Serial Killer Wake-Up Call!
(From the novel The Dark Legend of Tormentia: Macabre)
Copyright © 2014 by Joel Hunter Gun
All rights reserved.
Written by Joel Hunter Gun
Comfortably numb and slowly regaining consciousness, with his vision in a blur, Hunter blinked several times but he still could not see. He could not smell. At first, all he could hear was the sound of a cork popping from a bottle. He heard the fizz of the liquid’s carbonation as it was being poured, and then he could hear someone drinking. The person was drinking not in sips but in large gulps, as if he or she were an alcoholic who had not had a drink for days.
The gulping sound ended as the celebrator obnoxiously cleared his or her throat several times. That was when Hunter heard him speak. Of course, he immediately recognized the sound of the man’s voice.
Freezing chills went up Hunter’s spine. His heart began to beat rapidly with terror as sheer, raging anger burst through his veins. As he was still fighting to regain his senses, Hunter’s muscles were shaking—both from the scarring memories of childhood fear and from the escalating, unquenchable thirst for vengeance that had lingered within him as he had grown into manhood. In no time, the sweat of helplessness and worry collectively beaded on his skin and then dripped from his naked body.
He was forced to listen.
“The skin… the flesh… so warm… so innocent and pure… so sensitive and sensual, with nerves so divinely delicate. The skin is so sweet when it’s sliced and ripped, exposing the tender meat… with blood rushing to its aid, with the simple slice of a blade… giving such flavor to desire… so fresh, raw, and ready to eat… and this is how you will soon be nothing but the dust at my feet.”
While Hunter hung in midair like a puppet, slowly regaining his eyesight, which was fading in and out in a dim haze, he was feeling strangely sorry for the poor mangled victim lying facedown in front of him on a grey surgical table. From what he could tell, the victim looked to be a man, but he could not be sure. All he could be sure of was that the victim’s legs appeared ripped off at the knees, presumably by the thirsty, murderous seven-foot titan, and the victim’s right forearm was snapped, the bone protruding from the skin. For a few seconds, Hunter soaked the idea of how such a thing would feel in his mind. But then his thoughts quickly shifted to a panicked worry about his own physical state of being, and he began to feverishly think about how he had ended up hanging in his current position.
His thoughts quickly slammed to a halt, however, when his captor, Fredric Cypher, began to speak once more.
“I want you to notice that after cutting through the back of your father’s neck… the brain stem…”
After gasping, Hunter held his breath in shock as Cypher smoothly sliced through the skin and flesh of his father’s neck with an obsidian-bladed scalpel. After he had sliced off two hunks of flesh, Cypher cupped the bloody slivers of meat in his free hand and slapped both of them up against Hunter’s right knee.
“Winner? Hmmm… I call the one on the left,” Cypher chuckled, as the meat slivers slowly slid down Hunter’s shin to his foot before hitting the white-tile floor with a splat. “Looks like I win, my meat puppet! I love playing doctor!”
As Cypher turned his attention back to Hunter’s father, Hunter regained his breath with another gasp. His body rippled with disgust.
“Now, moving on,” Cypher continued, “watch the skin slowly split apart as I lacerate the scalp.” After doing so, Cypher held the incision open with one hand and tapped his finger against the bone of Hunter’s father’s cranium with the other. “Just listen to that,” he said. “Don’t you love that sound? It really is like nothing else.” Cypher looked back toward Hunter. “So, now, the question is, should I crack it open with a pick and hammer, or should I just use the electric saw?”
Hunter began choking on some of the spit that, he had been too numb to realize, had been pooling in his mouth the entire time. While coughing, hacking, and spitting, fighting to catch his breath, Hunter could hear the sound of a surgical saw.
“Don’t you worry, son,” Cypher said. “Your daddy is still very much alive. And after cracking his skull open and his brain is exposed—”
The sawing of bone drowned out his captor’s voice. It was shortly followed by the cracking and popping sound of his father’s skull.
This caused Hunter to sob like a child before he began to vomit. He faintly realized that the skin on his back was beginning to crawl, letting him know that the drugs must be losing their effect. It did not matter, though. Hunter wanted so badly to curl up in the fetal position and just die. Anything to escape, anything at all, but this, he thought, while his body heaved and his stomach emptied onto the floor.
He vomited uncontrollably, over and over, until eventually he realized that his nemesis was laughing at him, enjoying the show. By then, Hunter had started to regain enough feeling in his body, and enough of his eyesight, to notice that he was dangling in the air, held by hooks pierced through his arms and legs. Rope was also aiding with the suspension of his body, so that the hooks could not possibly finish the job, and most of Hunter’s wounds had been carefully superglued, sewn, or taped, so that he would not bleed out.
