Diary of a Madman Part 1 (timekiller)

[mustynutz]

Chapter One

The sky is clear tonight.

So clear. Like my mind.

Clear as to what I need to do. I need to do. What I need to do.

The reflection is intense. It shines like a laser, heading off into the sky. It travels from the blade up into nothingness. A life form a million light years away will see the sparkle, a dot in the universe, long after we are all dead, and pay it no heed. It is just a light. A small, insignificant blip in the fabric of time.

To me it is forever.

The blade rushes quickly through the air, striking the intended over and over again. Still it shines like a thousand suns on the horizon, the atmosphere amplifying every ray. Quick to the retina with a small burn before turning away. There is no regret but the pain lingers, sated by a moment in time, but still there waiting to be recharged like a battery that has seen better days.

I am off again.

The pain burns inside me like the coals at the bottom of the furnace. Like those coals, my mind is overwhelmed with the weight of what is on top, smothering me, choking me, willing me, my light, to go out. Nevertheless I persevere through the fog that is my life. I never question why it is this way, why it is so muddled and incoherent. It just is, and that is enough, for clarity only comes periodically and I must be ready to strike, when it does.

She is muffled. I don't remember the tape that I used. It encircles her arms, her legs, her head. She can't see me, she never did. I was that quick, that good, that clear. She is begging now. For forgiveness and sanctuary. I yield her neither and watch as she squirms to escape her bonds, her mind tortured with thoughts of what I am going to do next. I cannot be sure, but I believe my thoughts are much worse, much more violent than anything she could come up with. She is thinking bad thoughts, I am planning worse. She can stay in the corner for awhile and think about it. I wonder if she is wishing for her mother? Could she be waiting or hoping for her father? I smile as I think there is a possibility that she is hoping for death, a death that will come slow. A neverending death, that which a tortured soul reviles. I will put her in a box later and let her feel the texture of the wood against her naked skin. Let her wonder what it is and why she is in it. She will feel but not know. Soon after, she will know and not feel.

Yes. It will come to that, I am sure.

As I lay down to sleep next to her, I can feel the shaking in her hands, in her legs, in her heart. I feel dominant and confident. I am alive and my light is burning a million times brighter than I could have hoped for. She is mine, and I hers, for now. My brain is alive.

Darkness falls for all of eternity. Some souls don't survive. They join the ranks of the weary. The unrested. The lost. It is a purgatory of hopelessness. No place to go. Nowhere to run. No rest. It is torture of sorts and it must feel lonely and unforgiving. I imagine my soul, there with the others, laughing and taunting them into oblivion. My tongue a whip, it's bite drawing blood.

Forever.

The sky is clear tonight.

So very clear.




want some more....?

 

[Dana Dane]

I refuse to read any more MN To Be Continued's. I want it all or nothing!

 

[mustynutz]

ok ok....here it is

 

[mustynutz]

Chapter Two


It's so nice sitting in the dark.

It feels powerful. The darkness has an edge, an uncertainty, a calming effect. It is what life should be. Maybe not. Maybe I just like it because it is cool and damp. Doesn't matter I guess. What's important is the way I feel right now, not why I feel this way.

I am guessing at the margins now. When I read this is the morning, I'll probably laugh at how it looks on the page. This also doesn't matter. What matters is the content. The thought. The thought process. Do I have one? I think yes, I do.

Let's examine the thought process, shall we? Let's say, for instance, that I have a person tied up over in the corner there, and that this person is blindfolded and bound by rope. Let's say this person has been there for 3 days or so. No food or water. No clothing save for a black cloth hood covering it's head. What's the thought process there? Has it reached desperation yet? Has it resigned itself to a torturous, vile death by starvation as it sits there in it's own waste? These thoughts comfort me in the dark and yet I am troubled.

What if it never dies? Should I feed it? Should I listen to it's plea for release? How long should I wait until I check it to see if it's dead? I think I'll wait another day or too for that. It thinks and it breathes and it shuffles and it shivers. When it opens it's eyes what does it truly see? I wonder if it see's darkness or light. Does it have the vivid daydreams of a person on the brink of madness? What does it THINK?

Shit, I'm still here.
Damn this sucks.
I wonder what he will do to me.
I wish my dad or mom were here.
I wish I were home.
I wish I were dead.

There could be any number of thoughts going through it's head right now. Is it dreaming? What could it possibly be dreaming about. Some people say that our dreams are our basest of subconcious thought. They are the way we truly want to be. The way we truly think. If that's the case, I think that it's dreams would be of murder and death. Of retribution and revenge. Of glorious freedom. Of comfort food and a nice warm bed.

I think the last one had some interesting thoughts. At the end she just resigned herself to death and never even put up a fight. She thought of the release and peace of death. She was bound and naked too, but I left a little opening in the hood so I could see her eyes. They are truly the windows to the soul. I could see the hate and the fear. I could see the resentment and the envy. I could see the resignation and hopelessness. I could see the exact moment, the exact second when her thoughts went blank and she realized she was never going to see a play or a concert or a movie or a meal....ever again.

The thought process is a wonderful thing. How we go from one thought to another in the blink of an eye is such an interesting thought in and of itself. You see, others never let me think for myself. Others always thought for me. I am robot, I am lemming, I am indian, never to be chief. This is why the subject fascinates me so. This diary. A collection of thought based in the bedrock of firm, decisive action. Thoughts on actions and deeds. Never judgemental and always honest. This book will be found one day amidst bones and dust. It will be read. It will be pondered over.

Real thought will go into why it was written. Why such a record would be made. Why someone would think in such a manner. It will be a smash hit with the Psyche crowd. It will be a manifest. It will be a textbook.

I can hear it moving now, I can sense it's desperation. Maybe it's time.

