September 26th, 2007
|dacnomaniac||03:10 pm - topical free writing|
Slick and shining the organs lie in their jewelbox, precious articles awaiting the caress of the ripper's tongue. Smashing through their protective skin-and-bone shell, he had become thoroughly soaked in red wetness, its warm saltiness prickling his skin rapturously. The phone rings on the desk near the dying man's head, and the ripper reaches for it, but when his snow-pale hand touches it, the ringing stops. Oh well. The rubbered hand retreats, returning to its original activity. The knife remains embedded in the left side of the prey's chest, and the ripper is curious, because the man is still breathing, still gasping, choking out halting half-syllables, twitching weakly as if his brain still believes his body capable of struggling. He has done much striping on the limbs, and carefully severed the important tendons early on before binding and treating the wounds. Strictly speaking, the prey shouldn't be conscious or able to move at all -- above and beyond the damage done, the ripper had forced at least 120mg of OxyContin down the man's throat at least two or three hours ago. He should be stoned insensible, if not unconscious. (What must be done must be done, but there's no reason anyone should *suffer* for it. Besides, the screaming and wailing and begging is truly obnoxious, and often hurts the ripper's ears. He has very sensitive ears, you know.) His tongue flicks serpentine through half-parted lips, drawing blood from the ripper's face over his tongue, and he withdraws the six-inch butterfly knife from the prey's chest, almost unconsciously leaning forward in order to lap at the blood puddling up from the wound when the blade slides free. His mind had been full of thoughts of steaks, burgers, all the wonderful meaty things to be prepared later tonight, the raw sashimi he had been slicing off and consuming along the way as a snack -- but now he is intrigued by this mystery. The stab to the chest had been aimed quite perfectly; the blade should have pierced the aorta and caused immediate, intense bleeding and death. However, to all appearances, the injury caused the man no more detriment than a flesh wound. Curious, the ripper drives the blade home into the left chest several more times, observing carefully the man's reaction to each piercing. The prey jerks, emitting a sharp, ragged squeal, but he does not die, and when the knife pulls back after the last stab, the prey's muscle tension vanishes as he collapses sobbing silently against the computer chair that had become the hunter's butchering table, but he is still breathing, still alive.
What manner of witchery is this, the ripper wonders? How fascinating. Unable to resist the call of discovery, the ripper wipes the butterfly knife's blade with a clean white cloth, then ties it into the cloth for later purification-disposal. From his belt, a new blade is drawn, glittering bright anticipation as it considers its task. His fingers lovingly caress the back-serrated, single-edged hunting/gardening knife with its red-and-black pyramid-studded hilt, its blood-groove shaped like like ^ and the uncompromised perfection of its sleek, arched cutting edge, hewn and honed to absolute razor smoothness. He licks the blade, feeling its cold metallic presence coil about his own spirit-self in welcome, then returns his attention to his prey. The big knife ka-thunks into the prey's flesh, expertly splitting the collarbones in the center before sliding down the prey's body, slitting his still mostly-undamaged skin in half. Deeper and deeper the ripper excavates, intent on discovering the answer to this mystery. The jewels in their box are revealed in their full glory; first the abdominal cavity is rent open, the skin and muscle peeled carefully away. Then the big knife punches through the ribs, one after the next, before sawing through the sternum to lift it away in two neat pieces. The ripper proceeds with his task so carefully that at the end, the man lies with his hidden secret exposed, heart beating erratically but beating still even as the cold air washes against the pericardium, wrinkling it.
The hunter is amazed. Someone has played an incredible trick on the prey. The guts are mirror-imaged, reversed, switched! Transposed viscera! What a trip! The knife and the hunter are both extremely amused, and he cannot stop chuckling to himself even as he leans forward and delicately takes the dying, shuddering heart in his jaws, lifting it free of its place ever-so-delicately, feeling its final spasmodic desperations against his tongue, his gums, the roof of his mouth. Then he crushes it against the roof of his mouth with his tongue as if eating an oversized pear tomato, moaning softly at the incredible rich rush of flavour and aroma that explodes across his awareness like blue and crimson fireworks.
That mystery explained, the ripper swallows his morsel and sighs, satisfied for the moment.
So he begins to dress and butcher the prey's corpse. He wants burgers for dinner, and doesn't care for fast food ...
