Dinner Party Massacre

An Extreme Horror

Aleister Davidson

Black Mantis Press LLC

Copyright © 2018 by Aleister J. Davidson

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or events is purely by coincidence.

I

Rape

1

The Making of a Madman

It was 20 years ago today that they tortured me; that they put me through hell. Today I would get my revenge. Three piggies in the back of a limousine. Three little piggies that have no clue what is coming. They think they are heading to a fancy dinner party at the home of a famous writer. They aren’t wrong, but they won’t be dining with me. Not for long. No, they will be shown the error of their ways, and if they are lucky, they will beg to die quickly.

My home sits in Park Presidio, in San Francisco. There is a beautiful view of the Golden Gate bridge from my front porch. It cost me a whopping twelve and a half million dollars. I didn’t blink an eye. Just wrote a check for it. Ever since the movie deal for my first book I have been rolling in dough. Something these little piggies don’t know about me though, as famous as I’ve become, is that I used to be homeless. A street kid who was on the Haight before I was even eighteen. It was then that they mistook me for someone who would take the kind of horrors they unleashed.

I was only nineteen when I wound up in San Francisco County jail for selling less than an eighth ounce of marijuana to an undercover police officer. A cop who dressed in wretched, filthy rags. A cop who I easily mistook for a gutter punk like myself. He had the scabbed face of a meth head. Where I came from cops weren’t tweakers, they preferred cocaine. But tonight it wasn’t the cop who set me up, nor the cops who arrested me that were being brought to my house for the “dinner party.” It was the San Francisco County sheriffs who processed me into the jail.

The three little piggies had been jovial, almost kind, at first. Given the situation, having just been arrested for a felony, it was a calm that I needed. If the sheriffs were cool and liked to talk then maybe doing time in SF wouldn’t be so bad. Or so I had thought.

We joked about weed and how it should be legal while they fingerprinted me. But that was the end of my life as I knew it.

What happened next was the beginning of my living nightmare. After they took my prints, I was escorted into the room where inmates are strip searched. Everything proceeded normally at first. But just as I thought it was over, and I began to put my new orange jumpsuit on, I was grabbed forcefully by hands whose grip was an iron vise. The sheriff spun me around, shoved my face into the wall and punched me in the ribs. The air went out of my lungs. I was struggling to regain my breath as he spoke.

“I’m gonna need you to go ahead and bend over again. Spread those cheeks white boy,” the sheriff said. I was intimidated immediately. He was built like a pro wrestler or a football player. I am six feet tall, but he towered over me and was more than double my weight, which wasn’t surprising as I was a street urchin.

The sheriff unzipped his jumpsuit, and I began to shake. I was trembling, knowing what was to come. He didn’t hesitate and penetrated me forcefully. I knew immediately that my anus had torn. I could feel a trickle of what I assumed to be a mixture of blood and some kind of lubricant oozing down my leg as he tore into my ass. Tears welled in my eyes, he bent over me, putting his mouth next to my ear. Just then the curtain opened behind us, and the distinct sound of a camera flash going off hit my ears. I glanced back as best I could and saw a round, white, female sheriff with blond hair staring at me, holding a Polaroid camera. She took another picture and let out a giggle. I was more shocked by her actions than by the fact that I was being raped.

As the lady sheriff closed the curtain to the strip search room behind us, the sheriff who was violating me whispered into my ear. “All you little white boy fucks from the midwest think San Francisco is a joke. What do you think now, bitch? You ever, and I mean ever, say anything about this to anyone, and we will kill you. You understand?”

I nodded without hesitation. Then he continued. It felt like hours before he stopped. I sobbed and cried into my shoulder, feeling his breath on my neck, ear, and cheek throughout the whole process. When he finished, he gave me nothing to clean up with except for the clothing which I had been issued. I felt relief that it was over. I couldn’t look the giant pig in the face. As soon as I got dressed he opened the curtain back up and took me to a holding cell, gripping me much harder than was necessary under the left arm.

