Posted at 3:52 am on Jul 26, 2007 by:
Red Spyder
Nothing like unnecessarily torturing someone to death.
The man slowly opened his eyes, pain shooting through his head and quickly spreading to the rest of his body. He couldn’t see anything, but darkness. A stale smell lingered in the air. He was able to feel something in his hair and on his forehead: blood, dried and caked up from him getting busted open after being hit over the head with a steel pipe. He didn’t know that though. He tried to remember where he had been last and what had happened. All that he could remember was working at his job and then nothing before waking up here, wherever here was.
Attempting to move his arms and legs, he found that he couldn’t, much. He then realized that he was in an upright position, his arms and legs chained to the ceiling and floor. Panicking, he started to scream.
“Help me!”
He continued screaming and letting out similar shouts of help for about five minutes. It seemed more like several hours to him though.
Deep down in his gut, he had a very bad feeling that something horrible was going to happen to him if he didn’t find a way to escape from there soon. He began trying to pull on the chains as hard as he could, hoping maybe to be able to slip his hands and feet through the shackles or even break the chains if they were rusted or weakened.
Then, suddenly, the lights in the room came on, temporarily blinding him. They were bright fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling. Once his eyes adjusted to light, he turned his head to look around and saw that the room had a bare, dirty concrete ceiling and the floor and walls were covered in white tile squares, also dirty. The chains and shackles looked newer, large bolts keeping the chains in place. On the wall in front of him, there was a large, somewhat rusty metal door with a mirror to its left. Thinking that it was a one-way mirror and that someone was watching him, he began shouting again.
“Hey! Is someone there?! Let me out of here! Please!”
Unknown to the man though, the mirror wasn’t a one-way mirror. It was just a regular mirror. Also unknown to him was that the room was very similar to the room where two women were once tortured and killed with a power drill. In fact, that room was just down the hall outside of the room he was in.
After a couple more minutes, the door squeaked open and large figure entered the room, shutting the door behind him. The man tried to see who the figure was, but, somehow, whoever it was managed to keep themselves as little more than a shadow, despite all of the lights in the room. The figure swiftly walked straight towards the man, getting less than a foot away from the terrified man before he saw the figure’s face, an evil grin upon it and his eyes glowing red. Red Spyder pulled his right arm back and punched the man in the gut, driving the air out of his body and causing him to cough, his legs going limp and he started to fall, but the chains on his arms went tight, holding him up.
Red set a black bag down on the floor near both of their feet. The man hadn’t noticed the bag before. To him, it looked like that several objects were inside the bag. Reaching into a pocket of his trench coat, Red pulled out a pair of surgical gloves and slid them onto his hands.
The man, pulling himself back up onto his feet instead of hanging by his hands since the shackles were beginning to dig into his wrists, looked at Red, not recognizing the large man from anywhere before.
“Who are you?!?”
Red paused for a few seconds, seemingly glaring at the man with his piercing, glowing eyes, before deciding not to grant the man an answer and instead punched him in the gut again. The man managed to stay on his feet this time even though his abdomen hurt tremendously now from Red’s powerful punches. Is this how it was going to be? Every time he spoke, Red was going to punch him? Not particularly wanting to test that theory, he kept quiet for the time being.
Red removed his trench coat, tossing it onto the floor behind him, and crouched down to open the bag. He searched through the bag from a moment, pushing aside different tools before finding what he was looking for and pulling two items out, one in each hand: pliers and scissors. The man’s eyes widened with fear, thousands of thoughts running through his mind of what Red might do to with them. Red had about that many in his own mind.
“What are you going to do to me??? What do you want!!?!!”
That was when Red elbowed the man in the jaw, knocking him off of his feet again, his mouth falling open. Then, he reached into the man’s mouth with the pliers, grabbing the tip of the man’s tongue with them and proceeding to pull his tongue straight out in front of his face. Placing the scissors on the man’s tongue, one blade above and one blade below, barely touching the tongue, the man began trying to pull it free from the pliers, creating tiny rips on the end of his tongue, several drops of blood rolling off of it to floor, but not getting it free.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!! WAITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Pushing the handle of the scissors together, the blades began sinking into the man’s tongue, blood oozing out around the blades and flooding over them, splashing onto the floor. The scissors cut through the man’s tongue easily at first, but it became harder when they reached the center of the tongue. The man screamed, still trying to pull what was left of his tongue back into his mouth, tears running down his face. And then it was over. The tongue was completely severed from what remained inside of the man’s mouth and Red released it from the pliers grasp, the rubbery, blood covered piece of tongue hitting the tile floor with a wet smack.