The die have been cast. No amount of thought can change that. No amount of hope can alter fate.

So dream on. Dream on.

 

[mustynutz]

It came today.

I couldn't believe how thrilled I was to see it, to hold it in my hands. The power, raw and unlimited. My canvas, the world. The people of the world.

He didn't like it much though. His fear was beautiful and intoxicating. The look.....the look in his eyes told the whole story. He couldn't move of course, but that was the beauty of it. Pure unadulterated fear with nowhere to go except in. I think that is as true as beauty can get. Fear......bondage.......no escape......a mind running away without the help of a body. The body still, the look vacant, the fear turned inward and decimating what is left of sanity. Truth. The truth. What's left of the truth.

I played with it awhile as he watched. His curiosity was sort of like how he reacted when he first saw me playing with that curling iron I bought for him. I was fascinated by his reaction to the touch of it on his skin. I let him feel it cold, right out of the package. Ran it over his smooth skin. I whispered to him while I did it. He didn't seem interested but it didn't matter. What mattered was what happened when I plugged it in. He didn't like that at all and I continually find it amazing that a body, a person can withstand so much. So much pain. Sweet, honest pain.

It cleanses the soul. Deeply.

I woke him up with my new toy. I thought he was gone, but I guess I was wrong. I am so pathetic when it comes to that. I can never tell until they are stinking and rotten. I guess I am rooting for them the whole time to stay with me. To keep me company. To feed my obsessions. They never do though. We hardly get to know each other even though some last longer than others.

I left it on the table for him to look at. I let him think about it for days, sitting there all shiny and new. It was staring at him and he was staring back. I really don't think he got much sleep those three days, but it wasn't because of his bonds or the duct tape. He could breathe ok I think, it was the mystique of the new addition to the room. Sitting there on the table waiting to be brought to life, for death. For release.

I know they beg me for it sometimes but I cannot hear them. They make sounds, noises, grunts, pleas. I cannot let them speak for it will affect me I am sure. I cannot listen to their bargainings and their offers. It is useless and means nothing to me. It's the pain that means something to me. The fear. The endurance.

I walked in just tonight and he was staring at it, almost trancelike as I walked to the table and picked it up. He didn't look at me then, he just hung there on the wall like a cheap suit. I was disappointed. Then I put my new toy in motion. I wish the world could have seen the look in his eyes! They were precious and beautiful like pearls inside of a shell. I had to take a picture of him to savor the horror there. They were saucers. Saucers filled with the reflection of life lost.

After I was done I took more pictures. I will fill a scrapbook one day with my memories. People will flock from hundreds of thousands of miles to read my script and see my photos. I will be famous. My toys will instill reverence and fear. People will ask why, but they will know deep down in their very souls, why. They will know because they already know where I am. Where I lurk. I am in all of them, waiting. Waiting to get out.

Waiting to play with toys.

 

[mustynutz]

It's all inconsequential. All of it.

The more I sit here and think, the worse it gets. Inane would be a good word if it could actually be true, but it's not. It's not true. Who knows the truth? "Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I."

"Walking across the sitting room,
I turn the television off.
Sitting beside you, I look into your eyes.
As the sound of motorcars fades in the nightime,
I swear I saw your face change, It didn't seem quite right."

The music rings in my ears, I cannot get rid of it.The words are a nightmare, the tune my bane.

Tinnitis, that's what they call the ringing only this is worse. It's turning this song into agony. I can't even remember where or when I heard it. Maybe one of them was singing it. Maybe one of them was singing it when I took them. Maybe I have been thinking it ever since.I don't even fucking listen to music.

But now I am alone and the novelty has worn off. The song remains, my brain is screaming for release from the burden of carrying the tune. I hold the hammer in my hands ready to pound it out of my head if I have to. To pound out the pounding going on inside.

It's beautiful. It has a nice flat head on one side and a nice round ball on the other. I remember helping my father with his carpentry one year. He had all sorts of neat tools. "Toys" he called them. He would say "Son I create with these, my toys. Carpenters have all the neatest toys son, remember that."

I beg to differ, dad. I have found that carpenter's don't have the neatest toys. I have found many other toys that belong to different professions. Lumberjacks have great toys. Doctors also have wonderful toys they call "instruments". Carpenters do have some neat one's though, and the ball peen hammer has to be one of the neatest looking and most efficient. Held in one hand, this toy can cause tremendous amounts of pressure with a mere flick of the wrist. Makes a cool sound too.

"And it's, Hello babe with your guardian eyes so blue,
Hey my baby, don't you know our love is true.
I've been so far from here, far from your warm arms.
It's good to feel you again,
It's been a long long time. Hasn't it?"

Fuck. It has been a long time. A long time empty. I can't find it in myself to wander out. It's terrifying out there. SO many lost souls, people without names, just faces, snarls, eyes. Everywhere prying eyes. Get away.

"Coming closer with our eyes, a distance falls around our bodies.
Out in the garden, the moon seems very bright,
Six saintly shrouded men move across the lawn slowly.
The seventh walks in front with a cross held high in hand.
...And it's hey babe your supper's waiting for you.
Hey my baby, don't you know our love is true."

Get away. Don't look at me. Stop. GET OUT OF MY HEAD!

Where is my supper? Where is it waiting? I need it. I need to be filled. My hands need the touch of soft flesh, yielding flesh, supple bleeding flesh. Where is my supper? Where is my offering?

I need to rest.

"666 is no longer alone,
He's getting out the marrow in your back bone,
And the seven trumpets blowing sweet rock and roll,
Gonna blow right down inside your soul.
Pythagoras with the looking glass reflects the full moon,
In blood, he's writing the lyrics of a brand new tune."

