Categories > Original > Horror


by TheSHM 0 reviews

Category: Horror - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Drama,Horror,Humor - Warnings: [V] [R] - Published: 2013-01-06 - Updated: 2013-01-06 - 2947 words


"What is this loon thinking of now?" you are most certainly not asking. Where did the concept of this story come from?
I will answer that= I have no idea. It simply popped into my head on Palm Sunday. For one I guess I was just bored. Somehow I made the leap to do this shamelessly and just write, write, write.
Now I don't have too many plans to keep this story posted for long. It's just a bit of a fancy, I guess. A fancy moment. If you like it, you like it. If you don't, you don't. Simple as that. Don't bother me with the politics of it. Just go listen to Propagandhi or the most obscure of Rage Against The Machine songs if you're that ready. Of course, do that and you're really just a fair-weather.
Without further ado, I present to you this hotshot that is much ado about nothing.
~Mackenzie Seville


Call me Enekai. I come presenting to you this dark hearted comedy hoping you might glean some sort of- what may be a good word- ah, why not this old chum, schadenfreude?
Yes. I present to you a tale specifically crafted to create a bit of schadenfreude. At least, for me it was. To them, I can't be sure. Unless they're masochists- then this had been their Disneyland. And if they were social masochists- then this had been their Heaven!

And I say to you, it began not with the usual schism of worlds, but actually their coming together. If I recall, it was sundown or perhaps it was dawn. Maybe I was too hangover to remember and there was simply a pink-on-pearl sky that was the result of a massive overdose of cocaine and, what else, LCD, PCP, pup-pot, and whatever else they bring across this street nowadays. Yes, yes, it began with the upended remains of a certain Mr. Buckingham's limousine and our arrival in our droogish, black clad jumpsuits. We were sent out by the tribunal to take their money and land by force- what we did with the family after that, they would ask no questions. Thank God they didn't! Because I, reader, am sure as all breathing, ruddy hell unsure what the ghozzies we're doing here anymore.

Ah, Mr. Buckingham! A jovial man! Jovial, indeed. Nothing like his brutes he dares call children, mind you. In fact, if our beings had crossed years earlier and if we weren't divided by such a poor line as class- class, man! And we complain of race and creed, yet it's okay to trounce on class!- perhaps we could have been friends, mates to death and the thereafter. After all, he spends much of his time doing nothing but surrounding himself with chicks of holy white skin with cumbersome busoms and even grander arses. I'd love his life, I really would. I can't, can bring myself to it. [1]

Even when I read about that private jet crash in the Andes, which was not accidental but actually caused by our fellow comrades hijacking one and then flying a rich [2] and his fellow whores straight into Hell, I couldn't so much as flinch. How could I? I used to love when rich people suffered. Maybe I still do. Class antagonism, class violence, class ultraviolence was, is my love, my aphrodisiac. However, as I sit here, chugging down nog at a phenomenal rate with Mr. Buckingham in arms, I'm more worried about the fact that a man is about to shove his finger up my ass than when I let two children starve for a week. In any other situation, it would most certainly be the other way around.
Regrets not abound, we had fun with ultraviolence. It was a long and dark December, and their faces were so pale, so old for losers so young!

'You've had enough, you idle rich!' I remember snatching that loaf of bread out of his hands just as he was to take a bite. I loved doing that every day, watching. I just loved it. What could he do? In a dictatorship of the bourgeoisie, there's the privileged rulers and the oppressed poor who have no rights. In the dictatorship of the proletariat, guess whose rights are null and void! A colleague of mine stood guard with his AK47s and swords by both his sides. The beard of the man was stained with the reeking flakes of old hops and hard liquor, just as the breath riding his cackling smile refused to relent in its thrashing of my nose.

I gagged when he merely approached me. I could see young Arthur Buckingham look down and hide a chuckle. For that came the butt of a rifle to his neck. I think I opened it, but this I do not know- just that his white skin became overwhelmingly wet and red!
'You bourgeoisie dick, I said shut up!' Although then again, what do I have against whites? Same way blacks hate blacks in the Wild West, or how Sunnis and Shi'ites maintain their bloodshed in the Fun Down East? Oh, pardon me- just an indent.

Onto Jazon. Jazon is simply a freak of nature, a mistake of God, what mind you. A pleasant fellow on good days, but of the most moronic. He's a moron. An imp headed, bullwater, cocksuck probably spawned from Stoke in a tranny's stockings whose first utterings were plastic jugs of sound the doctors couldn't even call speech. He came to work at Mr. Buckingham's steel mill one day. Left without bollocks. Or hands for that matter. In fact, if it weren't for his bionic transhuman replacement now, perhaps he'd never even be here. The soviet is kind to the handicapped, if you mean the "sent to a concentration camp" sort of "kind."