He strikes raising the weapon high, then down it comes, shining glinting in the light, pure and clean now but about to get so fantastically dirty, purified in waves of sacrificial wine. Plunging into the abdomen, fierce tearing. Unknown consequences chase at the back of his head, but this matters nothing, because everything here is now, and the rich heady smell makes him dizzy as he withdraws the blade. The violated cavity belched forth its gasses, and his jaws gaped, drooling, greedy for a taste of the hidden insides still veiled by that frustrating expanse of clean empty skin, perfect and unpunctured. Boring, in other words. The solution was to pull back and lunge again, tearing through the barrier. The pumping heart proves its own worst enemy, funneling its vital resources out the mighty rents in the bodily integrity. Full of stink and gore the belly held together proudly for one last trembling instant, then it tumbled to pieces, tangled slimy rope and strange organic shapes tumbling forth over his hands, his arms, and the knife dances, laughing and gleeful. He is sweating, and it bothers him. He hates to sweat.
The ripper considered a long time, he considered but in the end there was only one choice to be made, who was he fooling, really? Everyone is something, you can't run from who you are, and anyway, once you're here, once the heat punches you in the nostrils and the iron stink sings in your bones, and the drooling wet trickling over the back of your hand is someone else's red water, it's a bit too late to protest too much. So no more protesting. He stares enraptured and amazed at the hitchhiker, at the hitchhiker's frozen face, at his own shocked expression reflected in the mirror. At the knife handle protruding from the other man's abdomen. He hadn't meant to do it, not really, not *yet* at least, not like *that* anyhow, but somehow he had parked, he had turned around to speak to the hitchhiker, and then it seemed the knife just happened to be in his hand, and when his passenger's eyes met his and it seemed the man might be about to scream, well ... the knife just jumped. That's what it felt like. The knife jumped, and now it was sinking deeper as if with a will of its own, and now the ripper's eardrums rang and jangled with the pressure of the hitchhiker's screams, the soft fabric of the man's shirt pressing damply against the ripper's hand as the blade sank to the hilt and tried to go deeper. Disoriented, sensing that relief was but a single thin barrier away, the ripper ripped. The knife struggled to remain where it was, blissfully buried in the belly of the bellowing bovine beast, but he exerted his will and his strength, and it twisted but it came, tearing sideways out of the hitchhiker's flesh with a disgruntled sound like a wet sack being torn in two. Almost immediately the knife jumped again, and the ripper found himself living up to his type-cast again and again, sucking breath anxiously amongst the gasping bellows of his dying guest's last sickly attempts to continue his screaming. Blinking, he must wipe his arm across his face several times, as the blood gets in his eyes, stinging. He licks his arm unmindfully after doing so, more focused on the surprisingly, delightfully active weapon.
Silence drops heavily like a bloodsoaked blanket over the car, and the ripper feels much better, really. The ruined corpse retains more or less the shape of a human body, but it seems now more like a snug, warm cocoon in which to hide, an edible tent with dead skin walls. Lying within the shattered, tossed and investigated gore, curled up, soaking the warmth of the other man's blood and flesh into his own skin, the ripper wishes he could stay here forever. But inevitably, the blood goes cold, the last vestiges of healthfulness leave the flesh, and it becomes something *other*, something unfoodlike and unlovable, an abode for flies, a den of beetles, a low-cost fixer-upper for worms. So he must find someone else, and do it all over again...
He reflects that a burning car does not lend the most palatable of flavors to roasting meat.
Attacking ripping shredding through the soft fleshy torso of the old man, the bald man, the ruining man. Jaws snap shut around the throat, teeth snap closed, crushing, blood floods his mouth. Powerful neck muscles flex, flex, snapping the head back and forth, and the entire neck and head rip away from the body in one powerful jerk, leaving him standing with the throat of the enemy crushed in his jaws, clawed hands streaming with blood and shredded entrails. Eyes sparkle, body trembles, frozen in delight, watching the corpse, as if in slow motion, tumble to the filthy asphalt. Offended by his food touching the skin of the city, he drags the mangled corpse a few yards to the west, chewing happily on his mouthful of throat all the while, until the corpse and the hunter slide together onto the the lawn of the small, densely wooded city park, disappearing into the trees. Here he drops the head and draws his knife, and here the knife goes snickety-slack, slipping neatly with ease through each limb-joint. The hungry one has a snack.
Red sprays complete and perfect, beautiful onto the whitewashed wall. Whitewashed specifically for this, this dance, but the others don’t seem to appreciate the work he’s put in. Too bad for them, for the show must go on! Bright gleaming eyes narrowing to eldritch slits, the demon-ghost hiding in hominid form withdraws his taloned hand, spinning on his toes around the pinioned stag, and when the sleek arcing deltoid muscles come into view, their plump strength is so tempting that Howl simply must strike out again, jaw gaped some to catch the flying blood, long sharp ears lifted to the music of the prey’s song. Three pretty males, all Howl’s; a stag and two flat-faces, all with quite attractive closet-skeleton collections. Howling Silence knows very little of this, of course, and he doesn’t particularly care, either. It’s their scent-aura that drew the demon-ghost to them, their pulsating blended senses of life and death together, of innocence demolished, unkind sentiments and unholy lusts all in a mingling miasma. This was the aroma of a well-made buffet to the lurking hunter, and so he had followed, and snatched them … And when they respawned from the first killing, after their spirits wandered lost in a Bone Forest far from this world, they found themselves in a small whitewashed room with no apparent exits, neither door nor window. From floor and ceiling three sets of hooks protrude, two to a set, each facing the other vertically. From these hooks run rope and leather straps, and between these hooks the straps hold taught the men’s limbs, immobilizing them midair -- except for the steps of the dance, of course. They have all the mobility they need for that.