As I may be. I never quite thought of it like that. I write my lyrics in blood and create my tune with metal and plastic. Iron and rubber. With bone and muscle I decorate my pages. A whirlwind of life and death leading to a crescendo of fallen angels. From death there is life. The Phoenix rises from the ashes to live again and again and yet it's all inconsequential. All of it. I am locked here never to move again.

Too many eyes, too many prying eyes.

"There's an angel standing in the sun,
and he's crying with a loud voice,
"This is the supper of the mighty one",
Lord of Lords,
King of Kings,
Has returned to lead his children home,
To take them to the new Jerusalem."

Save me. Save me. Save me. Save me. Save. Me. From. Me.

 

[mustynutz]

I love sitting in my car. The night is beautiful, it's nice and quiet and I can hear the crickets chirping away, beckoning for a mate.

It's kind of what I'm doing except I have to make as little noise as possible.

I can see the house, it's outline against the trees that ring it's perimeter. It's twelve oh five and she isn't home yet. Soon though.

The house is interesting. Two stories, front door opens into the living area, kitchen in back. Staircase between the kitchen and living area goes up to reveal a hallway. To the right, two bedrooms. She only uses one, the other for her kids who come to visit on the weekend. Her room smells of vanilla while theirs smells of bubble gum and baseball gloves. To the left, the bathroom. Always spotless even right after she takes a shower and leaves for work. She always cleans the sink and never, ever leaves her makeup on the counter. I love the way her shampoo smells and I love the fact that she always wears a different perfume each day. I have never talked to her but I have been close to her.

Her work takes deliveries everyday between noon and three. I was a deliveryman one day, bringing flowers to her desk. it's easy to get a deliverymans outfit and the flowers were a piece of cake so it only seemed natural that this was how I would get close to her.

I entered her office and she wasn't there. My heart sank. I placed the flowers on her desk and positioned the card so it would be the first thing she saw. I admired my handiwork and then turned to leave. She was coming in the doorway and my heart skipped a beat when I realized it was her. As I made my way to the doorway, I ever so lightly brushed up against her and inhaled that sweet vanilla scent. My knees got weak but I managed to say "exuse me" as I passed by her and out the door, carefully turning my body so she couldn't get a good look at my face.

I could feel her stare on the back of my head as I made my way down the hall and out of her office. I could only imagine the look on her face as she opened the card to read,

"It's only a matter of time before our love blossoms fully like the deepest rose. I am coming for you soon"

I don't know how she felt about it then, but I do know that when she came home that night she was accompanied by men. Uniformed men. I could see that easily from my vantage point.

I gave her 3 months to forget about that. 3 months. Patience is a virtue. She comes and goes now easily as if nothing ever happened. Like clockwork she arrives home at twelve twenty, unlocks her door, takes exactly two point five seconds to turn on the living room light and another 42 seconds to go upstairs and turn on her bedroom light. She casually glances out the window every single night just to see what she can see, which is usually nothing, changes into some evening clothes and turns off the light.

It takes another five to ten minutes for her to come downstairs, come to the door, open it and look out at her front yard, and then close it and turn the locks. I wonder how many women do this same exact thing night after night and never think that someone like me is out there, waiting, studying, learning every move and habit. I'll bet there's many. Too many to count.

It makes my job so much easier if I do my work properly.

A couple of days ago she slept all night on the couch with the television on. It was so tempting to go then and justify my love for her. I stood there just outside her window watching as her chest moved up and down, her breathing a rhythm to my racing heart. I watched her as if I were watching a movie, examining every little thing, hoping to catch a part that was different, that was exciting. She is exciting to me, even as she sleeps, dreaming of lost love or corporate business or her asshole boss.

I didn't feel good about doing it then so I waited. Maybe tonight will be my night for that.

Yes, I think it just might be. Here she comes now, Twelve twenty right on the button. The moon is full and the crickets plentiful.

"I'm in the mood for love,
simply because you're near me.
Funny but when you're near me,
I'm in the mood for love."

 

[mustynutz]

Stand
In the end you'll still be you
One that's done all the things you set out to do"


Yes, in the end it's just me. I'm still me, but what have I done? Have I done what I set out to do? Hardly, but that's another story for another day. Sly and the family Stone massage my ego. The music pounds a beat in my head similar to the one that is already there. Mine is louder. Maybe if I turn up the music mine will go away. No use in trying. In the end it will still be there and I'll still be me.


"Stand
There's a cross for you to bear
Things to go through if you're going anywhere"

No shit. My cross is heavy. Maybe the heaviest cross ever to bear, but I bear it. Just when I think things are getting better my world comes crashing down around my ankles. Sometimes I feel like dropping it, discarding it like so many leaves in the wind but I pick it up again. It seems I have no choice. Everybody has a burden. Mine is to rid the world. Just to rid the world.


"Stand
For the things you know are right
It's the truth that the truth makes them so uptight"

You want the truth? The truth? "You can't handle the truth" and neither can I. I look at the truth everyday. I look at it in the mirror. I look at it in my surroundings. It looks back at me. It is laughing and it doesn't care if I hear. It makes me more uptight than it would you. Maybe. Can I bear to face the truth? If I did face it would I go mad? If I did would It go mad?


"Stand
All the things you want are real
You have you to complete and there is no deal"

Are the things that I want real? I know that people are real, or somewhat real. You can bend them and flex them. You can make them do your bidding. Everybody has a point where they give up....everybody. Sometimes it's a long journey but the destination is the same. The destination is always the same. I have beaten them down, I have dominated. I have tried to make sense and I have made no sense at all. What is real? Does anybody know. Is this pen that I write with real? Is the blood on the floor real? How about all the hair, the miles of hair everywhere, is that all real? How do I complete me? One of them will tell me, I know this for sure. One of them will stand and tell me, someday. Then my work will be done and I will be complete.