If you were to ask me, I think he needed a new brain as well.
I find it funny how we had even gotten here in the first place. Heh. How a day could've started off with a gigantic flying wasp, then descended into such decadence before ending on this rather somber note. Yes the Buckinghams tried, o' tried to resist, but it wasn't the good kind of rebellion that you can only pump your fist in unwavering support- no, it was that damned bourgeoisie type of resisting that really pisses the hell out of me. And I mean Your Granny's Ninety-Two Year Old Foamy Piss, not that balderdashing diseased piss that falls out of whatever you would call this overmassed brainwashed youth of today. Funny thought- hipsters, tweens, gangstas, they now live forced on rations within the soviet. Do they still want to act like spoiled princes and princesses? Or will they learn from what the soviet hath done to the Royals at Buckingham Palace? Horror hoorays! They say they cried like the Romanovs! God damned the Queen it seems!

And when Arthur blew a raspberry in my face, how we loved making those brutes starve, showing them excesses of excesses of greasy, diabetes inducing rubbish for hours on end, but keeping them chained to a tree, the plates of the junk food just barely- a decimeter, one decimeters- out of reach, we were chortling like the Devil when he reaps another unholy and vain soul at the sound of their tears! And rations for them, not even a bowl of rice! Well why should we apologize? The Fuckinghams fucking stole thirty fucking tonnes of food, and my daughters died in me own hands from starvation while these aristobitches dined with their blue blooded friends. How I wished to make a blue bloodbath that very day, the very day I joined the Menshevik Revolutionary Party. Now, believe me when I say the good Mr. Buckingham made an attempt to give scrapes to us, but his brutes that try to call themselves children wanted it more. Bah. Listen to me.

In case these things turn you on, I'll try to go hour by hour of the day as best I can without actually giving you such a detailed account, never mind. In fact by saying I'm going an hour by hour account of the day I'm already lying to you.

'Talk!' Comrade Jazon screamed into the face of a plank of wood.
'It-' I tried.
'Shut up!' Jazon pimp slaps the board, then screams out in pain as splinters rip at his hand.
I tried to warn him. Yes we know the plank has cameras hidden into its rotten exterior- its how the riches keep us off their palaces. But may I add I don't think the video feed actually goes anywhere else than their hovels and maybe the pigs' offices.
Oh, and here's another tale! 'H-here, here's ten thousand pounds!' Mr. Buckingham pushes a wad of good and bads across the table, only for Comrade Jazon to blow it all to Hell with his rifle.
'What was that for, you nob?' I smacked him across his head with my cane and hoped he'd say ouch.
'We don't want this rich's money!' I'm not sure if he was trying to but he gashed Arthur and Victoria's faces with the barrel of the rifle as he turned to fire off not only into the money, the bloody remains of the money, and the food- our god-damned, motherforsaken food, man!-
'Yes we do!' O' I threw out my greasy and bloody and skeety fingers for each and every shred of the rags as they floated midair like confetti. They danced away as I grabbed, damn them! 'What, did you think we brought them here, to this cum-soaked shack, to shag his daughter?' I could've sworn I heard a proper shriek.
...'Well, kind of, yes, but-' Mr. Buckingham stood up at a moment's notice and plowed his fat fist through Jazon's cheek. I didn't even know it was possible to die standing up! Like I really wanted to help him to his feet. At that point, I wanted to see Jazon bleed a little- 'viddy him bleed on the ground,' eh?
Good old, Arthur Darth Vader, plopped by the next day- all one metre of him- with our digital drugs. It was nice to get high off of electrons after so long a low. When he saw that we were roughing up some of the losers, we decided to keep them up for thirty two hours straight with brain melting buzz sounds at close to one hundred thirty five decibels. When Victoria began to bleed from the nose, Jazon dragged her off to the woods and began the old in-out-in-out again.

But for some damned reason, I was getting tired of this mindless bit. No idea! But it was getting old, and I suppose moral development juxtaposed with hardcore, softcore relationship building, fraternizing with the enemy, and surviving the oh-so-outrageous terror of Jazon transformed them from semi-royal capitalist pig-dogs into... into, dare I say it, humans. And aren't I human too?
So one evening, Young Victoria stood and walked daintily towards the restroom door. Where was I? Well, I had been in front of the door, and stepped by as she entered. Jazon was at my side. Was.
He walked in and began laughing. It was to "protect" her. I simply checked the time on my electronic paper. Of course I couldn't help but chuckle as a few quasi-erotic thoughts passed through my head. Then I felt sorry for her oddly enough. What was hatred going to do? Certainly not bring my children back.
On the walls of the door was an obscene picture of the late Mrs. Buckingham banging it hard with Her Majesty in what I interpreted as some sort of disturbing yuri. I never met Mrs. Buckingham and never cared to. From what Mr. Buckingham always mutters, he never cared to know her either.