The man tilted his head forward to keep from choking on his own blood, the blood pouring out of his mouth onto the floor, almost as if he was puking it up. It was a lot of blood at first, but after about thirty seconds, it slowed to a small, steady steam of blood, mixed with the man’s saliva. Red could barely see the tongue on the floor anymore and one side and the bottom of his bag was soaked with the blood. He was standing right in the middle of the large puddle of blood. If he had walked around, he would’ve left behind bloody footprints. The man was beginning to look a little pale and Red wanted to stick a rag in the man’s mouth to prevent him from bleeding to death, but he knew that then the man would just end up choking to death on the blood instead. He sobbed as he continued bleeding. He didn’t try to speak though.
Dropping the pliers and scissors to the floor, causing blood to splatter onto the tops of his boots and the front of his pants, Red began looking through the bag from something else. He quickly found what he wanted and revealed to the man a bundle of five ice picks held together by a rubber band, each with identical handles. Removing the rubber band and dropping it to the floor where it landed in the still growing puddle of blood, he took one of the ice picks in his free hand and stabbed it into one of the man’s knees, the pointed metal puncturing through the joint, making a squishing sound as some blood squirted out of the wound, before popping out of the back of his leg. The man raised his head up, screaming in agony, sending blood spraying out of his mouth through the air, some getting on his chin. Red twisted the ice pick around, causing more pain before letting go, leaving the ice pick embedded in the man’s knee.
Taking another ice pick in his free hand, he moved it higher up, to the man’s head. At first, the man thought that Red was going to stab him in the brain through the ear with it, but instead, Red turned in the ice pick in his hand so that it was pointed downwards and slammed it into the top of the man’s shoulder, the tip scraping along bone and drilling into muscles. The man’s body twitched more than he screamed this time. When the ice pick couldn’t go in any farther because of the handle, Red let go of it, leaving it in the man’s body as well.
He took one more ice pick, dropping the other two to the blood coated floor, and began jabbing the man in the gut with it, sending a stinging pain along the man’s abdomen as more holes were created in his body from the ice pick, blood seeping out of the holes and staining his shirt. Red then brought his hand up hold the ice pick and punched the man in the jaw, the ice pick gouging into the man’s cheek as Red’s fist moved away, taking away a strip of flesh with it, and causing the man to spit blood out of his mouth, narrowly missing spraying it onto Red.
Red dropped that ice pick to the floor too and began looking in the black bag again. He knew he’d have to work quicker now. The man was on the verge of passing out and dieing from major blood loss. Red found a scalpel and took it out. The man was unable to even focus on the weapon from all that Red had put the man through in those few minutes.
Holding the scalpel at the man’s belly, Red plunged it in and began to drag the scalpel upwards towards the man’s chest, slicing through skin, muscles, and organs, leaving a thick trail of blood behind the small, but deadly blade. The man weakly managed to lift his head to stare at Red, wondering why Red had chosen to kill him of all people, before dieing. Red continued carving into the man’s chest though, until he reached the top of it and he stopped, leaving the scalpel sticking out of the man’s chest, right underneath his neck.
Red sighed, looking over the now dead man’s body, his eyes still open. It was fun while it lasted at least. He just had one last thing he wanted to do before he left.
He reached into the bag again, grabbing the handle of what had to be the largest weapon in it: a hatchet. He then swung the hatchet in the man’s side, right above his waist. He tugged, removing the hatchet from his body, more blood leaking out of the man’s body, and swung again, the hatchet going in deeper than before. He continued doing this for several minutes, hacking away at the man’s flesh, breaking through bones, and leaving organs in pieces. He had some trouble getting through the man’s spinal cord, but he snapped it in half eventually. Finally, after many swings with the hatchet, Red cut through the last of the flesh and the man’s legs collapsed to the floor, blood spilling out of them where they were once attached to the rest of the man’s body, and the man’s upper body hung from the chains, swinging slightly, his spine and intestines dangling down, what was left of his blood dripping to the floor, draining from his body.
Red let the hatchet fall from his hand to the floor, the metal clanging against the blood painted tile, and turned around, taking off of the surgical gloves and throwing them to the floor before picking up his trench coat, which also had blood from the man on it, and left the room through the door, closing it behind him. In the hallway, he flipped a switch on the wall to turn back off the room’s lights, leaving the man’s mutilated corpse to rot in the tomb-like subbasement that was known to pretty much no one, but Red.