"Stand. stand, stand
Stand. stand, stand"

Yes, get the fuck up you miserable piece of garbage. Get off of my floor. You make me want to puke. You are a useless waste. Stop crying. GET UP! STAND YOU FUCKER!


"Stand
You've been sitting much too long
There's a permanent crease in your right and wrong"

Where have I heard this before? I was lectured on perspective once or twice or a million times before. A crease? I know right from wrong, I don't care what anybody says. Who the hell are they to judge me? I have good perspective, good ideas, great dexterity. I don't sit. I can't sit. I must stand. You will know my rights and my wrongs. You will witness them, read about them, shed tears over them. I don't care.


"Stand
There's a midget standing tall
And the giant beside him about to fall"

I was that midget standing tall. I told them that I would make them see. I told them they could mark my words. I promised them that I would be found famous. It doesn't matter that they don't know yet. They will. My legend will live large and stand over the falling giant that is society. I will loom menacingly and my promises will be the stuff of fables.


"Stand. stand, stand
Stand. stand, stand"

I am trying. I am. You are trying. You cannot. I find this both ironic and satisfying.


"Stand
They will try to make you crawl
And they know what you're saying makes sense and all"

I was told that I don't make sense. That my mind doesn't MAKE SENSE. The last one told me before she had to go away. She tried to sooth me, to be friends with me. She made no sense and I made all the sense. I think I left her tongue in a jar by my bed. She doesn't make much sense now. I talk to her ocassionally.


"Stand
Don't you know that you are free
Well at least in your mind if you want to be"

They were all free in their minds at the end. I helped them be free. I destroyed their chains, their bouondaries and set them on a different journey. I set them free to roam purgatory with all the others who are lost and wanting to go home. Will I see them again? Maybe, maybe not. Time will tell. Will they all stand against me as I wander limbo in a haze of want and regret? Will they take me apart limb by limb only to find that dead souls never rest until they are truly put to death? Will they understand????? Will I ever be free?



"Everybody
Stand, stand, stand"

Yeah, just try to, I dare you, you fucks.

 

[mustynutz]

I shaved my head today.

It was fine. I like it. Nice and smooth. The razor felt hard and unwielding in my hand. Razor sharp. Razor sharp.

It feels good to rub my hands on the smooth, raw skin of my scalp. I cut myself a couple of times but it was ok. I liked it.

I look weird without eyebrows but I also feel that I look sensuous with a hard edge. The razor made a scraping noise as I cut them off. I could feel it inside my head. In stereo. My baldness reminds me of those boys downtown, the ones who come on to me all the time. The ones who always ask for money. The disgusting, lost ones.

I brought one home with me today. As I sit here watching his eyes dart around through the mask, I feel an elation of finally giving him what he wanted all along, release.

He's not a boy in the true sense of the word, but he is a boy to me. He said he's 21 but I believe he's eighteen or so. A street urchin, societal waste, his head is so smooth, his eyebrows so light, his facial stubble so nonexistent.

A new pet, a stray off of the street.

He has fear, I can see it in those eyes. I wonder if the fear he is feeling is different from the fear he felt as he was out working the streets for the first time. I wonder what a young boy fears most when he realizes that the street is his home and there is nowhere to go but down. So far down that you begin selling yourself to men for a good nights sleep or a couple of bucks for a room and a shower. Is it real fear? Is it a fear that stays with them for all time?

What is it like waking up in a strange man's bed looking at strange furniture, staring at the strange pattern in the wallpaper on the walls of a strange room in a strange house? What is it like for him to look around this strange room now, at his strange bindings with the strange clothing that I have put on him, and across the room at the strange man who lives in the strange house with the strange wallpaper?

I wonder if it feels strange?

I think I'll cut him open now and bury my newly bald head into his intestines. When they find him they will wonder what kind of a psychopath would do such a thing. I am not a psychopath. I resent them even calling me one. They don't fucking know, nobody knows. Nobody. They just have fear of the unknown. Fear of what they cannot understand.

I will get to them. I will teach them fear. I will teach everybody.

Then they will know.

 

[mustynutz]

Silky goodness. I can feel it to my very soul and it feels great.

How many times have I thought of this, longed for this. My skin was tingling in anticipation. I lie here naked and feel how it feels......wondering if my elation is only part of the fear that will ultimately be felt.

The silk runs up the back of my legs, soft, smooth and dry as a snakeskin. It emanates the energy that is implied by a glance towards it's well made exterior. Made of the finest materials, the most impeccable craftsmanship, the best that money can buy. It shines with threat and delivers on its promise.

The silk continues up against my buttocks. Smooth and soft, it gently massages areas that can really appreciate it, and look upon it with favor. I slide to and fro, feeling the texture, knowing what is to come for occupants who will spend the rest of their lives here. The sensational fabric moves its way up my back to the nape of my neck and I consider what it will be like for them as I lay my head down on the pillow of death.

How long will they last? A day? A week? A month? Oh, I will have joy finding out. I will inhale the fear and pain. I will revel in the horror revealed in their masks of death. I snuggle up to the sensation, to the thought.

Will they struggle? Will there be signs of panic? The fun is in the finding.

I flip myself over and gently lay the front of my body on the silk pillowing, fluffy as angels wings and soft as a morning breeze. My knees make indentations in the fabric. It surrounds them and all at once my knees relax, knowing the softness of eternity. My penis becomes enshrined in a feeling of restfulness. I can imagine now what it must be like to lie here and wonder about the barrier between life and death. Between death and life. The hopelessness would be shocking. It would be delicious.

