a Sneak Peek at what i'm working on...(longish)

[Iron Sulfide]

okay, so i'm working on this book....a few books, actually...

but this one in particular...

anyways, here's a short chapter from the book...

the way it's set up is a bunch of inmates at an asylum for the criminally
insane are trading stories, so there's a lot of short stories in the first
person in it. this is one of them...

enjoy.
*************************************

*WARNING, THIS STORY IS NOT FOR PEOPLE EASILY OFFENDED. IF YOU
READ THIS SHORT STORY, YOU STNAD A HIGH CHANCE OF BEING
OFENDED. IF YOU READ IT ANYWAY, KNOWING YOU MIGHT BE
OFFENDED, THEN ANY OFFENSE TAKEN IS THE FAULT OF THE READER,
NOT THE AUTHOR. SO QUIT COMPLAINING, YOU WHINEY BITCH*

*************************************


Mother Dearest

By Nietzsche Mastro, 12/8/2003



I had just broken up with the only person I wanted to be with. The most
important thing in my life. Nothing else mattered to me but her, and I had
to go and fuck that up. Fucked it up so badly that I couldn't handle shit
anymore.

Whatever. That,Äôs not what the important part is. About three months
after I broke up with her, this girl asked me out. Of course, I said
sure...why not?

It wasn't like I had anything better to do. That night that we were going to
go out, fucking really...what else would I have done? Gone home. Got
online. Looked at child and animal porn. Eat something. Then probably
start cutting myself real bad. Hey, everyone's got their thing. Most people
color inside the lines. I don't even use the crayons, though.

I guess I,Äôll drop the fucking pretense, yes? We went out to watch a movie.
I didn't care for it, but I wanted to show I was interested in her, so I
faked it like a good little boy. After the movies, I was expecting that she
would want to go home, and if she'd had a good time, to set up another
date. But then she asked me inside when we got to her house.

Thought she wanted to fuck me, so I said whatever...a day without sex is
a day wasted. And I've wasted far too many days in the past three
months. I wondered if she had any kids. The thought passed my mind,
though. I was thinking that maybe I should behave tonight.

As I sat there in her living room, she went into her bedroom to get
something she said she wanted to show me. I just sat there. I looked
around, checking out the living room. Color TV, Samsung, 26" screen.
Cheap Van Gogh reprints of "The Screamer" and "Starry Night". A Native
American design on a wall tapestry, hanging over a window. Venetian
blinds. An album collection, the only thing that caught my full attention.

I walked over to the album collection to see what she was into. Abortion
Contortion. The Dirty Malcontents. The Dark Philosophers. Retrograde.
Slip Knot..."slip not..." The Evil Mothers, my upbringing came to mind.
Bloody Ideology. The Greg Pierson Experience. Who the fuck is Greg
Pierson? And Barry Manelow. What the fuck? Barry Manelow? "Is this bitch
crazy?" I thought.

She came back into the room as I was thinking that. Right as I looked at
her, she had changed into some pajamas; she blew some smoke in my
face. Marijuana. Fairly good strain of the plant too, from the smell of
things. I hated marijuana. But to humor her- we were still on a date, after
all- I smiled and she passed me the pipe.

We sat on her living room couch, me: pipe in hand, her: caressing my
neck and shoulders, trying to "loosen me up" as she put it. So I looked at
the pipe again. Glass, hand blown. Green with purple swirls. I looked at
the lighter. Plain black bic from a gas station, it looked like. She must
have thought that I hadn't done this before, because she took the lighter
from my hand and lit the pipe from me, trying to explain how to hold the
carb closed and fill the chamber, then clear it.

Puff. Spark. Sizzle. Release. Inhale. Hold it. Hold it. Hold it. Okay, you can
exhale now. Go ahead, treat me like a baby, you stupid bitch. Like I,Äôve
never ripped a pipe before.

As she cashed the pipe, and laid it down on the coffee table, she turned to
me. I was already starting to feel a change, things felt...more real. They
felt vivid, and colors were brighter, more defined. Lines were starting to
leave trails, light was brighter than it had been. And my thoughts were
freed from a mental chicken coup that I had constructed for them. She
started leaning in closer to me, unbuttoning my shirt, and leaned in
closer, drawing towards my neck. She let her heated breath gently sound
over my nape, and just behind my ears she started gently biting my neck.
Just as I was thinking "fucking god, I hope she doesn't go put that Barry
Manelow on..." her cat came over and started rubbing up on my leg. I
started to get an erection finally.

