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  “Yeah, that’s a good girl. You will blow me and swallow, then you’ll show me your tongue to check if you gobbled it all. Great stuff, yeah?” He laughed mockingly.

  Meg had no strength to fight him. She helplessly tried to push him away, then surrendered and started to suck his cock. He thrust his penis into her throat. He even managed to get his balls in her mouth, and kept them there for awfully long time, choking her. He was also putting his fingers into her nostrils, suffocating her.

  Feeling brutally raped, Meg started to cry. Something dark and bitter was growing in her soul, she felt it.

  When he came, he ejaculated right into her throat, while tossing her head to let her swallow all the semen. When he finished, he threw her at the couch, like a ragdoll.

  She wept, dumb-founded and used. Through half-opened eyelids, she saw Sloan snorting even more coke. She tried to get up and run, but she was too weak, her moves too awkward. She fell on the floor, next to the couch.

  “Where are you going?” he said. “I’m not through with you. The fun is yet to come, baby.”

  He raised her from the floor, grasped her hair, and forced her face right into the pile of white powder on the table.

  “You wanted that, right?”

  Then he pushed her back on the couch.

  ««—»»

  “And now the best part,” Sloan said, grasping her belt to remove it. When she started to wave her hands in protest, he slapped her face hard several times.

  He unbuttoned her pants and pulled them down. He torn off her lacy G-string. She screamed.

  “No, please, no. Anything but this, please!”

  “Shut up!”

  She tried to defend herself, to hit him with her fists, but Sloan was a big man and she could not win. He turned her body whilst holding her hands. He placed his face on her ass, smacking his lips and inserting his nose into her anus. The music drowned out more screams as Meg writhed and wriggled.

  “Please, Jesus, no!”

  She irritated Sloan. He punched the back of her head with his full force. She went silent and limp, passed out.

  He drew apart the buttocks of the unconscious girl, spat into her anus, and inserted his cock. He thrust it forward in fervor, repeatedly, going completely crazy. Her constrictors creaked.

  Thanks to the cocaine, his cock was hard like a rock. It took him a long time, with sweat all over his body, but he could not finish. After ten minutes or so, he finally ejaculated in her so profusely that the semen squirted out of her anus. Fulfilled, he sat down on the couch.

  One sentence pierced his mind; he could not get rid of it.

  I would let you slice me up for a can of Coke.

  When she regained consciousness, Sloan kicked her face so hard that she passed out again. He leaned over the table and snorted another line.

  He felt that his member was ready for more action. He undressed her completely, slung her on his shoulder, opened the doors and took her to the back room. He threw her on the butcher’s table. He positioned her body in such a way that he could get a stool under her belly. He spread her legs.

  Above the table, on the left, all the tools needed to dismember and portion the meat hung on the wall. He grasped a big butchering axe and glanced at her ass. He put on his apron, with the words “Country Delicacies, Sloan Thad” embroidered on its pocket.

  He swung the gigantic cleaver. The blade hit right on the line of her buttocks, cutting them in half. Blood splattered all over him. He proceeded to hack, not minding the taste of red liquid in his mouth. He licked his lips. He chopped through her back, neck and head, cutting her body in half. Streams of blood flowed to the floor. This too was not an issue for him. Bones, gristle and tendons rattled under the axe’s blade. If he found a part that could not be halved, he hit it blindly, cutting it and chopping to pieces. He was covered in blood. The whole room was covered in it. The entrails fell from the table, like escaping worms. He saw her liver, then her kidneys in the fleshy mess. He got the most fun from crushing her skull. Like a walnut. And the smell…

  When he finished and came out of his trance, he started to think about one key thing, the one he could not get out of his mind.

  All in red, he went to the shop and took something from one of the lockers, then returned to the back room. He slammed it down on the table, next to the sliced-up flesh, making the blood splat in all directions.

  “And here is your can of Coke. Enjoy it, bitch,” he said, and laughed maniacally.