I have become aroused. The silky smooth touch of the fabric is too much for my senses to withstand. The thoughts of the helpless echo in my head. Will they be crying? Panicking? Praying? Surely they will be praying, and the prayers will be answered. Only not in the way the occupants so choose.

As my breathing increases, I can feel the fabric against my chest. I can feel it against my shaft. The tortured souls, the restless spirits, they surround me in a dance and begin to wail unmercifully. I join them.

My body is writhing and my thoughts are of love and death. Love and death. Death and love. My body jumps......releasing the pent up energy inside. I cry out in agony, in joy, in hate, in rage. My climax is complete. I spill my living seed upon the doorway of death. The dancing winds down. The souls go back to rest. My body is spent.

I bury my face into the softness of eternal sleep and inhale deeply. The scent of roses assaults me and I finally know everlasting life and immortal peace. My joy is immense.

It is anointed. My journey begins.

 

[Dana Dane]

Thank you very much!

 

[mustynutz]

ANYTIME ...

 

[mustynutz]

"It's too late,
to fall in love with Sharon Tate.
And it's too soon,
to ask me for the words I want carved on my tomb".



Animals.


Is there anything more innocent? More trusting? More loving?

Animals are the only things living on this planet capable of unconditional love. They look up at you with those big eyes, searching for a glimmer of the feelings that they have for you in return. They trust you. Their very lives hinge on whether or not you are in a good mood. They eat when you tell them. They excrete when you let them. They are at your beck and call, performing tricks or obeying orders for the tiniest morsel of food.

They will jump through hoops for treats. They will look up at you while you scratch them. They wag their tails when they are happy. They smile.

Humans elicit this very behavior. They elicit this behavior under extreme duress. They elicit this behavior for a promise that in return, they retain their lives.

It is unbelievable what a human will do to just have a glimmer of hope that their life will not be extinguished. They will abuse themselves. They will humiliate themselves. They will prostrate themselves in front of you while you do unspeakable things to them. All for the sake of living.

I questioned myself during a relatively creative period of my life as to whether or not I could stretch the limits of human suffering beyond those of which other people defined as normal. I chose my subjects very carefully during this period so as to have a comprehensive cross section of what we term "society". I had quite a collection.

I had the bank manager who ate glass in return for his life.

I had the hooker who cut herself deeply over and over again so that I wouldn't cut her too deeply.

I had the athlete who endured a relentless onslaught of naked humiliation, bondage, discipline, and sadism just at the mere promise of a glimpse of the morning sun once more.

I had the child who killed the animals for a promise of his mothers loving arms at the end of the day. He was 9 and he killed them with his bare hands knowing that he would be bitten and scratched and beaten by their claws.

Their promises never were fulfilled, their lives were never really bartered for their success. In the end, they all knew it and they all cried like babies right up until the very end.

The human being can withstand much more punishment than the animals. Even though they were reduced to animals themselves, they always had the one thing that kept them going, the one thing that kept them alive through adversity and challenge.

They had their minds.

They had their minds to retreat into. They had their secret spaces to hide in. Those boxes they had in the recesses of their minds that they could crawl into and close the top. Those worlds that became reality to them once their realities had ceased to exist. Those retreats that only they knew. Where they were safe. Safe from any outside influence or destruction.

I would see them sitting there, rocking to and fro. I would know in an instant where they were. I would know that it didn't matter anymore and that, for the rest of their time with me, they would be useless. It was no fun then. It was no fun extinguishing the light because the light was dim. Very dim.

People come to me with fire. Big fire. Hot fire. Fire that is undying. Fire that will fight to become larger, more terrifying, more intense.

People leave me a flicker of their former selves. Beaten.... Broken..... Extinguished.


"So I think it's time,
that we all start to think about getting by,
without the need to go out and find,
somebody to love".

 

[mustynutz]

I went out tonight.

First time in a long time.

I went to a strip club and struck up a conversation with a nice Asian woman over about 10 lap dances. God she was hot, and she was hot for me.

I brought her home.

We started out slow with her doing a private show for me in the living room. Me sitting on the couch and her standing before me. She had wanted music, but I told her that I would rather it be silent so I could hear her breathe, so I could hear her body as it moved and reacted to me. She got down to business and soon she was naked on my lap, straddling my hardness through my pants.

We kissed. Mouths open, tongues searching for touch, searching for each other, longing for union. She rubbed her pussy against my cock, the intensity making me harder than I ever had been before. I had my hands on her waist and as she was grinding me, she reached down and ever so gently moved them to her breasts. I massaged her and then touched her nipples, eventually placing each nipple between the forefinger and thumb of my hands. I gently massaged her nipples and she leaned over to me and whispered in my ear,

"You've got to pinch harder".

I did. I pinched harder and a moan escaped her lips. It was gutteral and intense, like a wild beast feasting on a newly killed carcass.

"Harder", she whispered, "it makes them more sensitive". As I did, her body began to react. Hips began to grind rhythmically into mine. I kissed her more deeply as I pinched her nipples very hard. She got up and turned her back to me, once again sitting on my hardness. She leaned back against me and placed my hands gently on her breasts again. I resumed my massage and the rougher I was, the more she responded. I was sucking on her neck and tongueing her ear and as I did this in conjunction with my rough nipple play, she had an orgasm. I reached down with my right hand and began to search for her clitoris.

It wasn't hard to find.

She grabbed my finger and placed it exactly where she wanted the pressure. I manipulated her on the spot that was driving her crazy and all I could hear were her moans. I could feel her heartbeat as her back was pressed right up against my chest. I could feel the resonance of her moans course through both our bodies. She was in a world of passion, a world of emotion, a world of sex.