Snick, snick, snick the claws sing across the stag’s shoulderblades, catching briefly in bony nooks before sliding graceful free, their owner leaning in close to catch the crimson bow wave rising behind in his jaws, on his face. The demon-ghost, disguised as a hominid like the others, a red wolf to be specific, stalks around to the front again, dragging his claws oh-so-gently over the shuddering, gasping stag’s shoulder, bicep, then down over the twitching pectorals. Such strength in this body, the hunter marvels, yet so useless when it counts! The stag gives a pained whimper, trying to wiggle away from his tormentor, but of course the motion only sets himself swinging, and Howl decides to take advantage of the motion, holding out both clawed hands so that the stag swings into them on either end. A slight push with each hand at impact restores the swinging, spinning action, so the claws never impact the same way twice. Close to madness, the beleaguered cervid sucks in a deep breath as if planning to bellow with all his might. But Howl decides it’s well past time for a snack, and just as the first rumble of sound begins to escape the stag’s muzzle, the predator’s jaws close around his neck, cutting off his air supply, while his taloned hands plunge effortlessly through the cervine abdominal wall, immersed in steaming glorious entrails. Howl does not rip the stag’s throat out immediately; he clamps down, puncturing but not tearing, sucking the stag’s expirated blood and air down his own throat as the doomed man fights desperately to get a sound out, anything, but it’s too late, and after a couple of minutes the stag finally shudders one last time. And Howling Silence shudders with the dying body as he feels its spirit’s chains snap and tumble away. The stag-spirit coils around its killer as it departs, adding a most delicious spice to the taste of his flesh. Jerking his own neck back, the lupinoid rips the throat free and swallows it quickly before plunging his muzzle into the dead stag’s torn belly, digging with teeth as well as talons for the life-sustaining morsels within. Totally immersed in a flood of healthful energies, awash in sensual pleasures, the predator-spirit loses track of himself for a while, interested only in the corpse.
Returning to himself after some indeterminate period, Howl rises back to his hind paws, gazing dispassionately down at the scattered remains of the stag’s body. Shredded flesh, gnawed and scattered bones, and one antler are all that remain of the once-proud cervid. All but one marrowbone has been cracked and sucked dry; Howl scoops the last bone from the floor and cracks it expertly between his teeth, padding over to the first of the primates as he does so. “Want?” The hunter offers half the marrowbone to the dangling man, who flinches away, choking and jerking as his stomach turns over. Fortunately, he hadn’t been given a chance to fill his belly beforehand, so there isn’t a mess to worry about. Politely, Howl waits until the man is finished dry-heaving, his long barbed tongue scraping marrow from within the bone with a series of contented smackings and sighs. Finally, the man is done with his spasms, and Howl is done with his snack. Dropping the bone, Howl saunters closer. Streaked, painted, and thoroughly spattered with the blood, fur, and gore of the stag, the hunter’s prey flinches away, and it pauses, smirking. “Is it the blood, or the nakedness?” The predator-spirit inquires, leaning in so close his nose leather nearly touches the tip of the man’s nose. Forced eye-to-eye, the terrified man stares into the darkened sockets of his tormentor’s eyes … there seems to be no eyeball within, just a dancing candle-flame somehow very far away… The third man starts to shriek, but the second man has no time to decipher the warning before, still standing face-to-face and eye-to-eye, the hunter brings both talons down in a great sweeping slash, one over the other. Instantly the man’s bodily integrity vanishes, blood and gore erupting in a cerise fountain all over the demon-ghost’s created body. Within this shower Howl turns around and around, humming some song or another to itself, rubbing the blood and gore into his fur as if he were literally taking a shower. The spray seems to continue far longer than it should … FAR longer, and the other man’s nose begins to bleed before he understands what’s happening …
Finally, the feeding is complete, and Howl drops to all fours, to full animal form, and sits down to groom himself, utterly uninterested in either the two mangled bodies or the third, which seems to have somehow been completely drained of blood and viscera, including a significant amount of muscle tissue, without suffering external wounds of any kind. This would later puzzle the hell out of the hominids who would discover the ‘crime scene’, but the seeming miracle made no impact on its effecter. It wasn’t the first time he’d gated flesh, after all …