"That's my baby, Sheila. Here Sheila, come to mommy." she called her
cat over to her and started petting her, stroking the cat as she clutched it
to her bosom. The way a mother would hold her child, too old to breast
feed, not old enough for mother dearest to let go. Unless it's my mother
we're talking about. She asked if I wanted to pet her baby, if I wanted to
pet Sheila. I lied and said I didn't like cats.

"How could you not like cats? They,Äôre so cute and furry and cuddly.
Besides, this isn't just a cat to me, this is my baby." god, you stupid
fucking bitch. I don't want to touch your damn cat. I don't want to pet it. I
don't fucking want that, because you won't like what I do; you won't be
able to handle what I like. You fucking cunt.

Then it hit me. I said "yeah, you're right...how could anyone not love
cats? Or babies?" and I grabbed Sheila from her tender arms, her gentle,
loving, caring slender arms. I held that delicate little creature in my
hands, watching it lick its chops and listening to its purr and faint meows.
I scratched her chin. God she was beautiful. I wanted her then and there.
But I couldn't. I couldn't. How the fuck do I explain myself to her after I,Äôm
finished dubbing my dick all over her cat and spunking in its ear? I
couldn't handle not taking that opportunity though.

As I scratched the cat's furry little chin, Sheila,Äôs furry little chin, the child
by-proxy of this girl I happened upon and ended up dating, my hand
started to slowly move in closer, wrapping around her dainty little neck.
As I squeezed hard and twisted that feline trachea, I couldn't hear the
screams from my date as more than a faint murmur. Her claws dug in
deep, which only got me more aroused than I was before. I was near
breaking my zipper, I was so hard. And as Sheila held on for her life less
and less, and started to fade away more and more, I could feel her warm
little body go limp and start to cool. They get cold so fast when they go
just over that line. So, now that I had taken care of that I threw the dead
femea aside like I worked at an abortion clinic and this was just another
fetus that I notched on my belt.

Then the cat was rubbing my leg again. I had imagined all that? I told
you, I built a chicken coup for my thoughts. I did that for a reason, and
it's one of the reasons I don't like to smoke pot. Or drink. Things go real
for a moment, but they're complete fantasy. It,Äôs not that I don't like
fantasy, in fact, I like mine more than any others. But I want them to
remain my fantasies until I act them out for real. I don't want to get
gypped by thinking I did it only to realize I hadn't. Fuck that. She was still
on my neck, too, biting me softly, biting me gently. I didn't know what to
do with her.

I figured that since my crude imagination was finally free again, I might
as well give her what she wants and imagine that I,Äôm getting what I want
in the process. I told her we should take it into her room. We,Äôd have a
bed and plenty of room, plus comfort factor. So she agreed, and led me
by the hand. God, did this girl have kinks. She opened a drawer on her
dresser. Dildos. Cuffs. Chains. Spikes. Lube. Masks. Restraints of many
and varied types. And she told me that she wanted to be my slave. She
wanted me to do what I would with her, and have my way. Like I said:
god did this girl have kinks.

That,Äôs kinky to me, even. So I told her to take her clothes off. She started
to and got into a little bit of a strip tease. No, dammit, I said take your
clothes off. Fuck, do I have to do it for you? She looked a bit shocked, but
she finally got a smile and took her clothes off without further delay. Now.
Undress me. And no fucking around, just do it.

She took my clothes off, and tried to suck me. So I smacked her, but not
too hard. I didn't want to spoil this for her. Did I tell you to do that, bitch?
Get on your fucking bed. So I tied her down with bondage straps. Then,
for some added security on my part, I cuffed her too. Then the ball gag
and a mask. I slipped out into the kitchen and started grabbing whatever
I could find. The cat came back up to me and started rubbing on my leg
just as I was picking up some glasses. So I bent down to the cat and
scratched her behind her ear. Nice Sheila. That,Äôs a good cat. You,Äôre so
pretty. And I slipped my finger around and under her to feel the warmth
from her twin holes. She was definitely in heat. What a negligent owner
she had, too. Not even spayed. Stupid cunt. I always end up dating stupid
cunts. Stupid. STUPID! God, I hate her already. And the first night isn't
even over yet.

I loved her cat though. So I swatted the cat away as I walked back into
the room.