He opened the holding cell, which was a transparent plexiglass wall. It had a toilet in the back of the room, surrounded on only one side by a waist-high metal wall. There was a bench along the length of one wall. I was shown the cell next to it, which was all but empty and had a couple of friends of mine from the Haight Ashbury as its only occupants. Alas, I was not put in with them. I was shoved into an overcrowded cell, whose occupants were all members of the same gang. A set from Hunter’s Point, they were hard as nails. As I was shoved into the cell, crying from my eyes and bleeding from my ass, all eyes turned to me.

“Have fun you racist bitch!” the sheriff who raped me yelled at me as he flung me into the cell as well as directly into one of the inmates before he slammed the door. I immediately knew I was about to be in a fight for my life and I was not likely to make it. The sheriff making me out to be some kind of racist was a shocking surprise.

As a young, brutish man got in my face, baring gold teeth at me, I felt like just giving up. Then the voice of my salvation whistled through the room like the sound one would use to call a horse or a dog. A cowboy whistle that I could not make myself but had been trying since I was a child.

“Leave the white boy alone,” the man on the bench said. He was the oldest man in the room by far. He didn’t sit up, he didn’t even open his eyes, and everyone obeyed him without question, without hesitation.

While the processing time should have been a couple of hours I was left in that holding cell, with barely room to even curl in the fetal position as I did, for a day and a half. A day and a half without food, water, medical attention. The gang members were all processed in and given proper cells. I was left to rot until the same sheriffs who abused me had gone home and were back on duty. My best estimate was eighteen hours, but that was only from talking to the new people who would come and go through the cell. I only had a vague notion how long it had been. I was half delirious, and my mind had shattered. The rape had been more than I could take. I was already homeless and felt nominalized, marginalized and victimized by society. I couldn’t trust myself to know how long it had been.

Every hour or so during my initial incarceration I was subjected to the fat lady sheriff coming by the cell and taking the polaroid picture out of her chest pocket and pressing it to the cell door. Sometimes she would be accompanied by another rotund sheriff with a buzz cut. He would point and laugh at us through the door and call us faggots and homos and all sorts of other slurs. He even let me know that he as going to go home and jack off to the pictures that she took. It became evident that this was a regular thing for them. The sick fucks! The other inmates that had been abused as well had the same thing happen to them. There were three of us total in the beginning, and the sheriffs made sure all twenty people in our tiny room knew who we were. That we had been tortured and that it could happen to them as well. It was an unthinkable extra level to the humiliation that I had suffered.

When I finally got moved to my bunk, it was a relief. They moved me to a place called B Pod. It was supposedly for non-violent drug offenders, but I soon found out that it was full of people of all types, violent among them, as the other Pods were overpopulated. There were a lot of people in for very minor cannabis offenses though. It wasn’t like it is today with legal marijuana. They took it as seriously as cocaine. Another way to victimize the poor.

Two weeks went by before I even met my court-appointed attorney. She was in Boston; her father had unexpectedly died. I said that I understood, but it didn’t make it any easier for me to know that I could have gotten out within three days. For the two weeks when she was in Boston I had her assistant helping me and appearing in court for me. She came to see me a couple of times, and it made me very uncomfortable. She was my age or only a couple years older. A young woman with perky tits and a pretty face. She would let her lips casually graze my ear when conferring with me in our initial court appearance. I didn’t hear a word she said. Her touch and her smell were too much to handle. When she would come to B Pod to confer with me she was always touchy; too touchy. It made me realize that she was lonely. Even though she could walk freely out the door into the world, even though she was young and attractive she still sacrificed her social life and her love life for her career. In my bunk at night, I would fantasize about her. She was the only female contact I would have for weeks other than the sheriffs, and they were all pigs in my mind at that point.

The attorney’s assistant informed me that I was facing up to three years in prison. San Quentin to be exact; the same prison that houses Charles Manson. She encouraged me to take a plea deal. Still, I pleaded not guilty and stayed in jail. I wanted an actual lawyer to talk to me before I made any life-changing choices. I had been arrested twice earlier that month and had been let out after a few hours the first time and after a day the second. Possession charges. With the third charge a sales charge, and my court date for the other offenses not yet having passed, the state decided to run all of my charges concurrently, which was good for me. That also meant that I couldn’t get released on my own recognizance because I had been twice previously.

