the pavement like a Rorschach test. Afterwards, I dropped down a grenade. Then I set the alleyway on fire, and pissed in the ashes. “I think I’m finished,” I sighed, panting. Then a voice sounded from somewhere deep inside my mind. “I trusted you,” I remembered Peter saying once. Was it after our final fight? “I trusted you never to hurt me.” I looked at the desolate, burnt alleyway. I felt a melancholy twinge; left over from a vague emotion I could no longer name. “I’m not crying,” I told myself. I wiped away the liquid discharging down my cheeks. “It’s only blood; only blood.”

“Fallen angel head crashes dead out of control.
Lost memories staircase twists.
Darker rooms lit with left out toys.
After playing mean changes toys into tools.
Twisted playthings on the staircase fools.
Fools weapons represents the killing game.
Who taught the killing game?
Who taught the killing game?
Awaken eyes sewn wearing glasses dripping tap, tap temple door.
Locked inside scream, inner scraping tooth and nail nowhere to go.
Quiet retraces forcing light tears then pretend nothing blinds.
Blinds closed in sanctuary closed in sanctuary.
Padded walls not quiet storm's fury burnt out killing time.
Who taught the killing game?
Time's taught the killing game herself.
No I taught the killing game first.”
--Kevin Ogilvie

[Lynchenberg]

“Boo-f***-hoo you're not the only one whose life's a piece of s***.
And yet miraculously somehow we all seem to deal with it.
Did anybody think that you would really, seriously slit your wrists?
In fact, I think that everybody thinks you're seriously full of s***.”
-- James Euringer

Today I killed a child. He and his mother were on their way home after seeing a movie. I knocked them out with my bat and bound them in my dungeon. I stripped the boy naked, cut off his penis, and crushed his nipples with wire cutters. He screamed when I slit his throat, and I took a moment to study his face. His expression was so shocked, so confused. Yet most of all, it was frightened. I felt truly happy for what I believe to be the first time. I used to play with children; I used to think I loved them. In a way, I do. I love them when they bleed. I love them only when they bleed.

As he bled out, I began sodomizing the boy. I stopped after he expired, for I no longer saw the point. It would not cause him pain, why expel energy on a mere husk? I turned to study his mother’s horrified expression. I knew that I had destroyed her life and that the pain would never go away. I decided to let her live, for I knew it was worse than killing her.

It was then I realized that Peter was right. I am evil, I tried to hurt him and I am a horrible person. Yet here is what pleasantly surprised me. I have found I love being a horrible person, and I love hurting him. I wish I were there during his childhood rape, to drink in his suffering. In fact, I wish I could have been the one raping him myself. No matter, I certainly made up for that in spades, did I not?

It began when I printed out the photos of our memories together. Stapling them to his chest, I recounted their reminiscences aloud. “Oh God,” moaned Peter, typically pathetic. “Oh God, please Trevor, I’m so sorry. You’re right, I was a lousy friend and an even s*** excuse for a human being!”

I could not comprehend this. I had kidnapped him, and he was apologizing to me? “Look, Peter, darling,” I said with mock concern. “Please don’t apologize. I'm long since over it. There was no harm done in the long run, right?” I paused to watch the blood discharge down his chest. I poured myself a glass of orange juice, and drank it idly before him. Peter sat there gasping for breath for an extended period. His flabby chest heaved upwards and downwards like ocean waves. Eventually, he calmed down. “You’re right,” he gasped weakly. He looked down at his lap as blood dribbled down his chin and dampened his groin. “I blamed you for how you treated me. However, you were right. I deserved that treatment; I am nothing more than subhuman scum. I’m sorry; I’m just so, so…”

I heard enough. “Stop apologizing!” I bellowed. I smashed my glass over his head, shattering it. I watched the blood mix with the juice as it slid down his skull. Shards of glass remained lodged in his cranium. “Stop apologizing to me, you pathetic little s***,” I continued. “You had plenty of time for that before. Yet you never try to change. It’s either Trevor’s a monster, or you’re a piece of s***. Never any middle ground with you, is there? Never the chance to discuss openly what happened. You’re not sorry. If I met you on the street, you wouldn’t know what you did wrong. You don’t miss me; you don’t feel bad that I’m not around. You just use this as another excuse to tarnish yourself. Why? Because you’re just so damn comfortable being miserable.” With that, I stuck a spoon into a pot of hydrochloric acid and approached him. “If misery is your comfort, think of this as your hotel.”

