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Thursday, November 28, 2013

HORROR TALES OF THE DARK HILLS -----------THE DEMONIC PSYCHOTIC HISTORY OF THE TUNNEL PEOPLE

There's a 'BAD TASTE WARNING"  on this one, also.
 Truly this tale is not for children or for sensitive souls.



        
 FORBIDDEN UNSPOKEN HISTORY OF THE TUNNEL PEOPLE


               I hear this wild cackling from about fifteen
feet away... The crazed fool has been digging
madly... digging away towards the East.
I suspect, he's trying to get farther away from me...
and I can't blame him for trying to escape. I watch
his pathetic, futile attempts at success...
in that enterprise.
          The deeper he digs, the more ensconced he
is, the more his facial features look like my own...
           There was a Polanski film titled, "The Tenant".
Somehow the director accessed a forbidden truth,
one never to be revealed to mortals.
           How the man came upon this annal of pre-human
history, it matters not.
           I honour him for his deep spirit of adventure and occult enquiry.
            Of course,the poor fool cannot be permitted to live long now.

           In that  movie, the new tenant of an evil
apartment starts to look and act more and more
like the earlier tenant of the same apartment, 
who had been a very sadistic and twisted man indeed.
          I'm not going to pretend that this is what's happening
here.... only that, as the days get shorter and the nights get
longer and more dark and more unendurable...Ha! Ha!
         I have been watching Hank, and I've been trying very hard not to laugh!
          I watch as his formerly sophisticated New York
City, East Coast  facial features start to
coarsen and elongate and thicken and look more and more
familiar ---it's as if I'm watching some weird dark version
of Pinoccio... 
          Only, the wooden doll's face is
my own... And Hank's face, his formerly fine aristocratic
features start to change... to twist and thicken...
           His nose, especially thickens, and grows longer
and twists towards his left cheek, as if it has
been broken many times - as indeed mine has with
vicious organized bare knuckle fights in smoking oil towns
by the rivers... fights I won or lost, no matter. The result didn't matter so much to me - I enjoyed my own pain as much as
I delighted in the pain of my opponents.
          Or in sharp stiletto knife-fights, fought with thin
blades against my icepick.... jabbing and stabbing fights
I never lost... over the decades, longer and longer ago...
than it is wise for me to mention...!
         Oh, how I loved those
romantic evenings... the huge barges rolling and shuddering
along the turns in the River... the taste of dirty diesel smoke
on my tongue.... the scream of the steel sides of the
floatation barges against walls of rock - a strange
music under the sky, a kind of wailing
counterpoint... to the begging shudders, coughs and
whimpering... coming from the men I am slowly dispatching
like a fine precision butcher of Black Angus Meat or 
a Japanese chef of  Kobi Beef,... 
properly cleansed.... but in my case meticulously killed,
slowly.
            
            As  seasons passed, the audiences would make crude bets on the winner...of these savage highly illegal delectable contests. Needless to say, these fights to the death
became extremely expensive to attend.
           Huge bets were made and accepted. Enormous
sums were at stake. Princely sums. No wager was ever permitted to be a cheat.
           No one dared imagine what the punishment for
such an infraction would be.

           The people in the know knew the real wager - the bet
where the odds where three to one against me... The bet
was how many stabs of the ice-pick I could achieve
against the poor raging rube who was raised against me... 
how many punctures 3 inches deep and deeper 
I could make and NOT kill the sucker 
who repeatedly kept trying to sever my coarse-faced head from my body...
            
            (I learned this game from a woman I loved
named Alana... she was a lesbian woman who mated
her sisters... She was raped in the offal of an alley...
By a fat, powerful 250 pound sadist - a pipe cutter -
who broke a finger each time he raped her.. so she
would remember the full indignity, when she returned
to complete consciousness of the event...)
                Months later when
 full-featured recollection returned to her...
a horror for each snapped digit... a twisted
unnatural indignity for each dislocated toe.
She began to dream of her revenge.
               