  — | — | —

  Vomit Your Soul

  by Łukasz Radecki

  Long, dark, dirty hair stuck to a face tainted with soot, sweat and blood. The face was swollen, damaged, covered with yellow-blue bruises and acne. Under a once light blue eye, now dull grey, blood spilled under the skin, making the swollen cheek look like a big tumor, sickly and bloated, as if it could burst with pus any moment. The second eye disappeared under two huge grey gnarls, so the face looked elephant-like. The nose couldn’t help it look better; it had ceased to exist, turning into a bloody mash. Through the gory, jiggly slush, mucus dripped onto swollen, fractured and suppurated lips. Fragments of broken bones, clearly visible, thrust from the nasal septum. With every breath, a red-green bubble of blood and mucous bulged from the hole that once had been a nose. Mangled lips were unable to open, glued with blood clots, pus and vomit. Vomit waves stained the thin beard and frail torso, barely covered with hair. A puny chest, decorated with a lousy laughing skull tattoo, went up and down heavily. Shreds of damaged skin dangled here and there, some of them pinned with staples. A single one, next to the nipple, was secured with a safety pin. So many craters of rotten meat. The flies and maggots lingered there, they crawled on the body tied to a chair. The victim’s limbs had gone numb, he wasn’t able to move them. The left arm was skinned from the elbow up. The rest of the flesh had already started to rot and go moldy. The right arm looked like a map of the Moon; craters were burned to the bone with acid. Both legs were mangled. The first one was pummeled, bones broken and protruding, circled by huge, bloody, rotting wounds. The second leg was incinerated, the knee drilled or torn out. Or both. The penis was missing. It was cut off half an inch from the body, the stub cauterized. Urine dripped to the floor through a tube stuck in the wound. The testicles were pinned with pins and needles. A huge funnel stuck inside the anus let feces out, splattering the floor under the chair. But the most intriguing was his groin. Under his very navel, above his pubic hair, something was throbbing like a little demented fetus. Just next to the wide, fresh wound stitched with twine—I put a living mouse there.

  Yes. It’s me, who tortured this boy. I must admit, he is exceptionally hard to break. So far nobody had survived the third day. Today I got carried away and went overboard, especially with the legs. Same goes for his hands. Yesterday it was really difficult to stop the bleeding and I was amazed he made it ‘til morning. It interfered with my plans. I was going to tidy up a bit and not spend another day torturing him. That’s why I put the mouse inside his groin. It’s hard to predict the possible outcome, but I decided it was worth a try. My previous experiments weren’t always successful. Sewing eels in their thighs or earthworms in their lips got tiresome, especially for the innocent animals. Believe me, it’s not easy to hold still a wriggling earthworm and a struggling face while manipulating the needle and thread at the same time. A rat inside a human belly causes severe damage, though seeing it eating its way out is quite spectacular, but the time spent on putting it there is not worthwhile. A rat needs to be sedated beforehand; it wouldn’t let me put itself inside freely. I’d like to add I consider rats highly intelligent and I’m against animal cruelty. Sewing rats inside people may harm rats. A mouse, though, is quite a different story. Such a rodent can push itself through the smallest hole, and I made many small holes in his body. I wonder if the mouse will find any of them. If not, I’ll have to operate on his belly again. I don’t want to cause any pain. I mean to the mouse, of course. Not the boy. I think in this
very moment he’s a mere piece of meat to you also, a victim, who happened to share a terrible but fascinating fate. You find death fascinating, don’t you? And I don’t mean simply passing away, but a brutal, bloody and revolting end. Not that it moved you much; you have seen much and read about thousands of such cases, one more won’t make any difference. You immunized yourself, became indifferent. Same as I had.

  What if I told you his name is Piotr Frankowski? Age 17 and a half, as he often emphasizes. His friends call him Frank or Franek, but he prefers to be nicknamed Goretooth. He’s known by that nickname underground. He plays guitar and sings (screams more likely) in a grind core band, Forest Dawn. A pseudo-intelligent game of words; put Forest Gump next to the cliched black metal soft spot for forests, and doom gothic for dawn. Great joke, isn’t it? Not funny at all, I agree. But it’s Piotr’s/Frank’s/Goretooth’s problem. He gets good grades, attends a respected school, scores 4.65 average and dreams about studying at a technical university. Do you feel like knowing him better now? Any empathy towards him? Let’s continue then. He’s interested in manga, doesn’t like films and TV series much. He hates hentai. He likes, though, good action and criminal movies and finds horror flicks relaxing. He prefers the gory ones; they make him less scared than the psychological ones. His favorite actors are Russell Crowe and Megan Fox. He doesn’t like Polish movies, because, as he claims, it’s all just made down-and-dirty crap. What else? He doesn’t read much, only obligatory school readings, but he likes Sapkowski, Grzędowicz and Dukaj. As for horror, he finds King boring, Masterton laughable, and he read half of Ketchum’s Girl Next Door before he put the book away. He doesn’t even want to acknowledge Edward Lee, considering his books a morbid porn. He prefers Barker, Senecal, Everson, and, amazingly, Lovecraft. He can cook. Doesn’t love it, but his beef roast and lemon salmon are delicious. There are many other things about him, but those I mentioned are especially interesting to me. They are quite unique in a 17-year-old. Of course he likes metal music. Grind core, death metal, also black or trash. Among his favorites are Pig Destroyer, Dying Fetus, Cattle Decapitation, and of course Napalm Death, older Carcass and Behemoth. Everyone loves Behemoth now. And Nergal. He’s bored with computer games, though we spent a few hours playing Counter Strike and Need for Speed. I certainly liked that!