“Oh God, oh god Trevor, please don’t, this…this isn’t right, this…” his protests were cut off as he screamed.

"This isn't about what's right," I replied emotionlessly. "This is about what you want."

I burnt him singularly on each of his limbs, and he screamed like a retarded child. “There, there,” I soothed. “Surely it’s not that bad, is it Peter? I suppose it’s my turn to apologize now? Not that I’m going to.” I walked around behind Peter, as my shadow danced across the chamber wall. I scooped up a machete from my collection, and swung it near my knees. I looked like a boy waving a stick through grass. “Oh please Trevor,” Peter moaned in fear. “Please don’t kill me…”

“And why not, Peter?” I asked him. “You’re always threatening to kill yourself. I thought you’d appreciate this gesture.”

I sliced off a piece of his right calve and fried it in a pan. I cut it into strips, and mixed it with some macaroni and cheese. “There now, hush, hush Peter…” I told him. “Don’t you worry; I’m not going to kill you.” I sat down in from of him with my meal. “I wouldn’t do it for the world. All I want to do is show you something.” While I ate in front of him, I showed him each spoonful before it went into my mouth. “Delicious,” I said. “Take a whiff of that! Just delectable, is it not? I simply cannot recall the last time I felt so creative.”

He did not hear me. All he did was continue to beg. “Nuuuuhhhunnn,” he moaned in a drunken slur. “Please Trevor, please…nunnnnnhhnnn…”

“Please what?”

“You can’t do this to me,” he cried. “Whatever happened between us, I’m still a human being, I’m still…”

“Wrong. You are an asexual. Asexuals are not human. They lack a key factor defining humanity. Therefore, they do not deserve human rights. You are less than animals, hell, even insects procreate. Do you understand what I’m telling you Peter? You’re less than a slug, less than bacteria. Yet I was your friend anyway. And what did you do?”

I broke each of his arms with a metal bat. “You abandoned me,” I roared. “You spent all the time in the world with me when you had no one else. For comfort over what a pathetic, snivelling little toad you are, but the SECOND you had other people to turn to, you completely lost interest in me, didn’t you?”

“I—I…”

“DIDN’T YOU?” I screamed, breaking his legs.

“AAAA--HHHH!” screamed Peter. “AHHHH! AHHHH! Jesus! Jesus, God! Ahh! Yes! Yes, I abandoned you, I…”

Before he finished, I smashed the bat across his mouth. It shattered his teeth and dislocated his jaw. “Yes Peter,” I sighed coldly. “Yes you did.”

Starting with his fingers, I broke each bone in his fingers and toes individually. Next I hung him from a meat hook, and used him as a punching bag. "You abandoned me," I seethed between punches. "You abandoned me when I needed you most. However, that is not why I’m doing this Peter. I’m doing this because it’s what you want.” I tore him off the meat hook, and plunked him onto the floor. He did his best to scream in spite of the broken jaw. "I'm doing this to satisfy your psychological needs. In doing so, even now I'm being a better friend to you than you ever were to me. Now turn around."

“N…nuh..n…ninninnn…n…, cuh—cuh..” was all he could manage. I kicked him aggressively in the gut, and turned him onto his belly myself. “You’re not a person, you know,” I whispered as I pulled down his pants. “What did you describe yourself as, agender was it? Is that even a word, you f*** idiot? Why the f*** do you think that you have no gender? Because you can’t get erections? Listen here boy, that’s right, boy, you’re a man, and you know why? Because you have one of these.” I grabbed his testicles and yanked on them firmly, causing him to squeal like a piglet. “But you don’t want it, do you? And you don’t want a vagina either, right? Because you have no ‘gender,’ mm? Well Peter old boy, I can help you out with that. What are friends for?” I inserted a hunting knife up his rectum with agonizing slowness. I moved it down until I sliced his penis in two. Next, I boiled his scrotum in a pot. I eat his testicles as if they were eggs, taking special care to chew loudly and say “yum,” right next to his ears. “I feel alive,” I whispered, mainly to myself.

He moaned again, child-like. “Shh, there, there,” I soothed, almost whining. “It’s not that bad, is it darling? I hope not, for it’s about to get a lot worse.” I picked up a hunting knife, and stroked his obese gut with it. “You poor thing,” I cooed. “Your intestines must simply be sweltering in there!” In one quick motion, I pulled my arm back and slashed. It was pure skill when the blade hit on target. I was like an artist, rendering a figure perfectly in seconds. His guts spilled out like a waterfall. “You know what I hate most about you?” I asked while I wrapped his intestines around his neck. “I hate you because I’m just like you.”