Outside it was raining a tad, and this meant that Arthur had to dig fifty holes in six hours. At the start, he told me that he wanted to make it stop raining and that he wouldn't dig any hole and that I should burn in hell for beating him with leather whips, and I told him... Well, actually, I think I may have kept whipping him. Even the rich had to deal with the fact they could not yet make God their bitch.
In the two years we've holed ourselves up at the riches' palace, sending them all here and remaking Hanoi Hilton-For-The-Old-Bourgeoisie, I do think I've undergone something of a transformation. If anything, I've learned something.
'Bitch, I told you we're all eating that!' I barked into his face, making sure there was healthy amount of spit.
'I didn't know!'
'Bitch! You son of a-' My gut screamed with pain, just as with Mr. Buckingham's, Arthur's, Victoria's, and several other anomies and pigs. A struggle for the potty would ensue in mere minutes. And so the Night of the Running Shits began thanks to Jazon's goddamn lack of any semblance of cooking ability. But even more than that, his freehand when it comes to common drugs. I told him not to use the digestives- I explicitly told him this. The Buckinghams are not the raging rich arseknobs they were two winters ago during the Riots and after the Revolution and the Fall of the Riches. But no, he insists that they need to act like the Jacobins or the Bolsheviks and take no prisoners. Last I recalled, they killed the rich and the bully gentries to prevent counter revolution, not because they were... OK, partially because they were rich, but mainly to prevent counter revolution. And in no case did I remember-

'You don't mess with a man's fish! I told you!' Slap. 'Do I need to gouge your eyes?'
'I'm sorry, I thought you liked five litres of salt in your fish-'
'Do you want me to add more?'
'I'm gouging your eyes!'
Jazon is a fucking idiot. So here I am, ready for my prostate exam, laying my arse out for a stranger with gloves, all because of Jazon's pouring of a good five deci's of hard line digestives- diarrhetics, they really were- in what I guess he thought was just the Buckingham's, the rich's, supper.
But if you ask me, he did it less because of class and more because he is turned on by Victoria. If it weren't for the ten year age difference, he'd have taken her off to Finland and done a good bit of "Haha, whee whee" for the rest of their lives. The bloke's a sadist some days, just so he can satisfy whatever sick fetish he made up. Blood? Crack out the whip and beat 'er down for several hours while singing the Internationale. Or, as that day, waste? Just pour out some of my digestives that I paid for into whatever two bit food the local soviet gave us, and ruin her keeshkas. Money ain't worth anything these days. The fact I even was able to own electronic paper was a miracle in and of itself. Same as his bionic arms. The man's daft! He'd burn the world and claim he did it to kill a roach!
So there was me and Jazon ruining the lives of these human beings for a good two years before the new government came to power and cracked down on the anarchist soviets. I could care more, I admit, but when a man is intimately violating you, most things tend to... not matter.
I've never been tits up about hurting someone, but Jazon couldn't resist forcing them to do a bit of the old manual slave labour for what time remained. And of this point, I really didn't care anymore. Human being first, class second. That's the way I see it. I could apologize even knowing my three toddlers endured the pangs of starvation and misery to death, especially since Mr. Buckingham just watched his own preteens- they're emaciated and look Auschwitzed- fall behind the wall of death. Best I don't dwell on it- I may recant this!
I ran a day before the new King's SAS came in and shot us all up. Well, them all up. Back to hacking. It's what I did best. Why I tried joining the Oxford Soviet, I don't know. Redistributing the wealth by way of force is nowhere near as fun as watching the rich and government scruffies scream in agony as all their computer files disappear before their eyes. Imagine the sheer horror! Besides, you never touch a man's money. Last time Jazon tried to take a stack that didn't belong to him, he lost his bollocks- which I've told you. All hell can't stop them now.
So this is the world we live in now- the old rich are just about done in, whimpering ghosts and wrecks. The new rich are the elite few old poor who had an ego trip and now believe themselves to be the true rulers of the world, and that we new old poor are inferior. Is this what proper socialist reform was supposed to mean? Oh what do I care. Fuck politics. I'm going back to shagging.


[1] 'I can't, can bring myself to it' is a shout out to John Lennon in the Beatles song, "Revolution," particularly from the line 'When you talk about destruction, you can count me out, in.' It is not a typo.

[2] 'Rich' is sometimes used as a noun, primarily far-leftists and communists, and is considered derogatory when used in this manner.
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