Helplessly suspended in midair, Hunter ceased vomiting. Regurgitated alcohol, pills, and spit dripped from his lips while tears dripped down his face.
Walking over, Cypher placed his hand underneath Hunter’s chin and gripped Hunter’s bottom jaw tightly before licking away a tear. With a smile, Cypher then knelt down onto the floor on his hands and knees. Like a dog, he began to lick up some of the vomit.
Hunter cringed inside himself as the sick psycho jumped back to his feet and nodded at him, as if to tell him that he enjoyed the taste.
Wiping his lips with his sleeve, Cypher said to Hunter, “I now want you to notice, how certain parts of your father’s body twitch as I twist and then pull the cork screw in and out of his brain…”
By the sound of Cypher’s voice, Hunter could tell that the bastard was clearly in ecstasy. He could do nothing but watch in absolute horror as Cypher toyed with the brain like some kind of child’s science project. He went to vomit once more, but he had nothing left. He succumbed to dry heaves, which only aided in ripping at his wounds and creating a sharp pain in his stomach. Tears continued to pour from his sweltering eyes; anger and rage continued to build up inside him, overtaking his pain; and he began to scream. Taking a deep breath, as if he had finally lost his mind, he screamed so loudly that his face flushed red and his veins swelled to maximum elasticity.
Only when his body threatened to pass out again, after a few heavy breaths, did he somehow force himself to recover from his moment of temporary insanity. Then he pleaded, “No! Dad! Please, God, no! …Don’t kill my father!” All of his deep-seated hate of Cypher surfaced without warning. “You bastard—I’ll fucking kill you! I’ll fucking burn you alive inch by inch, you motherfucker!” Immediately, his eyes widened with worry as he realized what he had just done. “Oh, God, no! Wait! …I’ll do anything! Anything, I swear! Just give me a chance, goddammit, just give me a chance.” Blood began to drip faster and faster from Hunter’s wounds as he squirmed and pulled, desperately attempting to escape the hooks, rope, and duct tape trapping him like a helpless fly in a web.
Continuing to stab the corkscrew in and out of Hunter’s father’s brain, with no sign that he intended to quit, Cypher paused a moment. “Do you suppose that this spot right here is where your father dared to dream such big dreams?” he said, slowly piercing and twisting the spiraled metal back into the squared opening that was quickly filling with blood. “Where he managed to make his way into a fortune?” With a sudden rip of the corkscrew, small chunks of blood-soaked brain matter flew toward Hunter. Parts of his father’s body twitched spasmodically against the surgical table.
Cypher laughed at Hunter’s facial reaction to the incident before continuing. “How foolish he was to dream. How foolish you were to dream and to strive beyond your father’s footsteps.” Cypher shook his head. “You know, you and everyone else in this world are so naïve. All of this flesh and bone, all of this pain and suffering, in the end it’s all worthless! To live is just to die, Hunter! You were born just to die! Don’t you know that?”
Cypher stopped what he was doing and turned toward Hunter. “Never mind,” he said, looking Hunter in the eyes. “I know that you do. And in knowing that, maybe you should have been striving to accomplish your own dreams instead. You never know when your time is up.” Cypher held up the brain-covered corkscrew and looked at it with a chuckle. “And now your music will never get out for the world to hear. Now your art will be just as dead as your father.”
Managing to focus on what his nemesis was, Hunter looked confused.
“Yeah, that’s right. I know more about you than you will ever know! I know about the specially handmade bulletproof suits that you wear every day, your underground fighting organizations, and your secret Family, as you call them.” Cypher grinned. “So, wake up, Hunter! Wake up and release yourself from all of the hooks and chains that bind you. Then run until it burns, Hunter, and keep on running. Take what’s available to you and push it to its limits. Push it to extremes! If you only choose to do that, I will let you go, and you will still have a chance: a chance to accomplish your dreams, a chance to live!”
Cypher took a few steps back and gestured at Hunter. “Or I guess you can hang there in desperation like a fool—like most do—and slowly die. It’s your choice, Hunter. It has always been your choice.”
Cypher began to laugh uncontrollably, as if he had somehow plunged even deeper into insanity. His laughter became louder and louder, until it felt like Hunter’s eardrums were going to burst. Then, silence.
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Copyright © 2014 by Joel Hunter Gun.
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