“Nuuuhh-rrrhhhh?” groaned Peter, while I began to strangle him with his own innards.
“I’m just as whiny and pathetic,” I continued. “But at least I don’t abandon people.” I forced myself to stop before he died. In agony, he fought for breath. “This isn’t just about me,” I told him in a raspy whisper. “I’m not the only person in your life who didn't like being thrown away like a used tampon.”

Over a number of months, I nursed him back to health. I was not kind though, I cut off his eyelids and force-fed him sleeping pills. With each one I sneered, “I’m not sorry Peter, not for ANY of this.” I also continued my laundry list of grievances; I reminded him he is responsible for his father’s murder. “Your parents got a divorce because of you. It was because you were such a s*** son. If you had been worthy of affection, you would have received it. They would have stayed together. That other woman he married never would have murdered him.

It’s.

All.

Your.

Fault.”

I went on for weeks, showing him pictures of his father and laughing. I mocked his tears, and generally berated him. Soon he was healthy enough to live through more bodily punishment. “Time for round two,” I said. My hands sat proudly at my sides, and I looked like some perverse superhero.

I used a saw to remove his fingers. They healed poorly, and looked broken. I was able to use them to paint portraits though. With the stubs, I drew cartoon characters he loved, then I showed them to him. “Your art is absolute s*** Peter, you know that?” I said. “I mean, I’ve never attempted to draw anything before. But even I can get a better picture from your fingers than you ever could.” Peter looked away, ashamed. In his eyes, I could see he wanted to defend his work. “Funny isn’t it Peter?” I laughed. “You’re everyone else’s harshest critic. Every movie you see is terrible; every artist is horrible and getting worse. Yet the minute the slightest criticism goes in your direction, you cannot deal with it. Here, I’ll save you some embarrassment.” I surgically removed his eyes, one after the other, and gobbled them up.

I began prancing around the room like a drunken ballerina. “HI! I’m PETER!” I drooled in a guttural moan. “And every-f***-thing has to be EXACTLY the way I like it, or else it’s CRAP!” Then I knelt and brushed his hair from his sockets. I gleefully peed in them. “I wish I had AIDS so I could give it to you,” I sneered. “Dumb f***,” I added as an afterthought.

The next part of my plan took a long time. I skinned him alive, and boiled some hot water. With it, I prepared a cup of tea for myself. Then I poured the rest over his skinless hide. He screamed, and I quickly applied a synthetic skin I prepared. “Wouldn’t want this to end prematurely,” I remarked. Afterwards, I got around to his rump. “You know Peter, this is a wonderful opportunity,” I said. “I mean, think about it. You said being raped was what made you asexual, correct?” I paused for him to reply, but he was silent. I grabbed his shoulders and jerked them back, his forehead smashed upon the ground. “I ASKED YOU A QUESTION YOU RETARDED s***-HEAD, AM I CORRECT?”

Peter murmured weakly behind the syrupy blood coating his lips. I took it as an affirmation. “Oh, thank you so much for taking the time to confirm that Peter,” I answered cheerily. “Anyway, I’m a scientist. I think it’s time we did a little experiment. Maybe that little bit of butt-spelunking felt SO good, afterwards, no other sex would do, mm?”

“Murruhhh?” Peter moaned with terror. He attempted to look around with his empty eye sockets. “Muuurraahahgghh?”

“Oh, that’s nice,” I said with satisfaction as I pulled down my pants. I inserted my penis into his cut, infected rectum. “Very nice indeed…”

“MMYYYAHAHRHR!” he screamed. “MMYYYAHAHRHR!”

“Brings back fond memories, eh Peter ol’ chum?” I said proudly as I ground against him violently.

“MMYYYAHAHRHR! MMYYYAHAHRHR! MMYYYAHAHRHR!”

I figured that was enough. I shot him low in the stomach so that his guts filled up with s***. He spent a week, perhaps more, perhaps less, dying of blood poisoning. Before leaving him to die in my dungeon, I explained the irony of this demise. “I treated you like s***, because you ARE s*** Peter,” I grinned. “Therefore, it’s only fitting that as s***, you die from s***. From s*** you originate and so to s*** you return.” I left him alone in the dungeon to die. I filmed it all on a hidden camera, to watch for comfort whenever I felt down. After he died, I dismembered his body, and tore out his larynx.

