Polish Extreme Read online

  Atrocity is another thing though. Death is the opposite of life and that fact alone should be enough for us, God’s creatures, to appreciate the gift of life, our existence, to feel the joy of living. There’s nothing funny to glorify in death. You must venerate it, respect it, because we’re all going to die. No one can escape that. And I can understand that we must familiarize ourselves with the fear of death and that we all fade into the past. I was a doctor, damn it! But it all went too far. No respect for life nor death here. Life is a joke, a mere episode, which leads to death. To the terrible, cruel, vicious death, the destruction of body—the finest of God’s creations. Bodies are temples we should respect. No one can even suggest we’re only pieces of meat over bones! Especially in the case of small babies, innocents, little ones, wonders of birth, fruit of love. No one should shock the audience in public with such images, not to mention wearing them. People who love gore, blood and all things disgusting are morbid, but God will forgive them anyway; after all Jesus cured the sick. But if they wear their hideous t-shirts, blouses, backpacks, attacking incidental people with their music, views, films, books, they declare war against God himself. It’s an offence against God’s creation to ridicule fragile human flesh. To undermine its beauty and endurance, to deny human perfection. To negate soul and resurrection, because the tragic death leads nowhere when the living dead are the torturers!

  That’s what I thought seeing that horrible t-shirt and outrageous shorts. I knew then and there that if somebody declared a war on God, I was the soldier to fight on His behalf. Not against Satan’s sham but those pesky brutes, who disrespect God’s creation. The human body and soul.

  That day, I couldn’t focus on my job. I rescheduled all maintenance work, avoided the headmaster, brushed off teachers and somehow managed to reach the end of my shift. Right after leaving work, I went to the music shop and asked about Cannibal Corpse. The seller eyed me, astonished, but showed me two tapes. Mind you, that was a time when we bought the music, not downloaded, on illegal tapes. Knowing the right people, you could get terribly expensive vinyl or even rarities like CDs. Not that they had suitable players to listen to them. Boomboxes ruled and connoisseurs of sound sometimes owned stereos. Technic, Phillips, Sanyo or Blaupunkt were only seen in foreign leaflets taken from Pewex.

  Back to the point, I got two tapes and their very covers were enough to rape my soul. One of them, titled Butchered at the Birth, I already knew, though the artwork still petrified me, even in a smaller version and far less visible. The other one presented a half-naked corpse, who tore his own body into pieces, his smile ghastly. He held a few broken ribs in one of his palms, fiddling the other inside his shattered rib cage. Intestines and guts were spilling out of his body, his light, shabby jeans dripping with blood. He was at a grave, and cheesy beams of setting sun enfolded his silhouette. In the background there was a skinned, bloodied skeleton, a cross decorated with guts all over, a dark-haired female’s head stuck on the headstone and a naked, headless body with huge tits lying nearby. The significance of this cover was no less disgusting than the first one, maybe a little softer, but the context was clear, underlined with the guts on the cross. It was making fun of God’s creation and sacrum of human suffering. Blasphemy and defilement of flesh, grotesque emphasizing of abomination and repulsiveness. Those covers didn’t make you believe in Satan. They didn’t encourage you to fight God or to defile His work. They did something much worse. They told, even screamed, that the Lord abandoned us. That the human meat pile is all there is. Or, even worse, suggested that if there is a God, He surely doesn’t love us. And that was far worse than a whole bunch of horned devils, as I got to know later.

  I asked the seller if there was anything similar and remember that he showed me some more recordings of death metal bands. Among them I’d recognize now early works of Tiamat, Deicide, Morbid Angel, Unleashed. Their covers, full of mysterious buildings, ghoulish faces or inverted crosses, meant nothing to me. I asked for something closer to Cannibal Corpse style. The guy told me that as far as he knew, the band had made only two records so far and was working on a third. He recommended more brutal music by Obituary, Gorefest and Carcass. I purchased them all. I even got a booklet with Cannibal Corpse lyrics translated into Polish for free. Going back home with my purchases, I could feel my ears burning and boiling anger deep inside my soul.