She raised herself up ever so slightly and pulled my pants and underwear down. My hard on was raging and she took it in her right hand. She guided the tip to where she was wettest and ever so slowly, gently, carefully, she lowered herself down onto me.

She sat there, still, for at least 30 seconds, her back against my now sweaty chest, our hearts beating as one, her flesh surrounding mine in a symphony of pleasure. Then she gently began to move.

She rocked gently back and forth at first, then she leaned forward, put her hands on my knees, and began to move up and down. She was incredibly wet and discriminately vocal. She was in control here, having her way with me, slowly, surely, confidently.

I had my hands at the base of her neck and I gently moved them down the length of her back, nails touching flesh. She arched at the touch and a soft sharp breath came from her mouth. I traced the outline of the tattoo on the small of her back with my nails as she began to move faster up and down my shaft. She was beginning to hit her stride now and it was evident that there was no turning back.

She moved faster and faster, moans turning to grunts, turning to words, turning to yells. She pumped me hard and fast and as she did, she lost all semblance of time, all semblance of reality. I was helping her by pumping her ass up and down with my hands, arching my hips slightly for maximum penetration. After a few minutes of this she didn't need my help anymore. With her hands on my kness, digging in for dear life, she was pumping my hardness like a locomotive at top speed. I had my left hand on her left hip, guiding her movements, willing her to make me come.

As she pumped me I ever so slightly used my right hand to reach down between the couch pillows and retrieve what I had put there two nights before. The hunting knife was stainless 440 and it was sharpened to perfection. It's serrated edge awesome to behold, it meant business and business it would have.

She was pumping and yelling and breathing and moaning. I was urging her on with my moans and telling her to fuck me. The more I talked the harder she pumped. I raised the knife overhead. "Closer", I said. "I'm getting closer". When she heard that, she doubled her speed, willing me to explode inside her. I raised the knife even higher. I was bucking my hips and she was meeting each thrust with a downward pump.

"Yes! Yes! Here I come!"

With that she increased the already rapid pace of her pumping. I shot my seed into her like a cannon. I thrust the knife down into her spine, in between her shoulders at the exact time that I released my seed. She arched her back and let out a yell. I forced her forward onto the floor and continued to pump her while my knife continued to scrape up against her vertebrae. Thrust for thrust, stab for stab. I spilled all of my seed inside of her as she spilled all of her blood at my feet. It was incredible.

I was sated for the first time in a very, very long time. When I was done I stood up and looked down at my handiwork. Admired it. I couldn't look away. Semen mixing with blood. Life meeting death. An intensly, sexually ironic scene.

I began to understand the man at Green River. I began to envy.

 

[mustynutz]

I took a walk through the park today.

Maria.....Sandy......Karen.

I saw the children playing in the sand.

Maria.....Sandy......Karen.

They were playing kick the can and tag. They were riding their bikes. They were playing tetherball and checkers.

Maria.....Sandy......Karen.

I saw them making boondoggles and drawing pictures. The park attendants helping dole out materials. The youngest being helped by the oldest. I saw them on the swings and teeter-totters. I saw them climbing trees.

Maria.....Sandy......Karen.

I saw them playing baseball, softball, handball. Some of them were crying, some were laughing, most were just playing. I sat down on the bench, my favorite one overlooking the fountain. I watched as the children dipped their toes in the cool, refreshing water.

Maria.....Sandy......Karen.

I wondered if there were memories imbedded in dna. I wondered if the most single of cells holds memories dear to life. I watched as children fell while they were playing, skinning their knees and leaving a small morsel of their skin behind, dna cast aside without so much as a thought.

Maria.....Sandy......Karen.

If they only knew. If they could concieve of what might be in the dirt that they play in. If they could only imagine what could be in the grass that stains their knees. If they could see what is mixed into all the rainwater that drips down into the ground, filtering itself through the dirt and the rocks and the bodies that I put there. The bodies of....

Maria.....Sandy......Karen.

These small children. Eating their lunches, their candies, their freeze pops. Chewing their gum, playing with their dolls. No more than six feet away from...... No more than three feet above.....Running over them all day long. Sitting on them. Lying on them. Fighting on them. Crying on them. It gives me comfort to know that the children keep them company. I wonder how their parents would react if they knew?

God, what a rush.

If they only knew.

I know.

I am the only one.

 

[mustynutz]

You deserve it.

They deserve it.

I deserve it.

Whatever we do in our lives that deserves punishment, so it shall be. I wonder, when I do the things that I do, who is watching? Do the spirits from the past, the ones I took too early, wander around earths ghostly realms observing?

Am I being watched from the hereafter in anticipation of the day that I too join their ranks? Are they gnashing their teeth, grinding their sweaty misty hands together as they watch me perform for the undead? Can they not wait for my demise?

Do they take on the form that they carried with them in death? Are they missing limbs? Heads? Hearts? I've seen all the movies and I can imagine it is nothing like that. I think there is an evil feel to purgatory that one's soul cannot shake. I imagine it to be a place filled with nervousness and anticipation. Helplessness and aggression.

"Get me out, let me out, I cannot get out".

Cursed to wander a neverending path. Forced to observe humans, real humans in their daily actions. Never able to join in although the confusion they feel makes them wonder why they cannot.

"Am I dead? Can I be dead? Is this what dead feels like?".

Where is the light? They were taught that there was a light. A light to go towards, to move into. What happens when there is no light. No path. No God. Is there bitterness? Do some expect it? Do some even realize that they are no longer living on earth as a solid being?

I bet they do. I bet watching me brings them pain. Sometimes when I am doing private things I wonder if they can see me. When I masturbate is the room filled with lonely, misguided spirits watching me and betting on the result? when I pick my nose at the stoplight do the lost souls watch in disgust or in humor? When I have sex do the undead reach for their nasty crotches as they watch? When I relieve myself can they smell my smells? When I kill, do they have memories of when they were killed? Can they remember?

