Descent Into Madness

by Adam Kamran Dharani

Preface

A very interesting story, to say the least. You'll have to read it to find out what it's about and what happens in it. I do hope you enjoy it.


My name is Darran Amadi, aka Player One, aka Prisoner Sec-Deg-Mur-Seventy-One-Male. If you are reading this, I am dead. I want to warn you right now that my gut-wrenching tale of sadness, sorrow, tragedy, terror, horror and despair will be savage, brutal and barbaric. I have experienced the cruelty and depravity of the human race firsthand in ways only the devil himself could dream of. I will never forget the perils I have overcome. Even if the last three words of the second sentence of this scroll are erroneous, I will never forget a single moment, even if I live to be a thousand years. Every event and encounter, every sound, every motion, every word--nay--every syllable of dialogue is permanently ingrained in my mind and memory, and eternally embedded in my soul. Even if the point in time and space being occupied by a single memory is less than a grain of sand, it will forever be a part of my core. Even if my body is reduced to a state of nothingness, permanently in oblivion, the idea will always have existed since the moment it came to light, blooming like a flower in the sun. There is scarcely any foul language or profanity, but there is no need for obscenities when there are several brutal murders, massacres, executions, slayings and slaughters scattered throughout the story written on this bloodstained, filthy length of toilet paper attached to my carcass. It was a hell of a ride, and it all began fourteen years ago with a single phone call on that one fateful day.

The story began in the distant future, on Sector 477 of the solar plane, in the Chrono-Forsythe Nebula, in the year 2199. Humans had figured out a way to live four or five thousand years before dying, but our home was severely underpopulated. Sector 477 was home to two or three hundred people who could breathe the barren and desert air lacking oxygen without need for masks or other such trinkets. Its shape resembled that of a perfect cube with no unwanted patches or edges. It was a daunting and desolate place with grains of sand blowing through the hot and aching wind. There were fifty or sixty outposts and villages dispersed throughout the land, but only ten or twelve were habitable. The rest of the settlements still had radiation emanating throughout from the bombs that had been dropped to exterminate the defiant ones during the Fourth Rebellion in 2055. The insubordination was fueled by their hatred and abhorrence for King Zephyr, who was a ruthless and sadistic dictator. The nuclear weapons were dropped as an act of revenge for his assassination by the hands of the mobs. All but six of the villagers perished and the rest mysteriously disappeared within two months of the rebellion.

I made my home in Outpost #12 CDB, which was well known for the coliseum in the center, where my life forever changed. I received a phone call from the yakuza, who told me that they had my brother and would grant his safe passage in exchange for $1 billion. I saw an advertisement on television for the game show I Dare You, which was located in the coliseum. The grand prize was exactly enough to save my brother. I appeared on the show alongside eight other players, Players Two through Nine. I was Player One. The show was created by a being known as the Producer. The amount of money per round started at $1 and steadily increased until the final round. There were fifteen rounds and each round lasted anywhere from five seconds to one minute. Player Three had been mauled by dogs and shot dead in a mercy killing while trying to escape, and Player Four committed suicide to avoid a tortuous death in an early challenge. Player Two was killed by the audience, Player Five was killed by the Producer for bad language, assaulting another Player, and cheating, under the three strikes system, and Players Six, Seven, and Eight were killed by the challenges themselves. It was down to me and Player Nine, but Player Nine died two seconds before the end of the final challenge. I was the victor, and the only survivor, but the Producer refused to hand over the money until I defeated his henchmen.

In response, I brutally murdered him by stabbing him to death and caving in his skull with a rock. I spat in his eye and shot him three times for good measure, emptying my gun into him. Then I fed his corpse to the dogs, but kept his heart, killing any mutts who wrestled with me. I did some things to the canines; things I'm extremely proud of, all of which would be considered animal abuse, but were short lived due to me putting them out of their misery. But why should I apologize for having some of the best sex in my entire life?