  It was a divine feeling.

  I felt quite the other way while reading lyrics and listening to that devilish noise, a ghoulish cacophony accompanied by a gurgling growl of a wounded elk. I’ll say no more, the music itself is non-essential. I examined the field thoroughly; I learned suitable terminology and even can tell some songs apart now. However, it’s not about music. Cannibal Corpse has no justification if it wasn’t for their lyrics. They raped my eyes, my soul, my humanity. They meticulously described dreadful car accidents, scenes of sexual violence and murder, gory and morbid medical experiments, acts of necrophilia and cannibalism… I must admit the booklet had a warning on it: This book contains disturbing lyrics that may seem offensive to some people. In such case, F*** off and stick with disco dance lyrics. But I still wasn’t prepared for what was waiting inside. Fourth child on the way, won’t live another day, fetus on the road with mangled little bones, little children smashed against the ceiling, their skin burning and peeling” stated one of the lyrics. It was about a car accident in which a family of five died. Another one was about murderers that needed to be electrocuted. So what? Such an empty manifesto for the naive to cover musicians’ true intentions. To believe that the band is against violent behavior. They didn’t fool me.

  I dove into those atrocities. I continued reading about blistering flesh, stiffened bones, brain oozing slime, head ripped from shoulders, veins torn out, festering flesh, drink the pus, ligaments stretched around your own neck, severed dick, amputated arms, feeding on feces, the gutted corpse. I even found something like: Sex with the dead now I must breed, within the stiff corpse planting my seed, the taste of formaldehyde, smell of the rot, suck out the goo, feast on her crotch. That was too much. I couldn’t understand how it was possible to sell such terrible things, how anyone could advertise them, merchandise to young people.

  Ultimately it was the second record, the one with infant corpses on the cover, that made me find my way, when I translated the titles using a dictionary. I grasped the task the Lord was giving me. The sixth song was entitled Vomit the Soul. I didn’t know what it was about at that time. But the sound of it! Vomit the soul. It made my imagination burn! Vomit the soul! Not to give it to God nor sell to Satan. Vomit it! Cast it out like some damaging bacteria, something malign, harmful for the organism. The brutality of that wording showed clearly what kind of people lose themselves in that noisy, cruel music. Their bodies full of sickness and degeneration, a nasty mash of meat, bones, fat and feces. Maggot feed, creatures worse than animals, because they waste their potential and intelligence. Unworthy of God’s gift that had been given to them. I got to know what my part in God’s plan was. I couldn’t convert them forcefully. I couldn’t kill them, because then I’d be a sinner, not worthy to enter God’s Kingdom. Besides, I didn’t want to turn them into martyrs. I decided to make them all vomit their souls. Cast it out with their last breath. Discover the idea of pain, face the true cruelty and atrocity. I assumed I wouldn’t kill anyone. I stuck to the plan stubbornly. I promised myself that, if any of them eulogized over the mutilation he or she experienced, I would give up my mission. I was sure that, if I was wrong, God would stop me. For more than twenty years there was no problem with my mission. Of course, I still suffer greatly during tortures, but I keep telling myself they’re not people but godless prisons for souls, and it’s my duty to free them. It helps me with my work. Sometimes it really is difficult, especially when I need to come up with new ideas for torturing those creatures, so greatly similar to humans.