When do they become desperate enough to show themselves?

I often wonder about this very thing. I look around this basement room and I try so very hard to open up my mind to them. I know they are here somewhere. I want to see it from their perspective. I yearn for that feeling of hopelessness and despair. Trapped, never to get out. I want to feel their confusion and pain. I want to know the horror I've brought to them.

Someday I will know.

I deserve it.

They deserve it.

You deserve it.

 

[mustynutz]

I look at him lying there in the corner.

Fetal position, shivering, waiting for the next round.

I walk over and stand above him, amused at the pathetic form beneath me. He is waiting. I am his savior. I hold his release in my hands, he is at my beck and call, eager to please and yearning for a reward.

The last five months have taught me the power of addiction. It has taught him the majesty of it's reign. It has taught him the power of it's hedonistic rage. It is complete in it's destruction. It turns otherwise rational human beings into beasts of burden. It turns lovely ladies into sex slaves. It turns the meekest of the meek into deadly, bloodthirsty killers. He is about to be all of these. All he knows is his world, But he is about to find out about mine.

He is shaking uncontrollably now, looking for the fix. Funny thing that is, that it is called a fix. Does it really fix anything. It'll stop the shaking, maybe make him feel better again, but does he know the cost? Can he understand at this point that he is about to do things he never thought he could possibly submit to?

I revel in the possibilities. I kneel down next to him and make him look up at me. I hold the packet of powder out to him. His eyes brighten a bit and he feebly reaches up for it. I punch him, hard. He must know his manners. I rarely speak to him, all he needs to know will come from, and do come from my actions. He is a nice shade of black and blue all over his body.

His pain must be exquisite.

He looks up at he bag, focused entirely upon it's contents. I shake it a little in front of him so he can see that it is quite a good amount. He licks his lips and spittle drips down his dirty, bloody chin. As he shifts his body I stand up again. Being this close to him makes the revulsion ever sweeter. To smell his foul odor and know he doesn't care. To see the sores and bruises and know that it is not as important to him as what I hold in my hand. To witness the sublimation of a soul, complete and utter reverence to another thing, another being. Total reliance upon another, that other to choose at his will what comes next.

I go to the table and cook the drug. He smells it and starts salivating wildly, crawling across the floor watching me for any telltale movement that I am going to strike out against him. He sees that I am not, but he doesn't dare get any closer than a few feet while I prepare his fix. He does not have much patience at this point but he has no choice. I hold his destiny in my hands. I tell him what to do and when to do it. I say when he eats, sleeps, farts, fixes.

I am done cooking and I fill the syringe. He observes this and knows now that he is very close to having what he needs. I hold it up for him to see and I place it gingerly on the table out of his reach.

He is mine. Completely.

"You can have your heroin, but you must work for it".

He cocks his head as if he has never heard my voice before. Maybe he hasn't. He cannot remember if I have actually spoken to him or not. I show him the straight razor. The light in the room reflecting off of the blade and onto his disgusting face. He is mesmerized but he still has no clue what he is about to do.

"Use it. On yourself. Now".

He is puzzled as I hand the razor to him. I hold up the syringe and show him how full it is of the beautiful liquid. He looks at it longingly, willing to submit to my request. Slowly he reaches down and opens up his shirt. he looks at me once again and then glances at the drug. He places the razor up against his chest and starts to cut vertically in a downward movement.

I watch as the blood begins to drip from the wound he is creating. A faint smile emanates from my lips and as he is cutting I notice the cut is getting deeper.

"Stop! Put it down!"

He drops the razor. Blood is all over his chest and stomach now. I kick him hard and he topples over onto his back. I look to his arm, trying to find a place to inject the drug. I reach over and jam the needle into his arm at the first sign of a bulging vein. He is quite skinny and I am sure that I hit what I am looking for. I depress the plunger and immediately he goes slack.

The shaking is gone. He is lying there, prone, unable to save himself from the destiny of my choosing.

Domination. Total and complete. What a turn on.

I see his sweat mixing with his blood. He is sweating profusely and I can only imagine what was going through his mind as the razor made it's way into his flesh, of his own hand. I am excited. I consider this briefly as I reach down and caress my crotch, but decide to just watch him for awhile.

I'll just watch him bleed. Maybe. Just a little while.

I have time for the other thing later.

 

[mustynutz]

I need to examine my life.

Or what's left of it.

I don't even go upstairs anymore except to leave the house. I sit here all day staring. Staring. Staring.

The stains on the floor look like Rorschachs. I have tried to clean them but there are just too many layers. Too much history. Too many personalities embedded in those stains. The blood flows like wine and the people keep disappearing. So quickly. Too quickly. Too many buckets and bathtubs. Not enough clorox. Not enough scrubbing. Way too much hydrocloric acid.

The liquid, the juices seep into the concrete and stay. I clean them and they fade like the lives they represent. Faded and forgotten except for by their closest of friends and family. And me.

I outlined them in chalk today. I had nothing better to do. Then I stared at them. All day. The results are incredible.

Over in the corner where I had Jack for about two weeks there is a man and woman kissing. She is kissing him and he is kissing her back. They are about to bury knives into each others backs. This is by far the most interesting of the stains. Jack may actually have liked what his life juices turned into. He was such a lover of art. A real thespian to the core. He couldn't act out the pain though. His performances were real. He learned a great deal about pain before he died. His bloodstain is a reflection of his personality. Nice up front, stab you in the back.

How fucking ironic. I'm glad he's dead.