                The monster expected her to remember.
In fact, he wished her to return to him  like some
subservient golem with no will of her own...
                 His wish... He wanted to die himself,
in a dark way that would make his Demon Tribe chorckel
in the hill caves to the East. Demons, after all, do not die
but remember each ugly feat of rebellion
against Grace... 
               They remember with pride!
               It is their sole purpose, the sole delight
of a depraved, doomed, twisted tribe - mocked and ignored
by all  other hellish denizens of the living, the lost and the
scarcely alive.
            How many stab wounds with her finely honed
deep silver pick did Alana attain to?
            ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-NINE. (149)
deep bleeding penetrations she achieved
over a ninety minute tirade of dark delight.
             She found release many times as she 
heard him gurgle and plead and 
squirm in his own bloody mud
in the black pig shit behind an ancient 
leprous latrine...
            His own demon dung the steaming effluent
 of his kind  rattled and hissed as he bled into it....
              How she laughed! How her sisters laughed!
And how his cousins howled with knee-slapping
hysterical guffaws... as they saw him fart and
beg...and best of all plead in horror for mercy and
forgiveness!!!
              What howls were heard! The Tribe still
speaks of it! As she made him eat his
own skinned testicles, slowly boiled in an incandescent
cherry sauce! What hilarity was shared by both
sides of the audience!
         There are and were the immortal parent demons of the
Tunnel People of the EAST, the DREAMERS OF THE OLD PSYCHOSIS on one side... 
          And the SADISTIC LESBIAN KILLER WITCHES of the burning marshes to the SOUTH... We call them Lesbian, but in fact they are 'BI-TORTULAR', as only you can imagine.

               What a party was had by the denizens
of hell that night, I can tell you!
                In the Satanic Calender, the date
is celebrated in a pig-snouted lustful NIGHT FEAST  called
"Bloody Valentines".
                Many throbbing gifts are exchanged
this dark night each year now ever since, 
I can assure you!
           All to celebrate Alana's keen eyed targeted striking,
and the low-throated bestial screams 
of the HungGlonks!...
               149 deep stabs and She left him
alive and panting...unable to die...
unable even to beg for death.
                You could see the pleading need for
extermination in his porcine eyes, I am told.
                 No one assisted him. And he lived
for monstrous squealing centuries, hale and
hearty - with a face, I am told - rather like mine.
                 Yes, rather like my own... And quite like 
the visage Hank is
growing with extremely gradual unquiet ease, the face
he is coming to see unconsciously in the mirror.

                  It's a face that makes his knees quake
and shake, every time he allows himself a peek 
into the glass.
                It is a face he cannot permit himself to see, of course... It is a horror he will not allow himself
to acknowledge as his own Destiny, not for months
and months yet...
                Every glimpse he permits himself in the yellow-candled flickering light --- makes him run wildly to the outer
edges of the forest... and emit howling sobs of unutterable
despair.
               
                 How it makes me laugh to see this! It is
my one entertainment, other than forcing Matilda
to crawl through her own Shame as I penetrate her
repeatedly and at length...at the end of my own thick
snake-scaled bulging proboscis... I make her crawl through
an interminable tunnel of endless hoops, numbered
in some forgotten script, written and
etched in the steaming dark prehistory of man.

         In many decades, after perhaps a century
of further torture which I shall inflict upon her, she
will find the courage, the hatred, strength and  Will to take her revenge upon me once again.
         It is an event I await with eager, delectable
sardonic lustful anticipation.
         We shall see who will win the Cycle of the Game
that night!  We'll see who holds the Record then!
The Trophy for the largest number of flashing silver  penetrations... while all the while (and here's where
the artistry is!) while all the time ensuring
that the pleading, begging opponent... who is just
beginning to putrefy... While all the time ensuring
the cyclic loser lives!
         We'll see then who is awarded the steaming Laurel
of our Dark Lord!




                                         (C)2013 by William G. Milne
                                           All rights reserved.

  

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