  You see, that day, when I first bought those tapes, I started to study that phenomenon. For twenty years I’
ve been an underground activist, monitoring the scene from the inside. I was buying tapes, then CDs. Now I don’t need to waste money on that shit; I download it from the internet. It’s far better and easier now. Years ago, I had to write letters, participate in zines, go to concerts, swap tapes. I even tried to let my hair grow, though I gave up after three months. Back then you had to work hard on your metal fan image. Today I sit in front of my computer at home, checking bands of my interest online, watching concerts on YouTube and getting to know people on the internet, keeping my anonymity. There are hordes of losers out there and many ways of handling them. Sex and dates. Oh, yes, don’t be so surprised. Think. Normal boys look out for girls, they get excited watching clips with half-naked Latino chicks. Metal fans put up posters of too-well-built, long-haired men wearing leather. Don’t you think it’s a bit gay? And so it happens I catch my prey during dates. I hate that, it disgusts me truly, but it’s the best method, most discreet. Fags don’t brag at home about dates with an older guy, who owns the vinyl Autopsy discography. Offering transport to a concert is quite a decent way too. I organize a group to take them to a gig at the other end of the country. It’s not a lie, because they are not people. Then, on the way, I make them unconscious by gassing them. Softly, so I could use them in the right moment. That method is efficient, I can catch a bunch of people at a time, including girls. I don’t get those grime boys, but how on Earth are girls able to like such music and aesthetics? That exceeds all limits. I am particularly cruel to those girls. It’s the hardest part. I need to remind myself it’s the task from my Lord, they are not women, not beautiful creatures, but disgusting sluts, dissolute bitches, unworthy even of being called Babylonian whores. Sometimes it helps. More often I am unable to get over it for quite some time after punishment. It’s worth mentioning that such groups very often maintain relations like the real humans do, which strengthens the punishment, because the audience experiences death and torture in a more profound way when their nearest and dearest are the victims. That’s why I always bring the audience. That’s why you’re here. That’s why I told you about Piotr Frankowski. That’s why I told you part of my story. So, you could understand. Maybe God’s Grace will touch you? Maybe your soul won’t be vomited? Maybe I’ll find remains of humanity in you—the God’s Creation, who simply lost its way.

  Oh, no, don’t panic. I’m not going to kill you. I never kill. Killing is a sin. I wear this Slayer t-shirt for fun only. I had to wear something proper to concerts and this one somehow suited me best. Tricky, don’t you think? You don’t need to answer. You know, I check every band. I know that Gorefest, Death, and Obituary changed their lyrics in time. I know and admire the works of Carcass, after all I was a doctor once. I have nothing against abomination. It’s a part of life. Only fools wouldn’t see the beauty in the shadow of awfulness. Opposites have to exist. It’s about glorification. Lack of sense. Gore for gore’s sake itself, brutality for the sake of brutality. There’s no place for it in God’s world.

  I know you are afraid. Unfortunately, I don’t believe in your fear; it’s only a basic instinct. No place for repentance and Salvation. You don’t need it, don’t want it. You love bloody horror flicks, the more brutal, the better. You love to see blood flowing, gore, guts, atrocity and abomination. And it’s never enough, you always crave for more. You claim limits can be pushed even farther. That reminds me how I worked on a girl in front of her boyfriend’s eyes. I knew he liked hard core porn, because, mind you, I never choose you randomly. Every time I check your background thoroughly—friends, environment—nowadays, with the internet, it’s no big deal… Back to the point. The boy wasn’t moved by the sight of rapes. I wouldn’t rape any of these girls, anyway, never even tried it. Females in general bear something evil, devilish. And girls of that type, though largely similar to the ordinary ones, are not normal at all. Satan tempts but I am a Warrior of God and they can’t fool me.

  That’s why I tied that girl to the rack. Her name was Patrycja. As you can see, I’m still trying to evoke some empathy in you. I didn’t beat nor torture her. I knew that she and her boyfriend, Andrzejek, like to play it rough. Pain was no stranger to them. Patrycja had tattoos on both arms and her back. One thigh was tattooed on the inside, very close to her filthy, pierced pussy. There were more piercings on her tongue, lips, temples, ears. Even her navel and nipples were pierced. I ripped all the piercings away using pliers. Not to make her suffer though. I simply don’t like piercing; it disfigures God’s creation. Of course, Patrycja screamed, especially when I worked on her breasts, but I knew her pain and fear weren’t real. That filth was delighted reading Everson and Lee, was so happy watching Niku Daruma and Guinea Pig she almost pissed herself. Her Andrzejek, tied to where you’re sitting now, struggled to break free, babbling incoherently. Yes, yes, he also was gagged. And I didn’t believe him either. Not after seeing his collection of quirts and handcuffs and marks on their bodies. Those perverted fucks. I bet they both masturbated watching covers of Tomb of Mutilated or Gorespattred Suicide. He jerked off to Stabwound Orgasm, she masturbated to the sound of A Chapter of Accidents, or even better—Anal Narcotic. I’m sure it happened that way. Those sick, filthy pigs!