  Basically, he is one of the many ordinary guys who got lost in search for his own identity, striving not to be a pawn in a game, but to be different from the crowd. He doesn’t care about easy girls, fast cars nor noisy discos. He’s tried smoking, pot too, but stayed away from other narcotics. He enjoys beer like it is expected of him but can’t really drink and hates vodka. Not to mention cheap wines; a guy like him simply had to share that experience with his pals. Piotr is no exception. Exactly. All his struggle to be different, to fuck the system, is doomed to failure and he is a mere boy, an insecure, acne-ridden rebel, who sooner or later will have to give in. Unless his dreams come true and Forest Dawn succeeds. But it won’t. Firstly, it really is hard to conquer the music market nowadays in times of piracy. Why invest money in something others may easily steal? Many music companies failed because of that and it’s getting even worse. Secondly, Forest Dawn is average at best and though they recorded maliciously named demos: Beheaded Virgin Corpse and Antihuman Disintegration, they totally lack originality and freshness. Thirdly, Piotr Frankowski, aka Frank, Franek, Goretooth, is going to die today. Tortured to death by me.

  You still lack empathy? Oh, well. Of course I can tell you about his parents, mother being a teacher and father a soldier. His younger siblings, 12-year-old Basia and 7-year-old Kajetan. Piotr is a role model to them; he helps his parents at home and does a lot of stuff which makes him a good man. Surely better than most of his peers. But you don’t give a shit either. You want his death, the more ruthless, the better. Whatever details I mention, they are unable to make you feel sorry for him. He’s mere meat to you, meat that simply must be severed from his bones. I think about him the same way.

  My name is Norbert Maksymilian Zakrzewski, age 65. For a few years, I was head of a hospital ward; in what city is not important. Serious addiction made me lose my job. My addiction and stupidity destroyed years of my work, my parents’ high hopes, everything actually. However, there’s no doubt I needed that. I had to reach to the bottom to understand what really matters in life. When I’d lost everything: my good name, reverence, work, home, family (luckily, I have no wife and kids) it struck me there was not much left. I haven’t drunk since then. Nothing, not even a smallest drop. No champagne or even pralines with alcohol. I started a new life devoted to God entirely, because He showed me the right way. It was He who sent me Job’s ordeal to test my faith and my strength. I promised myself I won’t let Him down.

  My connections helped me to find a job at a school, because I wanted to fix my medical mistakes and therefore, I had to work with people to help them. I decided to work with young people. Even during communist times, I had to be properly educated and backed by suitable people to get the job. I lacked proper enthusiasm at that time and later it made no more sense. In the end I became a janitor and luckily worked a couple decades at a high school, watching the blossoming Polish youth. To be completely honest, I work there up to this day. I’m very fond of it. I work with dedication, no one ever complains. I’m a pious, serious and esteemed citizen, whose past is long forgotten. By almost everyone. The rest is of no importance to me. God forgave me. That’s what He always does.