I bit out a piece of the heart and swallowed it, making it symmetrical. Then I threw the gun to the side, for it was no longer useful unless I wanted to pistol whip a crony to their death. As soon as I retrieved the cash, the goons attacked, but it was so pitiful that they might as well have been committing suicide. In fact, three of them did just that. One henchman remained and I blinded him by producing a slit in both of his eyes. "Every time you see darkness, every time you lament your loss, it will be a reminder of the day our paths crossed, and how I spared your life, taking your eyesight as a spoil of war, and your pride along with it," I said, pouring my soul into each and every syllable.

After my speech, I traveled to the drop off point for my brother's ransom, a mechanic's garage, with a car in the process of being examined. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my brother. I ran to him, craving his embrace after such a long absence. He pulled a revolver from his holster, and placed the barrel inside his mouth. "Come on, come on, why won't this thing work?! Work, damn you, work!" he exclaimed, his index finger rapidly squeezing the trigger. "Got it. Now I can die by my own hand," he said, determined to end his life. He pulled the trigger and splattered his brains all over the wall. The gunshot rang throughout the room, echoing like a flash of lightning.

I crawled next to his body and turned him to the side. I kissed his cheeks and closed his eyes, saying goodbye for the final time. I buried my head in his chest and sobbed. I could feel his spirit leaving his body, rising up into the clouds, and into Paradise. He was only nineteen years old; his life had just begun. If he hadn't gotten involved with this gang, he wouldn't have mistaken me for a member (my face was caked in blood and I had scraps of human flesh plastered over my face, arms, and neck) and in fear for his life, made a hasty and permanent decision. I hoped that each and every one of the yakuza got struck dead where they stood. I wanted the earth to swallow me up and take me instead. I begged with the gods to let me go in his place--to give him another chance--another life. He was all I had. But it was in vain. The gods hadn't heard my prayers, because nonexistent beings don't have the ability to hear or listen.

I took the revolver from his clenched hand and set him alight, granting him the cremation he always wanted. Pointing the revolver at my own head, I pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. I looked inside the chamber and saw only darkness and the empty barrel of a gun. He had used the last bullet. Then everything went dark.

I woke up in a room with no windows and a solid steel door, which had a slot in the middle for feeding. I tried to move, but was stopped by an unseen force. I turned my head to the right with pain, and saw that I was naked with wooden boards nailed to my arm and leg. The boards were attached to a stone wall. Same thing on the left. A guard ambled to my cell, throwing food through the slot at an enormous stone slab next to my right hand and I asked him why I was here. "Have you ever seen the movie Oldboy?" was his reply. "No," I mumbled. "Figure it out," he said, as he turned to leave. "Wait!" I cried out. "What is it now?" he said, exasperated. "What the hell did you do to all my money?!" I demanded. "You'll get it back after your sentence is served, con," he sneered. "What sentence? Why am I here? How long do I have to stay here? Am I ever getting out? Please let me go." He smirked at me as he began to walk away, his footsteps receding down the corridor. "You will let me go or the next time you enter my cell, the walls will be painted red with your blood," I threatened.

He pressed a button on a nearby wall, and a shrill, high-pitched voice came over the intercom. "Is something wrong, Captain?" the voice screeched like a harpy. "Yes, ma'am, there is," he said. "I have a Code R here with prisoner initials D.K.A. I need a new meal supplement for him. Something worse than Nutraloaf. I can tell he's going to be a problem."

A woman walked down the corridor and unlocked my cell door. She had curly dirty blonde hair and a thin, slender figure, carrying herself with an air of confidence. She was petite and looked as if a gust of wind would blow her over. She had cheeks that you would want to pinch and a warm, inviting smile as bright as the sun. Her eyes were diamonds in a night sky. She exuded radiance and aspiration, and reminded me of a time before--a time with hope. A silver necklace with a cross was wrapped around her neck. She would be even more attractive, if not for the Glasgow smile running across her face. Fate had been cruel to her without even batting an eye. The voices I still heard at night told me her life was stolen from her by the Captain when she refused his advances and he forced himself on her. In a single moment, the life that she loved so deeply was reduced to ashes. It all happened in the blink of an eye. She stopped him from defiling her by scratching her fingernails against the left side of his face, creating a pocket of blood in the form of a ghastly scar, but in a devastating act, the Captain slit her face from ear to ear and poured acid down her throat, miraculously not burning through flesh, but scarring her once angelic voice, laughing that no one would ever find her beautiful again. But he was wrong. I did.