She couldn't speak. The ball gag made it impossible. She couldn't see me,
either. The mask took care of that. I didn't knife fuck her, though, like
that other sick fuck. I set the various utensils from the kitchen down on a
night stand next to the bed. I removed the fucking care bear stuffed
animal that was on her bed, too. Fuck. How much of a stupid cunt can this
girl be? Seriously? I was a gentleman the whole way through, though. I
didn't tell her how disgusting I found her. Instead I started licking her
nipples and sliding my hand down towards her wet crevice. "I should wash
my hands first," I thought. But it was too late now, I don't think she would
have cared either, from the way she flinched with pleasure at the initial
touch of my hand. Or the way that she started breathing heavily as I
worked on her nipples. She must have had them pierced at some point;
there were little holes on the sides of them that my tongue kept brushing
against. Now, I,Äôm not a sadist. Honestly. I,Äôm actually really subservient. I
like to feel that resentment growing and festering, eating away at my
insides. And this is what she wanted. She wanted me to do the thing I
hate most for her, be dominant; she wanted me to be in control and the
one taking advantage. She wanted me to be sadistic. If you want to hurt a
masochist, treat them nicely and give them some authority. They really
hate that shit, so they'll thank you for it in the end.

Then I stopped. I grabbed one of the glasses that I had brought from the
kitchen and a knife too. I don't think she cooked that much. The knife was
dull. Not nicked though. If you use the knife, it'll get dull...but it'll have
nicks in it too, from using it a lot. This was a dull that came from just
sitting there. A natural dull. But I didn't want to make another trip to the
kitchen, so I decided that it would work. I took her mask off. I wanted her
to see this.

She started to breathe in a panic stricken hyperventilation. Shh,
shh...don't worry, this isn't for you. I started cutting myself and bleeding
into the cup. It was more like a port glass really. This is for me. I filled it
with my blood and sucked my wound so I would stop bleeding. Then I told
her that she was going to drink it. I removed the ball gag, and she started
telling me how wonderful this all was, that she'd never found anyone as
exciting as me. Bitch, did I tell you to talk? Shut the fuck up! I hate
having to play the sadist. That,Äôs why I,Äôll thank her when the night is
through. She tilted her head forward as I slowly poured my blood into her
mouth, dripping some down the side of her mouth. She went to lick it off
her chin, but I told her to stop. Leave it there, I like that.

"Do me now? Do me? My turn..." she said, looking at the empty glass.
Bitch, I told you to shut the fuck up. I put her ball gag back in place, and
made a cut in her arm, filling the port glass again. Then I drank it. Clean,
not a drop spilled. I decided I would leave the mask off now. Slowly, I
dragged the knife over her naked body. She must have thought that I
was going to use it on her again, because she started to panic again. I
didn't cut her, though. Not a scratch aside from her arm.

Then I started explaining to her all about me and my mother. How mother
was a four letter word. I really love children and animals. They really do it
for me. I get sexually excited. I don't think she took me seriously,
though. Maybe she thought it was all role playing. "I guess I won't know,"
was what I was thinking. I explained to her that I really got turned on by
how innocent they are. Animals never develop the kinds of things we do.
They don't hate each other indiscriminately. They don't abuse each other.
Or their children. They don't fuck their sons and daughters while they're
vomiting because of the filth that it's taking place in. and children. We
were all children once. We were all so innocent once. Nothing mattered to
us, we were free and carefree. Now, as adults, we're imprisoned and
careless. I waxed philosophical on her as I mounted her and told her my
life's story. About my mother.

Mother is a four letter word. Just like the "cunt" in "stupid cunt."

I think at some point, she finally caught on that I wasn't role playing.
Because she started hyperventilating again just before I had shimmied up
her chest. I was sitting on her breasts now, knees on either side of her.
As I bent down, I leaned over her and whispered, "I love you, mommy."

I fucking hate dull knives. That hurt more than it should have when I bled
myself into the port glass. But a dull knife wouldn't hurt enough for her.
So I grabbed an odd looking spoon that I had brought in from the kitchen.
It looked rather odd, come to think of it. I remembered my mother using
one once. On a grapefruit I think. The tip and edge were serrated. I love
you, mommy. I really do. And then I moved in closer, digging her left eye
out. She flopped and gagged a lot. I,Äôm glad I used the hand cuffs, too. As
I removed the eye from her socket, I cut the optical nerves. Those would
get in the way, I thought.

I placed my hands on the wall above her head board, shimmying up her
body further and further. Now my knees were under her arm pits. And as
I fucked her eye socket, she stopped moving. She stopped breathing. "I
actually killed her," I thought, as I focused on thrust-pivoting. An eye
socket isn't as smooth as you'd think it was. Now that I had no one to talk
to again, I started thinking about my mother again. One thought
particularly came to me. The night my mother greased up a plunger
handle and went to work on me. That did it. I shot my rocket load deep
inside her. I always liked to get into people's heads. A conditioning that I
picked up from mommy, I think.