  You may feel slightly confused right now, so let me explain. As I said, I understood my mistakes through my devotion to God, thanks to His love and protection I’ve lived happily many years, doing my duties. And then came the ’80s and ’90s, bringing metal music to our country. Somehow it did exist earlier; there were some underground bands fighting the system, communism and high pricing, but it was ’80s/’90s breakthrough that brought the great change. The students manifested their music choices more boldly, and ideas followed. Satanists, deviants, perverts and brutes crawled to the light of day as maggots from a rotten anus. Long-haired primitives, screaming nonsensically with their demonic greetings, showing off with their blasphemous emblems. Most of them were mere show ponies, clowns trying to belong. Same goes for punk rock, new wave and gothic rock. Nothing to worry about, you might say, wouldn’t you? But 1991 brought us Metallica’s Black album and Use Your Illusion by Guns ‘n’ Roses. And so metal and hard rock became truly popular. They made it to the top with sickly sweet ballads. However, the youth got intrigued and explored the field, after Metallica finding Testament, Exodus, Megadeth, and most of all, Slayer. And it was not a long way to Florida’s disease of death metal, supported strongly by Swedish brutes. It was then public TV transmitted Napalm Death’s concerts, music clips of Cannibal Corpse, Deicide, Death, Entombed, Dismember, Grave. It was then that a rabid, primitive The End Complete by Obituary could become a gold record and Morbid Angel’s Covenant a platinum one. Basically, everyone enjoyed metal, especially in its most brutal variants. Well, there were others—rap (not hip-hop) fans, Depeche Mode or electro aficionados. Not to mention skinheads.

  Bah, I’m too much into details. Let’s stick with young men listening to metal. One of them seriously changed my life and made me reevaluate things. His name was Dominik Halerz. A bit of a chubby teenager wearing horn-rimmed glasses. He wore his dark, curly and dirty hair loose. He wasn’t the first metal fan I particularly noticed, but the first of a certain type. It was June or maybe an exceptionally warm May. On his t-shirt, disgusting, bloody skeletons were dismembering a young woman. One of them held a tiny newborn, still tangled with umbilical cord, torn out of the mother’s womb. The t-shirt artwork was graphic, exceptionally realistic. You could see each and every tissue, rotting bodies of both executioners, their naked ribs… All in dirty brown tones, though still bloody crimson. Blood was there in an enormous quantity. You might have thought it was going to pour out of the artwork to the floor. A bloody table cloth under the damaged body, bloody aprons, knive
s, hands of executioners. But it wasn’t even the worst part. The very essence of that t-shirt artwork was the corpses of newborns and infants, hanging like dead flies on a spider’s web. Tiny skeletons, rotten corpses, small bodies deprived of flesh, crucified, mutilated, with gaping dead eyeholes in tiny, pummeled and smashed skulls. They hung in various positions, on nooses made of umbilical cords, on meat hooks, their limbs severed. Dozens of small, unconceivably mutilated dead creatures. I was flabbergasted. I remember being authentically speechless, standing as usual by the cloakroom door, greeting those who entered. I’d seen a few boys wearing t-shirts with skullsor goats; there were even two brave enough to put an inverted cross or a pentagram on their chests. But I never expected to experience such a morbid thing. Right before me I had a picture of total corruption, vulgar atrocity, irrational glorification of death and a lack of respect for human flesh. I remember Dominik wore shorts that day, so called Bermudas, very popular at that time; they were black with an artwork of an infant skeleton in a fetal position, little head pierced terribly. I remember the same picture on the back of his shirt but much bigger, the band’s name and the record’s title. I didn’t know English back then, I didn’t understand that movement, but words Cannibal Corpse made a huge impression on my imagination. The letters looked like they’d been painted by the hand of a dying person, smearing blood, laughing at my sense of security. The world stopped being a safe place for me then.

  Let me try to explain this. I don’t mind pictures of Satan, the devil, pentagrams or inverted crosses. To tell the truth, most of those ‘satanic’ bands are a bunch of clowns, wearing panda-like make up. It’s a mere sham that sells well. An asinine cabaret. Of course, I realize there are some musicians devoted to the hellish beliefs. I’m honestly glad they exist. There is no good without evil. Whiteness can’t exist without blackness. The love of God won’t be revered without Satan’s cruelty. If they believe in the devil, support those beliefs, proclaim, they also concur God. In the end He will judge us all and evenhandedly reward the just and punish the sinners. That’s why each band glorifying Evil supports the lavish praises of Good. There must be an alternative, opposition. God, in all His wisdom and mercy, gave us free will, didn’t He? Seeing images of devils, the Antichrist or Satan, no one sane could ever love them. Even though they evoke an illusion of might, of power. Satan is powerful. He is mighty. Because God decided so by letting him exist. And if God lets it be, I won’t fight it. Who am I to undermine God’s decisions? And I’m not going to fight those who worship Satan, making him their golden calf, because prodigal sons will stand before our Lord on the Judgement Day and be forgiven. I don’t doubt they will. He always forgives.