The predator is sleek and cunning, he laughs. His claws drip hot and red, but he isn’t done yet. The men cower before him at the back of the dirty alley, they cower because they can see him for what he is. Blood-in-the-Fog hisses, crouching down to all fours, and one of the men turns to run, but too late the hunter slams into his back, the broad jaws snapping shut around the man’s head as two sets of talons slide intimately into the flesh of his muscular back, like old knives welcomed into their sheaths. They land with a thump, the hunter on his back. The other two try to run, but even as Howl crushes the first man’s skull in his jaws, squeezing blood and brains out from the pulverized bony cavity like a wolf crushing a marrowbone, two of his three ever-coiling tails untwist from their perpetual serpentine dance and strike. The prehensile tail, in perfect silence, loops over one man’s head and around his waist, lifting him effortlessly into the air. The other man has time for one last terrified wail before the bony club at the tip of the second tail smashes at high speed into his side, crushing his torso mercilessly against the wall. The demon hisses as the energies of that death swirl around and into him, feeding. The sound of it, somewhere between ripping fabric and a crushed tomato, send a shiver down the hunter’s spine. He tears his talons from the first man’s back, shivering a bit more as warm blood spatters his death-cold hide. The beast lowers its skull-like head to the first man’s dead back, lapping at pooling blood with its three-lobed tongue. It wishes to feel more, so while the third man watches in horror, it tears into the first man’s back with its talons, over and over, basking in the backwash of blood. Finally, when thoroughly soaked, it turns to the more serious business of devouring its prey, tearing thick chunks of meat from the ex-human’s back, swallowed down its throat without need of pausing to chew. Severing the spine, it tears the excess bone away, then rolls happily in the exposed entrails, pressing itself into the gore with the glee of a dog rolling in dead fish. As it lies on its bony back, tongue lolling, it swings its prehensile tail around to peer hungrily at the third man. Swinging him back and forth, it listens to his panic-stricken struggles and squeals for a minute as it considers what to do with him. Finally, the rumbling of its belly overcomes its creative urge, and it tosses the hapless man into the air, serpentine neck snapping up as the great jaws gape, blood dripping from the dry mouth as if it were saliva. As if a dog seizing a thrown bone-treat from the air, the hunter’s jaws slam shut around the man’s torso from the bottom up, legs sliced neatly away, arms and head protruding at the top. Warm salty blood sluicing over its tongue and down its throat, the predator shakes its prey, shakes and shakes, snapping his spine instantly and repeatedly. Snap, crunch, snap, the beast arranges its meal, gulping down the gore that flows freely from the ruined body, before swallowing it mutilated and crushed but more-or-less whole. It rolls over, sucking blood from the ground to wash the large morsel down, then noses thoughtfully at the smashed remains of the second man where they lie gathering flies on the filthy ground. It snorts with distaste, as other spirits have already devoured all the gnosis. Mere flesh is all that remains, and he has never been able to feed on the resonances of decomposition despite their strong association with death. Live prey is for him. So, like a wet dog, he shakes himself vigorously, spraying blood and shredded flesh in a twenty-foot-high arc. Then the predator-spirit drops back into the form of a common Indian dog and trots out of the alley, in search of his next kill.
The knife slides deep into the woman’s belly and she shrieks, but Shawcross doesn’t hear her scream in fear. He sees an angry woman, a dominating tyrant. He hears her demand, can’t you even stab me properly? You’re incompetent at everything! Snarling, determined to prove the domineering harpy wrong, Shawcross slashes again, twisting the knife so it rips and tears rather than leaving a clean slice. Again and again, leaning in close to feel the blood on his face, shuddering with excitement. The harpy has disappeared, there is no sound in this place, no one to bother him, just the wonderful warmth and scent of blood on his skin, the taste of it in his mouth, his knife digging entrails from a treasure chest, and the next thing he knows his hands plunge deep into the wounds, grasping talonlike about slick warm mysteries to bring them out into the moonlight. Bloody hand regrasps the knife, plunges it into the upper chest, ripping away, and the other hand follows, and it’s a very long time before the sternum cracks and the ribs give way but he manages it, and then he pulls out the heart and before he can think of maybe having heart chow mein or a sandwich like last time his hand simply stuffs it in his mouth, and he ends up enjoying it very much raw anyway.
Christ, is it pathetic to drool over your own writing? I suppose, when it's your own transcripted fantasies and subconscious urges, it's not ... but holy JESUS, I wish someone else wrote like this. :p
Sorry, Dacno, I JUST got around to taking a peek over here. Be careful what you wish for, oh great hunter. Someday I just MIGHT have to take you up on the challenge. *hugs* Hope you are feeling better of late.