She still worked for the Captain, because in a misogynistic society with so few females, no one would hire her. To them she was a nothing, an outcast, an undesirable, even without the scar and her so-called wretched voice. She hated the Captain with a burning passion; the fire of her fury one of the few things keeping her happy, knowing that one day he would get what was coming to him, and finally understand the real meaning of karma. Her name was Joy and it suited her perfectly. Despite everything, she still had a positive outlook on life. It was amazing to see how a person could go through so much pain in their life, through hell and back, and still be genuinely happy. She wouldn't let that terrible moment define her and the rest of her life. She still had memories, but it seemed like the distant future--a long lost event that resurfaces every so often, but never comes to fruition.

She walked into my cell and replaced my meal tray with food so vile, horrendous, and putrid that it would be served in the cafeteria of hell. Before the incident, my meal was quite luxurious and lavish, resembling a five course meal from a ritzy hotel, intended to last an entire day. My "punitive nutritional supplementary diet" was a human head with blood, saliva, mucus, and sweat running down the top, a liver, pancreas, spleen, ear, placenta, kidney, lung, heart, intestine, neck, throat, and brain, bile, literal lady fingers, gummies made from the eyes and lips, a mucus-filled nose, a swollen foot covered with layers of fungus, a severed arm with the joint cut out, a two-gallon drink, three-fourths of which was watered down, with a combination of vinegar, lemon juice, garlic, onions, ginger, salt, cumin, olive oil, pickled onions, radishes, turnips, beets, broccoli, brussel sprouts, wasabi, spinach, with a cherry on top and a hollowed out finger as a straw, and a solid nine by nine foot cube of the aforementioned item. Everything in this meal was edible and able to sustain any living thing, albeit one of the most horrific in the history of mankind. It was to last an entire week before being replenished by a meal of similar caliber, of which every month, the cycle would begin anew. For every year spent in this wretched and godforsaken place, I received an anniversary meal more grotesque and inhumane than any I had consumed thus far. This was the only day of the year where consumption of the entire food was mandatory, and which after several years, I could never get accustomed to. Only on my birthday would I get a meal of my choice, including tobacco products and controlled substances if I so chose. "I'm sorry," Joy whispered as she delivered my food. She really was. To express this sentiment, she cooked me a plate from the cafeteria every Sunday, which was a lantern in the dark depths of Hades.

Joy left and the Captain entered the room. He waited until I ate a small portion of the food rectally, and drank some of the horrid drink, for he received pay correlating to the number of prisoners under his watch. Only on my birthday was I allowed to eat normally. I asked him my series of questions again. He left without reply.