After that, I was all finished. I took her ball gag out and kissed her
goodnight. "Thank you, mommy." I told you. Tell a masochist to be
dominant, and because they're submissive, they'll fucking hate it. But,
they'll thank you for it in the end. I put my clothes back on, and as I
walked out of the room, Sheila rubbed up against my leg. It,Äôs a shame
that I can't have pets in my apartment. I bent down and scratched her
chin some more before I left.

Just before I opened the door, something came over me again. I walked
back to the album rack and grabbed the Barry Manelow CD. Then I took
my exit, thinking sweetly to myself, "Thank you, mommy. I love you."

[Den Sorte Dragen]

probably a question you heared before: is it autobiographic?

[Saint*B]

HAHAHAHAHA....

of course i've heard that question before... many many times...

no, fiction. pure fiction. it's entirel;y possible that someone could
have actually done these things, but for the most part, they're ideas
that i just dreamed up. (the other, non-most parts came from other people
saying something, especially at things like role play games (larp and
Table top), that got me thinkin...)

it could be considered autobiographical in the sense that i thought these
scenarios through to the end result on paper...but i didn't actually
fdo any of this stuff, so no...don't worry. there won't be any psycho serial
killers attending the devival (well, as far as i go, at least)

[melynnia]

Well, you can't deny that it's good writing, although a tad demented. Maybe I'm some sick idiot too, because I thought it was interesting. o.o

[Colonel Failure]

Cool. good read.





You freak.

[Den Sorte Dragen]

Maybe I'm some sick idiot too, because I thought it was interesting. o.o

I don´t think ALL texans are (just some)

[mobbing]

while reading Edgar Allan Poe's Black Cat story came into my mind... I don't know why

[MedeoPlusPlus]

Maybe I'm some sick idiot too, because I thought it was interesting. o.o

I don´t think ALL texans are (just some)

Lest we forget that there are two kinds of sick Texan idiots.... the good kind, like Melynnia, and... well, Bush.

And whaddaya know, I guess both sides are now represented here on PD.com. Good for y'all. *thumbs up*

[Den Sorte Dragen]

Maybe I'm some sick idiot too, because I thought it was interesting. o.o

I don´t think ALL texans are (just some)

Lest we forget that there are two kinds of sick Texan idiots.... the good kind, like Melynnia, and... well, Bush.

And whaddaya know, I guess both sides are now represented here on PD.com. Good for y'all. *thumbs up*

the avarage "belgian" view of texans:
-wear John Wayne outfits
-shoot mexican illegal immigrants
-talk weird (like Bush?)
-have an electric chair or gallow in their backyard with nicknames like sparky,...
-only drive but never walk
......

I know this is a very stupid simplification (and I don´t support this view) ...but it scares me enough not to go to Texas

[gnimbley]

the avarage "belgian" view of texans:
-wear John Wayne outfits
-shoot mexican illegal immigrants
-talk weird (like Bush?)
-have an electric chair or gallow in their backyard with nicknames like sparky,...
-only drive but never walk
......

the avarage "American" view of texans:
-wear John Wayne outfits
-shoot mexican illegal immigrants
-talk weird (like Bush?)
-have an electric chair or gallow in their backyard with nicknames like sparky,...
-only drive but never walk
-sell weeds (mesquite) to the rest of America and call it BBQ seasoning

[MedeoPlusPlus]

Yep, that's pretty much how it is.

Texans interpret the phrase "Don't mess with Texas" as indicating that their state is uniquely bad-ass and kewl. Everyone else interprets it as a "Beware of Rabid Dog" sign.

[Iron Sulfide]

while reading Edgar Allan Poe's Black Cat story came into my mind... I don't know why

[shudder]

why do people compare me to poe?

okay, okay, okay...i like a good deal of his poetry (no pun intended),
but i'm really not a fan of his short stories.

similar to the way that i like the ideas and involvement (not to mention
the movies) of LOTR and other Tolkien stories, but i don't particularly care
for his style of writing...

i think, though, most of my not liking being compared to poe is i used to
know this really annoying psycho drama bitch that was once compaired
to poe by someone, and now it's like the cornerstone of her existence...
she's constantly telling people "someone once compaired my writing to
Edgar Allen Poe, you know..."

quite annoying.

but, i take it, you like poe, so i'll just shut-up now and accept a
compliment.

erm, thanks

[MedeoPlusPlus]

Someone once compared my writing to that of an 8-year-old.

Of course, I was 5 at the time, so it was probably a compliment.

[Iron Sulfide]

probably...

unless the 8 year old they were refering to was had the writing abilities
of a fetus...you never know

[Iron Sulfide]

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand bump