I have a dog over in the other corner where I disemboweled maria last week. He's a big dog and he has a fierce snarl. He is spitting blood. He looks ferocious. His hair is standing on end and he will torment me with the sounds that he is making in my head. He will be the first to be bleached into eternity. She was always a fiesty tart. She hated me until the very end. I saw it on her face. The snarl, just like the dog.

The wall splatter is interesting. I blew Janies brains out all over the wall by the door, that fucking whore. If anybody deserved it she did with her short skirts and five hundred dollar fees. I enjoy looking at that stain. Interesting stains for brains. That little bit of orange/brown residue never seems to quite make it off the wall. I've tried. I will try again. Her brain stain looks like Charlie Chaplin, little bowler hat tilting as he waves and smiles in a greeting. Charlie Chaplin forever silent looking at me through dried brains. Is that hair mixed in with his hat? I thought I got that all. That's a nice touch. Dumb blonde. Charlie looks way better than you did at the end honey. Way better.

He refuses to come down off the wall and give me a performance though. I've tried to will him down this very afternoon.

Maybe he's scared of the dog.

The chalk outlines seem to run together. It is a conglomeration of sights, sounds, smells, tastes. I have licked these walls, these floors. I have tasted the metallic flavor. I have smelled the copper of their lust, of their desires. I have painted the finger paintings of the sane, of the insane. Logic dictates that this is not reasonable, but who here is logical? None of them were. They tried to make sense of it all, they tried to be logical with me. Some made it a very long way and some didn't. Each journey a small but very significant part of their lives.

Ultimate realization. The end is nigh. This is what the end looks like? This is how the end happens?

You can see it in their eyes.

You can see the pity, the desperation, the disgust, the shame. You can feel the warmth of life mingling with the shiver of death's call. You can see it in the chalk. You can sense it in the stains. Maybe I won't clean it up right away. This would make a good quiz for future inhabitants of my world. Yes, a quiz, the prize being life. Failure, well failure means they become one of them.

One of the stains.

Thank you Mr. Rorschach, for a very entertaining afternoon.

 

[mustynutz]

This is a transcript from a tape I made. Whoever reads this should really try to find the tape. I fear my written word cannot do it justice. The sounds that I cannot replicate here are really what the listener will enjoy. I will do the best I can.

*CLICK*

".............now I'm going to expose the orbital around the eye. There. Nice. I find it amazing that these things are so sharp. Scalpels are sharper than razors. They cut like a hot knife through butter. Nice, neat and complete. She is lidless now and her orbital is becoming exposed nicely.

I'm peeling the skin around the eye now. The entire orbital is exposed and the eyeball is sitting nicely right in the middle of it. It is intact which is surprising considering the abuse that the eye went through during our struggle. The eye has a few broken blood vessels in it so it is extremely blood red, but the iris, pupil, and sclera are all intact. There has been no seepage of vitreous and the intraocular pressure seems to have been maintained. The eye is an amazing thing and it is actually much bigger than I would have imagined. It just sits in its eye socket, filling up the entire area. It looks like a ping pong ball. A painted ping pong ball. Lovely.

I have peeled back most of the skin around both eyes now, cutting away any excess muscle and vein from around both eyes. If anybody could see this now they would think I am a real pro. I could be a doctor performing this kind of surgery.

I am peeling back the skin of the forehead now. Wait, it is coming a little harder here. Let me get a better grip. There. Easier now. I am cutting under the skin now so that the skull is becoming exposed right up to her hairline. Gosh she has beautiful skin. No wrinkles at all. Smooth, velvety. Very nice to the touch.

Most of her forehead and around her eyes is exposed now. I am seeing the white of her skull mixed with the red of her blood and the chestnut of her hair. I am pouring a little saline on the skull now to clean it off. The skull is a beautiful thing when viewed fresh and clean. It reminds me of seeing a mountain top for the first time or viewing the ocean for the first time as a child. It's a nice experience and it's so much better knowing that I am doing this myself. No help. No guidance.

There we go. The skull is now exposed all the way back to the middle top of her head. She is staring at me, lidless, and her stare is beautiful. Wait, let me get a picture. There. Nice. This will fit right in with my collection.

Ok, let's get that skin off the face, shall we? I am peeling the skin right off of the nose now. It is coming off very easily. Easier than I could have imagined. Such a pretty nose. Not too big, not too small. Wow, so that's what it looks like under there. Cartilage looks kind of funny. It's a different color than the bone around it. Look at those nasal cavities. Did I do that? One side of the cartilage of her nose seems broken. I guess I might have done that earlier. Damn she was fiesty.

Here comes the skin off of the cheeks. I have made incisions down each side of her face, following her jawline, right down to the bottom of her chin. If I am lucky, this will all come off in one piece. Here it comes, right down both sides, around the lips, oh, those incisions were placed expertly. The skin came off right around both lips perfectly. Down her chin and right off!

Bravo! This is wonderful. I am holding in my hands the entire bottom part of her face. I have to try to stop breathing so hard but this is so exciting. What? Hey! DON"T YOU FUCKING KICK ME YOU BITCH!

The bitch just kicked me. I should have fucking killed her before I started this procedure. She wouldn't have been as fresh though and that's what I wanted. A fresh face. A fresh body.

There, how does that feel you useless cunt? How does that scalpel feel buried in your throat? Feel good? Stop moving. STOP MOVING!

Fuck. Goddammit. Wait. You want to move? You want to ruin my procedure? There, how do you like that? (Sounds of pounding and squishing. At this point I'm stabbing her repeatedly with a hunting knife squarely in the chest and abdomen). She made me do it. I didn't want to but she made me. Fuck. She ruined my procedure.

Note: use more goddamn anesthetic next time.

I guess I live and learn.

Bitch.

Gosh I'm hungry.

*CLICK*

 

[mustynutz]

more.....?