So for three weeks, I sat in jail in San Francisco. Three weeks before I could shit. Three weeks I had to suffer without anyone else that cared about my misery or the torture I had been put through. I decided not ever to tell anyone after I got out. I would be lucky to make it out alive if I said anything to the nurse, or so the rapist had informed me. I would be killed on the outside if I ever went to the cops, or so the rapist had informed me. I had no idea how powerful they were, and I was just a kid; a street rat who had fallen into poverty and homelessness chasing my dreams of professional skateboarding.

Still, I knew that one day I would seek revenge for what they did to me. For what they did to others and for what they apparently planned on doing in the future. I didn’t care how many of them there were in their network. The three who were involved in torturing me were going to get all of my vengeance. It would be enough to send a message to the others involved if there were any.

I spent the twenty years after my abuse in SF County Jail writing science fiction and horror stories. I got published within a couple of years, and here I am now, twenty years later with four hundred million dollars and a mansion in Park Presidio. It wasn’t all great though. Before my first novel got turned into a major motion picture, the income was meager. But that big break did come, and it has been the good life ever since. A life so good in fact that I have mayors and governors over to my house regularly. Movie stars and rock stars, professional athletes, and foreign dignitaries. I hobnob with the elites of the world, no matter what circle their influence is in. Tonight I am receiving a personal favor from my friend the mayor of San Francisco in the form of my torturers unsuspectingly being delivered to me.

It would almost be worth it to just enjoy an evening with them, as they thought would happen, before letting them know who I truly am. Not only the number one bestselling author Alan Price, but one of the kids they tortured back in nineteen ninety-seven. I would cherish the looks on their faces before sending them on their way. But no, I have something much more elaborate planned. I have an entire evening of revenge in store for them.

As the limo parks in the parking lot of my estate, I am still rereading the dossier my people prepared for me over the past few years. Linda Harris, aged fifty-four years. Mother of three. Married to deadbeat dad Mark Harris, aged fifty-six. Lastly, there is Samuel McBride, the giant muscle man with the ebony skin who despite hating white people has two white accomplices that help him sodomize inmates. Linda, Mike, and Samuel. You decided to rape the wrong man.

My butler greeted the guests and the mayor as the driver returned the limo to the garage. They seemed so excited; I could tell as I watched them through surveillance monitors. To meet the famous Alan Price, author of Even Necros Get the Blues, All’s Well That Ends In Splattered Gore, and Satan House From Hell! Not to mention Martian Moon Men From Beyond Pluto. It was apparent that Linda was a huge fan of mine and the other two were just excited to meet an A-list celebrity. From the way Linda gushed at the threshold, I could tell she was an uber-fanatic. I bet she even had a bobble-head toy of me that she bought for too much money on eBay. She had definitely seen the walkthrough of my home on YouTube that Home and Garden network posted. My way of giving the fans a peek into my private affairs without revealing too much. After all, I primarily live in Hawai’i for six months out of the year. I spend another three months traveling and spend very little time in San Francisco anymore. I don’t even care about this place, the things in it, the art, the cars, etc. A peek into this half-empty mansion is no more a look into my life than my incarceration had been socially rehabilitating for me. The fans ate it up though they didn’t get to see the secret, underground floors. The ones where my guests will end up by the end of the night.

I greeted the mayor and my three little piggies in the foyer. I could tell that Linda was still in awe and Mark and Samuel seemed a bit annoyed to be in her company. I was pleasant and greeted them as any other special guests that the mayor might bring over. I am no actor, but I did an excellent job of not breaking into a smile after my butler took their coats. I didn’t want to betray my fiendish intentions with something as simple and telling as a sinister grin. But I wore it on the inside.

We gathered in the dining room and enjoyed a couple of bottles of wine, some cheese, and some sourdough bread from Boudin. My chefs were cooking away in the kitchen, and the smells wafted through the house, enticing everyone. Linda went to the lady’s room, and I took the mayor aside into a hallway off the kitchen to get a bit of privacy from Mark and Samuel. I let him know that his services were undoubtedly appreciated and three hundred thousand dollars were in a briefcase with my driver and when he was returned home at the end of the evening the briefcase was his to keep.