“WAAAH!” I screamed childishly as blood coated my fingers. I sounded like a schoolyard bully “WAAAH! I’m Peter! I’m a pathetic piece of s***! Nobody loves me! I have no talents! I should just kill myself but I never will! WAAAH! WAAAH! WAAAH!”

Then I threw it to the floor, trampled it, and peeled off the vocals cords. I threw them in my garbage disposal. Beads of sweat formed on my brow, and stood gasping. I had a bath, after which I connected his limbs with barbed wire. I hung them around my house like Christmas lights, while singing carols to no one in particular. When I had enough, I took the down limbs and tossed them from a building. They splattered on the pavement like an inkblot test. As if I had somehow morphed into Wile E Coyote, I dropped down a grenade as well. After the explosion, I set the alleyway on fire, and pissed in the ashes. “I think I’m finished,” I sighed, panting.

Then a voice sounded from somewhere deep inside my mind. “I trusted you,” I remembered Peter saying once. Was it after our final fight? “I trusted you never to hurt me.” I looked at the desolate, burnt alleyway. I felt a melancholy twinge; left over from a vague emotion I could no longer name. “I’m not crying,” I told myself, as I wiped away the liquid discharging down my cheeks. “It’s only blood; only blood.”

“Fallen angel head crashes dead out of control.
Lost memories; staircase twists.
Darker rooms lit with left out toys.
After playing mean, changes toys into tools,
twisted playthings on the staircase fools.
Fools weapons represents the killing game.
Who taught the killing game?
Who taught the killing game?
Awaken eyes sewn wearing glasses dripping tap, tap temple door,
locked inside scream, inner scraping tooth and nail, nowhere to go.
Quiet retraces forcing light tears, then pretend nothing blinds.
Blinds closed in sanctuary, closed in sanctuary.
Padded walls not quiet storm's fury burnt out killing time.
Who taught the killing game?
Time's taught the killing game herself.
No, I taught the killing game first.”
--Kevin Ogilvie

[Lynchenberg]

This was all just watching somebody else go to work, I was still too chicken-s*** to go to it myself. Trey even gave me a knife and offered to let me “do” one of them. I refused. The real turning point for me was a Sunday morning. I packed a lunch and my murder kit, and decided to take a walk in the forest. That was when I really started doing this for the sake of doing it, not for the pathetic reason of wanting someone to hug. I was having a fantasy of following some hiker with my murder kit deep into the woods and going to work on them. Quite by chance, I happened upon two baby deer nuzzling with their mother. I watched them from a distance with my binoculars until their mother left. I waited a little while, and then I approached the two cute little things and gently petted them. I looked around to make certain that their mother was gone. The little fawns followed me, and I realized that they thought that I was their mother. I grinned widely at that, and began nuzzling with them. I even fed them with my lunch. Then I began to walk off again, and the fawns followed me once more. This time I stopped, reached into my murder kit again, and pulled out a baseball bat. As one of the fawns began to nuzzle closely to me, I smashed the bat across its legs, shattering its bones completely. It fell to the ground screaming and I gleefully cackled. The second fawn attempted to flee, It was still a newborn, and could barely even walk. I giggled and pulled out some knives, saws, and other tools out of my suitcase. I proceeded to skin the fawn alive. I giggled like a schoolchild as it quivered in the grass. Soon I draped its skin over my back. “It’s getting a little chilly daughter dearest, hope you don’t mind,” I said mockingly as it continued to shiver. Then I picked the two animals up and carried them back to where their mother had hidden them. I climbed up a tree and watched the fawns with my binoculars. After hours of whimpering, the skinned fawn finally died. Soon, its mother returned and nudged the skinless baby in horror, but it did no good. Meanwhile, the surviving fawn cried to its mother loudly, as if begging for help. It tried to get up, but it could not. As the mother began to comfort her baby, I pulled a .45 magnum out of my pocket and blew her head off. I watched as the little fawn screamed frantically for its mother as her brains splattered all over it. A satisfied erection formed in my pants. I went home to masturbate, leaving the little f*** to starve to death. Then I realized there was an off chance someone would find it and attempt to help it. I returned, and took it back home to let it starve to death in my cold, dank dungeon. Each day I would go downstairs to masturbate while I watched it grow thinner and thinner, and listened to its cries become weaker and weaker.