Frank Iero likes death, he likes the show it gives him, the pure adrenaline, the gore that sometimes comes with it. What will happen when he has to test out an insane product on a beautiful man(Who...
though. Frank watched as he floated. The glass tank the subject was had in
reached way above Frank's midget head, it had an abused, cracked look to it, but
it still surved its purpose. It had been eight minutes now, still nothing.
Perhaps they had finally gotten it right?
The man's long raven locks haloed his head. He ain't no angel. Not one of the
subjects were. They were dirty rats that scwormed. They were cunning and fowl,
not to be trusted. Their mouths spilled lies, begging you to get spun up it
Frank was unfazed. He kept at least seven needles in his pocket incase things
got a little uncomfortable. He enjoyed his job. He was masochistic, he knew, and
he embraced it. It had been two more minutes Frank noted. His foot tapping
increased. He almost hoped their test failed. He wanted nothing more than to see
'Gerard''s dead pale beauty, the man's face no longer mocking him.
He looked off over at the wall. He wanted this to end. For Gerard to end.
Impatient. The word screamed his brain. Thirty seconds had passed. Franks firsts
The man's hands were slaided open, his fingers slightly webbed. He was the
obvious freak. He bobbed in the full tank. The liquid he was in was almost like
gel, but still much like water. His head flailed back. His eyes slammed
together, clenched in pain. Jaw rigid, teeth clearly clenching and being ground.
Frank watched, enjoyment lacing his features. 'Gerard' was drowning. His death
brutal. As the man in the tank thrashed about as well as he could. His mouth
open of it's own will, he swallowed mouthfuls of the slime.
And then, there was nothing.
Frank slammed the button on the side of the tank, signifying another death.
Frank marked the time of his clip board.
Just another death. And the world didn't change one bit. No one would even
notice. Expect Frank, and he hardly cared.
He enjoyed it, enjoyed the show. Some where better then others. Frank had been
quite enticed by the man, he had been stunning.
Frank watched as men dressed in blue scrubs came in. Normally he payed no mind
to the men, but this time he had business to tend to.
They emptied the tank, as Frank watched. He pulled the man's body put and place
him on a gurney, one reaching for an infamous blue bag. The pull lighting
shining on 'Gerard's charcoal wisps.
"I'm not done with him." Frank's voice boomed menacingly down through the room
"Of course not." the black goateed man Frank had seen many occasions answered,
fluxing darkly. Everyone worked there because they wanted to, took pleasure in
the wrongness, the evil, the 'science'. If you could call it that, the company
was Hardly successful, with nothing more than a mear 18% sucsess rate. Most took
pride in such low standards.
The wheeled out of the room, body included, leaving the glistening blue bag to
rustle on the floor.
Frank moved on.
Subject 118, Ronnie. (As if pet-names gave them a personality!) All tattooed and
It only took this one only 4 minutes 13 seconds to die. Not even a fight. Head
back, eyes clenched, hands fisted, gone. Frank chuckled to himself.
And on he went.
The sound of Frank's shoes cracked through the hall way, as he carried on over
the linoleum. The walls surrounding him splurged in blood, hand prints dragging
downward as they pleaded not to die. The weak deserved to die. To have their
blood coat the city in dark red, to crust and infest all the best places.
Graffiti everywhere your head turned, not that you could even attempt to make
it out in the seeping dull light. But Frank knew what it all said, taken time to
read each one, and imprint into his memory. Written in hopes over passing time,
as the needy awaited their unknown death sentences.
The cages clanked as he walked by, taking his index fingering, and running it
smoothly over the bars. Chilling music to his covered ears.
Icy fingers clutched up and down his spine. Frank sot out the eyes he could feel
eating him alive, slowly killing Frank with their eyes. He turned to find a
He turned to find a starving man, ribs showing, bones poking, not only literally
but mentally caged in. Coated in rags, living true to the animal it was.
"You're going to die." Frank whispered, leaving without a second glance back.
He kept walking not even paying a bit of attention to the room numbers, he never
did. He knew as reached the dark, slapped pool, a strain that would never clean,
that he had reached his room.
He had claimed the room for his own apon noticing that, he had forced the
original resident out, being as he had been unwilling to give up the spot. And
no one knew what happened to Joshua since.
He flicked on the dull light of his, nothing no than more than a patch of
hospital, room. He flicked his keys onto the dresser, and hung his white coat,
clip board equipped, jacket behind the slab of wood that counted as a door, as
he quickly shut it.
He smiled upon seeing the rat. Oh, what fun he would have.
Frank's room showed no sighs of inhabitance, no sighs of life. That was all
about to change. Frank imagined the dead man's gore sliming down the walls,
leaving trails to be forever remembered by. Seeing the man's face scarred in
it's beauty as it would forever stay, until his flesh melted away.
Frank ran a finger down the man's velvet white flesh, pulling out two fingers,
he began scratching the further down he got.
He traced the frost lips with a stubbed pinky. Pulling the lips into a side ways
It mocked him.
He took his hand and ripped at the high cheek bones over the unmarked side of
the man's face. Indulging in the feeling of the wine colored fluid that poured
slowly over his fingers. His head lulled back for a moment, taking so much
A deep rasp for air reached his ears, his eyes flew open in suspicious alarm.
The body beneath him collected itself and sat up, pulling Frank with it. The man
grabbed Frank's face with bitterly cold hands, and leaned his forehead against
His mouth near Frank's ear, he tucked the hair cover it behind, and the tinted
blues opened, words forming, it spewed dangerously, "You're going to Hell."
Yeah, I don't know about this. I really don't. Nope not a clue.
Confused? Me too.
I didn't know my mind was that twisted. Ha.
Just something I came up with during my insomnia. (Which might explain why it's
a bit whacked.)
And Mikey is the starving man. He just is.
Hey this is my favorite thing I've ever written. I was gonna make a sequel but
it went to shit, so...
I would like to say I give up on the story I was writing I had a cool idea but no idea how to get there. It's not like I can jump right into the awesome, I'd have to set it up first. :p
(inspired by Escape the Fate's Not Good Enough For Truth In Cliche and
Cellar Door. And Smells like Teen Spirit by Nirvana.)
Anyway. Was it good? Or shit? I'm starting to wonder...