I thought that everything would be good to go; that I could proceed with my planned night of terrible horrors for those scum, those dirty little piggies. The mayor informed me that the three had come to my home thinking that I intended to buy child pornography from them, as well as photographs of prisoners being tortured, raped, and humiliated. I had no clue that it would take such a drastic approach for the mayor to pitch their visit to the three, but he assured me that without that angle they would have been suspicious. Apparently, they considered themselves to be quite powerful, quite organized, and for all intents and purposes to be untouchable. The mayor seemed to think that they were working for one of the intelligence agencies. He assumed the C.I.A., but he wasn’t sure.

I played it like I was ignorant of who they were. I played it as if it were going to be a big problem and the operation I had planned would be called off. The mayor bought it. He had no idea that I had been monitoring them for years through my own contacts in the intelligence community. Good. That was the way I liked it. I could send him home, assure him everything was called off and I got cold feet, and they all left together and all intact. Nothing would be farther from the truth. I intend to visit hell on them.

I returned to the dining area with the mayor. There was a beautiful view of the city lights glistening off of the Pacific. The fog was nowhere to be found, and it made for a fun atmosphere. I had Miles Davis’ On the Corner playing through my stereo and was not shocked to see that Linda broke out some coke and started to cut out lines for everyone. Good, let them get wasted. One last fun time for them, I don’t care. I did find it funny that they didn’t even bother to ask me if I were okay with it, but then again they thought that they were at my house to sell me kiddie porn.

The staff brought out our dinner shortly after the mayor and the three pigs snorted a couple of lines. Glazed pork tenderloin. How perfect for the final meals for these pigs. The mayor picked at his food reluctantly, wondering if he were getting drugged too. All I could do to reassure him was to smile a wry smile his way and dig into my own tenderloin ravenously.

We all ate, drank, laughed and shared life stories. It was awkwardly comfortable. If they weren’t psychopaths who raped and, I assume, murdered people…if they weren’t traffickers of kiddie porn, if they weren’t pigs…I might have been friends with them. I played it off well. Even after a few glasses of wine. I have a cousin who is a certified psychopath. I understand the pathology, and if I have to, I can fake being one of those people. One of the sick fucks who’s narcissism is so extreme that they cannot see past their own nose. It takes that kind of self-centeredness to be a true psychopath, not just a mere sociopath. A real psychopath is so narcissistic and sadistic that their complete lack of empathy cannot be easily covered up. I bet Mark and Linda have never felt a thing for each other. It is sad really. To go through life feeling nothing but anger, to only feel pleasure at the suffering of others. It takes a severe detachment to be like these people. I won’t have to play along much longer. The drugs will be kicking in soon enough.

II

Revenge

2

The First Little Piggy

I woke Mark up first. I wanted the other two to hear his screams as he was tortured. I wanted them to wake up wondering what was coming for them. To writhe in anticipation of the horror that they knew was imminent. Mark was still drugged and snoring loudly four hours after dinner. It gave me plenty of time to get everything prepared.

He was stripped naked and put in old-fashioned stocks. I had a jail cell built just for him. Old-timey bars like Sheriff Andy Griffith’s jail in Mayberry. It looked like the set of some bad western from the nineteen sixties. Alone, ball gag in his mouth, facing the wall with his ass to the door Mark Harris exploded awake with a scream as I punched him in the balls full force. I could hear his cry even through the ball gag. Delightful.

“Mark, do you know who I am? Do you know why you are here?” I asked him in a monotone voice that showed neither anticipation nor guilt.

The fat piggy shook his head no. I put on a set of brass knuckles and walked around to the front of him and removed his ball gag. Before he could talk, I smashed his jaw, giving him that brief moment of hope that he could speak before breaking the mandible. Several teeth flew out and hit the wall, and Mark wailed in pain. I caught him a couple more times in the mouth, knocking him out cold again. I put the gag back in his mouth and slapped his cheek to wake him up.