  That’s why I took the vacuum cleaner pipe and stuck it into her anus. I drilled her insides with it steadily and precisely, unclogging her. I didn’t care about the blood, being sure that her filthy Andrzejek loaded her back door with great amusement, wearing a mask like that freak from Pulp Fiction. He was screaming then too, trying to be heard over Patrycja’s cries. Both quit screaming when I took out her intestine, continuing to rape her butt with the pipe. Rape is only a figure of speech here; I use it for you to visualize the process. That pig surely liked to have fun that way, after all she got her body profaned and had fun watching people suffer. When my forearm ached—I’m not that young anymore—I burned the intestine with a curling iron. It reeked horribly, but believe me, after twenty years of my work I have smelled all possible aromas of putrid bodies of your kind. Pati obviously fainted. Andrzejek stopped screaming and started weeping. He started screaming anew when I poured drain cleaner straight into her throat. The vacuum cleaner hooked to the pipe in her butt deafened his screams. How hard she was struggling, when the liquid burned her insides! The metal pipe on the other side sucked blood, feces and pieces of tissue out of her. I’m sure you’d enjoy that. She spat blood and pus, corrosive froth spilled from her mouth, terribly wounding her face, chest and damaged breasts. Her boyfriend crapped himself and almost choked on his own vomit. Your kind of amusement, isn’t it? You psycho, you pervert, you fucking filthy cunt! You just adore brutal music, bloody lyrics, inhuman atrocities in books, bestial violence and abominable movies. That’s why you’re here.

  That’s why you’re watching Piotr Frankowski dying.

  Because I don’t kill.

  I let you die after exorcising your bodies from sin. After you vomit the soul, which you neglected.

  Because death amuses you.

  Because cruelty amuses you.

  And the human body is God’s Temple.

  God is love.

  And I am His wrath.

  You’re sick.

  And, fuck, I won’t let you, fucking, sick perverts and deviants, profane the world He created!

  Oh! Look! The mouse has eaten its way through the flesh. Watch her struggling to get out of that filthy body.

  Do you understand that metaphor? You probably would like to be that mouse now. It will be free in a short moment. Same goes for Piotr’s soul. See that? The guy is vomiting blood right now. He’s dying.

  Well.

  One more thing left now.

  It’s time for you.

  Vomit your soul.

  — | — | —

  PUSSY PLANT

  by Tomasz Siwiec

  For sale: a pubic hair with a fertile root.

  Robert scratched his head. What the fuck was a fertile root?

  He’d been surfing the ‘net in search for yet anot
her pair of worn panties to add to his collection, when he found this advert.

  The last panties he’d bought, from a forty-year-old whore, didn’t smell the same as in the moment of purchase anymore. Pheromones were faint and they evaporated quickly. It usually took them few days to lose their power to make him excited. The length of time during which the underwear was worn by a woman was crucial.

  He recalled one perfect purchase. Her name was Klaudia and she assured him via email that she’d been using and not washing her underwear for three months. It cost a lot of money, but it was worth it. The panties were heavy with her bodily juices. They smelled of urine and blood. Traces of mucus proved Klaudia wasn’t bluffing. A thick layer covered the insides of the cotton aphrodisiac. The smell was enough to give him a hard-on and when he tasted the slimy slush, he exploded before getting rid of his pants. That had really been something.