“Mark, I am one of your victims. You and your buddies abused and tortured, neglected and RAPED me. In nineteen ninety-seven. It has been twenty years and look at what you made me into! After that trauma, I turned my life around. I became the famous writer that you know today. I earned four hundred million dollars so that I could fuck you up; so that I could torture, mutilate and kill you and your friends. Revenge is all that has kept me sane all these years and today, with the help of the fucking mayor of San Francisco I will finally have it,” I said as plainly as I could. I was genuinely having fun with him. He began to cry and started to pee.

I shook my head and thought how pathetic he was. He could dish it out, but he couldn’t take it. I pulled my cock out and began to urinate on him. If he were going to piss on my floor, then I would piss in his face. I could tell the hot urine stung his bleeding lips. He tried to shake his head, to fling beads of piss off in every direction as I finished and zipped up. He got some drops on my shirt, so I broke his nose with the brass knuckles. It exploded in an eruption of blood. Good.

“Now Mark. I am going to kill you quickly because you were the least shitty of the three little piggies. Well, not exactly quick, but the quickest of the three of you. That is for sure. Well, maybe not. Honestly, it really isn’t for you to know.”

He began to cry. I walked over to a table I had set up slightly beside and behind him so that he could not see what was on it. I found a dull kitchen knife, rusty and old. I carved the word pig into his forehead, slowly and deliberately. After the first letter, he stopped fighting me and just went with it. He was crying a steady stream of tears. I put the knife up and brought a container of table salt from the table over to him and displayed it. He whimpered. I poured a handful and smeared it into the letters that I carved into his forehead. He screamed in bloody agony. Great! That inspired me to pour vodka on his face to wash the salt off. He cried again. I had to take the gag off of him; the screams were getting too good.

Next, I brought a map gas torch out and lit it up. The kind that plumbers use to solder copper pipe. I thought about taking it to his nipples but couldn’t resist going for his balls again. I singed the hair off, being careful to not touch the flesh at first. Just when he couldn’t take the anticipation any longer, I applied the tip of the torch right to his scrotum. The poor piggy yelped and squirmed. Oh, it was getting fun!

I spent the next hour cutting off his toes one by one. Then his fingers. I cauterized each wound as I went with an old-fashioned iron. It looked much like the iron that came in the Monopoly game, a relic from the nineteenth century. I kept it red hot with the map gas torch easily enough. Now and then I would take the entire iron and set it, red hot, on his back. It took vast swathes of skin and melted it away instantly. He lost consciousness several times.

Feeling a little creative, I shoved a few of his missing digits up his ass. I only needed a bit of lube, which I had brought to the under-basement dungeon by the gallon. I figured that by the time I was done with the third piggy that a gallon might not have been enough. But did he deserve any lube at all? Ultimately I decided yes. I’m a civilized human being. Not an animal like them. Not like the three bad little piggies.

I gave him a half hour to rest after taking both of his thumbs. I remembered him saying how much he was going to jack off to the pictures his wife took of me when I was being sodomized by Samuel McBride. Thinking about it made me want to do something out of character for me. It made me want to pull my cock out and beat off in front of him. So I did. I walked around to the front and put my dick inches from his face and pounded it. When he looked away I would punch him, so he mostly watched. I occasionally stopped to take a Polaroid on an ancient camera. Flashbulbs weren’t easy to find anymore, but with the kind of resources I have anything is possible.

I was getting bored. I wasn’t going to be able to ejaculate on his face as I thought. I just ain’t attracted to pigs. I figured that I would save it up for his wife. Hell, I might even rape that bitch. Why not? It wasn’t like she was going to live through the night anyway.

“Well Mark, I’m bored with you now,” I said as I put my dick away. “It is now time for you to die.” I got a twenty-two caliber handgun off of my table of implements and lubed up the end of it. It slid easily enough into his ass, despite it having been filled with fingers and toes.

But something overcame me, and I then decided to let him live. I removed the gun and filled his anal cavity with superglue. After putting several tubes of it into his asshole, I knew that he would die slowly as his digits rotted inside of him. Good. One little piggy went to market. I’d make sure that the butler kept him fed enough to prolong his agony.

3

The Second Little Piggy

Next, I went to the cell down the hall, adjacent to Mark’s. His wife was there, bent over a stool with her wrists and ankles handcuffed to each other. God my butler rocks. I tell him something, and he gets it just right, down to the minute details. I walked right in and punched her right in the face. Not hard enough to knock her out and not with the brass knuckles. I took a picture with the Polaroid. Well, the second Polaroid. I had my butler set up a table full of implements in each of the individual cells.

“Your husband is dying. He has been shot. I shoved a gun up his ass and pulled the trigger a couple of times. I used a twenty-two. It should take a while for him to die. A slow agonizing death. I have much worse planned for you bitch,” I said to her. She took her situation much better than her husband and tried to remain stoic about her captivity and torture. “Oh, no reaction. Well okay. How ‘bout this? I thought about shooting him, but cut off his fingers and toes and shoved them up his ass to rot. He’ll go septic and die eventually.”

That seemed to get a reaction from her as she whimpered a bit in anticipation of her own wretched demise.

I noticed a pair of handheld garden clippers on my table. They were the first thing that called to me. I started with Linda’s left ear. Slowly squeezing until I took the lobe off. She screamed, a banshee wail that pissed me off, so I backhanded her. She tried to bite at me defiantly. I wasn’t having any of it. I saw a pencil on my table and decided it was just right for the task at hand. Grabbing her by the hair, I stuck it into her eye, slowly, yet forcefully. I applied just enough pressure to make it pop and blind her, but not enough to put it through the eye into her brain. Again she let out the banshee scream. Again I backhanded her.

Next, I took the garden shears to her nipples. I clipped them both off, quickly. Snip, snip. Her chest became a bloody smear. I thought she had unattractive breasts before, but after my alterations, they were truly hideous. Bent over the stool as she was, basically hogtied over it, her tits were flopping towards the floor as she twitched. Globs of blood splashing beneath her like red milk.

It was time to rape her. I had just the instrument in store for her, a floppy rubber dildo that had several razor blades inserted into it. I dipped it in my big vat o’ lube and rammed it right into her. She whimpered. I laughed at her as I worked the dildo back and forth, in and out, as rapidly as I could. I paid no mind to the razor blades and pretended that it was any ordinary dildo and any normal sexual situation. I laughed at her mockingly, cursed her for taking no pleasure in my masturbation of her.

I fucked her with the razor cock for ten minutes or so. It left her pussy a mutilated mess. Chunks of her insides clung to the death-dong as I sat it back on the table. She was barely conscious. It was time to take more Polaroids. I shot several, showing her each. She gasped as best she could at the sight of her destroyed genitalia.

I was growing bored again. Linda Harris wasn’t going to get much more of my attention. It was time for her to die. I had something special planned just for her. A quarter stick of dynamite, a little lube, her ass. I showed her the explosive, and she looked at me with pleading eyes that let me know she didn’t care how she went, she just wanted to go from this world. I shoved it up her ass, lit the long fuse and went back out into the hallway. The butler had suggested not doing it, but we compromised. I had him put in a blast door that I could close with the touch of a button. I got out into the hallway and found the control panel. I thick steel door came down from the ceiling and closed her in. A couple of minutes later and I heard a loud popping sound like a bag of popcorn left in the microwave too long. Whoever cleaned that up would definitely be getting a significant bonus come Christmas.

4

The Third Little Piggy

The last little pig sat alone in the last cell, trying his best to be noncompliant, despite the extremely compromised position he was in. My butler had again followed my instructions perfectly. The large man was restrained in a similar way to the other two, naked and exposed. The only difference was that he was standing. He was chained up from the ceiling, his wrists handcuffed. The chains weren’t long enough, so he hung there with the handcuffs cutting into his wrists. Samuel's mouth was sewn closed yet he struggled to make an audible noise. I had the butler do that for me. I didn’t want to hear a sound from this last little piggy. No, not a single peep. His feet were only able to reach the floor if he stood on his toes. It was the only way to relieve even the slightest amount of pressure from his wrists. That is why I had asked that his toes be nailed to the floor.

I spent hours making small cuts all over mister McBride with an X-Acto knife and then rubbing lemon juice into the wounds. He couldn’t squirm too much without tearing his toes away, which he did on a few occasions. From behind, I grabbed his cock in my hand and squeezed it as hard as I could, knowing it was bruising. I took the X-Acto and made a few hundred tiny cuts all over it. The last of his toes went. His feet were bloody stumps, barely dragging the floor.

“Mister McBride. Samuel. Can I call you Sammy?” I asked, rhetorically, as he cried and tried to look at me over his shoulder. I was glad his mouth was sewn shut. I didn't want to hear from such a shitty little piggy. Not one peep. “I am going to let you live for months. In fact for thirty-six months, which was my sentence at San Quentin if I had fucked up the probation that I was put on after my release from SF County. During that time I am going to torture you. I am going to rape you. Or at least my Lexington Steel dildo hooked up to a pneumatic actuator will. It will not tire. It will not come. It will not stop unless I tell it to. Do you understand? I will do everything that I can to make sure that you stay alive. You will be fed through a tube, straight to your stomach, a gruel of maggots and grubs mostly. It will keep you alive. And don’t worry, we’ll take you down soon. You won’t be hanging from your wrists for too long. I wouldn’t want you to die on me.”

And I left it at that. An eighteen-inch dildo, which I was kind enough to slather with lube because I am not a monster, slamming into his ass nearly twenty-four hours a day. I pretty much just let my butler handle it. I left it on autopilot. Often I would consider it as an indoor gardener would consider their crop. The hydroponic system keeps the plants watered, and the lights are on timers. You don’t have to check on it every day. It pretty much takes care of itself most of the time. That is precisely how it was for me with “Sammy.”

I let the scumbag pig rot in my under-basement, fed on maggots and continuously robot-raped. A month into it I castrated him. Gotta trim the hedges! Now and then I would break a bone. An arm, a leg. All of his fingers were eventually shattered. If he still had possessed toes, I would have smashed them too, with the same ball-peen hammer. I had never thought in my wildest imagination that somebody could suffer as he did.

Three years passed. By the end of it, he had no fingers, toes, nose, ears, lips. He had been entirely mutilated. His anus was distended and smashed, his guts hanging out of his asshole. His legs contorted into strange directions as every bone in them had been shattered several times, and his knees seemed nothing like a human's; more closely resembling the legs of a goat, since they bent backward. It was apparent his sanity was gone entirely. At a certain point, I realized that I was no longer torturing the man who had raped me. I was merely torturing his shadow.

He was broken, body, soul, and mind. It was beyond time to let him die. My butler and I took him out in the dead of night when there was a thick fog. We took him out a few miles into the Pacific, straight under the Golden Gate Bridge, on one of my yachts. We went out past the Farallon Islands, into shark-infested waters, where I shot Samuel in the head at the prow, and we threw him overboard. I had my revenge. Still, after so long, it felt hollow. I was still damaged. Probably more than ever. I had done horrible things. Things not even they could imagine. And piggies have some fucked up imaginations. The boat ride back to the marina was without pleasure. What would I do without my little piggy to play with? I stood at the prow in the thick fog looking on at the city lights. San Francisco at night is a magnificent sight. In fact, it was intoxicating, and I finally felt liberated from my past suffering. Or did I? In the moment I couldn’t really tell. The world seemed to be spinning. I was drunk on my final victory, over the slaughter of my three little piggies.

I heard a loud bang from behind me and felt a hot, singeing pain in my back that quickly spread through my chest. I turned, grasping at the rail as I fell to the deck. The last thing I saw was my butler’s face as he rolled me over the side and into the frigid bay. Something about it reminded me of Mark Harris.

As I drowned, already gagging on my own blood, it dawned on me. Harris. The butler’s name is Tom Harris.

Note from the Author

This story was originally published under the pen name Justin Tense and was entitled Triggered! an Extreme Horror.

About the Author

Aleister Davidson is an emerging author of horror, science fiction, and fantasy. He loves skateboarding, astrophysics, punk rock, bowling, and most of all writing. Sign up for his mailing list at www.aleisterdavidson.com for news on upcoming releases and occasional free stories.

Also by Aleister Davidson

The Beast: a Werewolf Horror

Gravel Switch: a Weird Tale of Extreme Horror