Throughout the years this was my life; my entire world a damp and cold dungeon. I began a monotonous and incessant routine which resumed anew at the dawn of each day. I ate some food, asked my questions, took a nap, ate more, asked my questions again, took another nap, ate once more, asked my questions yet again, and struggled to fall asleep until midnight, only resting for six hours before being jolted awake by the Captain's truncheons clanging against the solid steel door. When the Captain heard my questions, he would sometimes make quips or witty remarks. Most of the time he smirked, rolled his eyes, flipped me off, stuck his tongue out, spat at my feet, threw feces at me, or walked away in silence. Every week I was cleansed with a hose containing cold water and examined by several members of the medical profession for disease, illness, infection, and various other abnormalities. I was given any needed medication or prescription drugs to keep me healthy. It was not uncommon for me to have violent hallucinations and visions raging through my head like a snowstorm. Most of these were about the Captain, although some were of harming myself in a multitude of spectacular, grim, gory, grisly, gruesome, and horrific manners. I laughed and cackled like a madman, spit dribbling down my chin onto my naked body. I lamented about how my freedom was forever lost, and I would die in this hellhole; alone, with nothing to my name--wiped from the face of the earth as if I never existed, slowly losing my grip on reality and fading into oblivion. I thought of birds flying through the steady stream of blowing wind and puffy clouds, their wings flapping through the breeze and dewy mist. Oh, how I wished I were one of those birds! I dwelled on every single thing I had done, thought, or said in my life. I wished I were in a coma, or better yet dead. I wished I were blind, deaf, mute, paralyzed from the neck down, without hair, bones, cells, joints, organs, limbs, tissues, or anything which by the fiber of my being made me even remotely human. I wanted to fade into dust day by day, floating through the night sky. At least then I would be free. I wished I was everything but nothing, up but down, hot but cold, light but dark, starving but full, large but small, round but flat, old but new, honest but lying, gay but straight, sober but drunk, a slave but a master, living but dead, angelic but demonic, flammable but fireproof, solid but liquid, nowhere but everywhere, matter but antimatter, freezing but burning, sane but insane. I wished the walls would slowly close in on me, crushing every bone in my body, as I prayed for death. It became a chore to distinguish fantasy from reality as otherworldly and supernatural visions plagued me relentlessly; aberrations and abominations of the human mind which still haunt me to this day. I was slowly losing my mind and sanity; becoming a shell of the man I once was, as I struggled to keep my head together in this nightmarish and surreal plane of reality. I again entertained the thought of suicide and self-destruction. I began to turn to mutilation, branding every inch of myself with cuts and gashes, then removing them using my saliva. The only thing keeping me from taking my life was vengeance; the thought that I would one day be released or escape my prison and have the chance to release years of pent-up anger, anguish, rage, misery, torment and fury on my captors in a wave of total and utter annihilation, which would consume all with an aura of destruction. The brutal onslaught would be a raging fire; the likes of which no force in the history of time and space could ever quell its flames.

This endless cycle of vicious torment continued for a little more than fourteen-and-a-half years. I was now thirty-five years old, having lost a good portion of my life. Fourteen years had been stolen from me. The years that were supposed to be the best ones of my life. The nails were rusty and worn out. The boards had decayed, as did my appearance. I had lost the hair on my head to lice, but my beard was a lion's mane. My eyes were sunken-in pools of darkness; swollen and puffy, with bags jutting out in every direction. The left one had fallen out of its socket eight years ago. My eyelashes beared a striking resemblance to that of Alex Delarge's from A Clockwork Orange. My teeth were sharper than an alligator's and pointed like razor blades. My fingernails were dirty and filled with grime. If I placed my elbows on my knees, they would slightly extend past the start of my feet. My muscles were rippled and I could lift my entire meal over my head with ease. My nipples were now quarter-sized bloodstains. My belly button had increased by eight sizes. My genitals contained a dense jungle of hair which stretched three-quarters of the way to my knee from either side. My testicles had swollen and filled with pus. They had sagged and were lined with wrinkles. In between each of my toes were mold, fungus and bacteria. The back of my feet were blackened like a burnt piece of meat. I was scrawny and gaunt; my bones poking through my skin, and my body emaciated from lack of nourishment.

I inched myself forward, causing the nails and boards to fall to the ground. I used various bodily fluids and a fragment of my jaw to create the illusion that the aforementioned items were still suspended to the wall. Then I used the weekly meal as an impersonation of my lackluster body.

I could hear the Captain outside making short grunting sounds, urinating in what was most likely my food. He scooped out half of it with his bare hands and flung it at my naked body. He threw the tray at my testicles, causing me to break position, wincing in pain. He caught on to this and began to call for backup. Before he could, I managed to stammer out a few words. "Wait!" I exclaimed. "I will become your slave until hell freezes over. I will hold your pocket until my hand goes numb and ceases to function. I will be your puppet until the day I die." He gained a twisted expression on his face in the shape of a perverse grin. "All this talk bores me," he purred. "It's time to show you a different side of me," he moaned. He removed his clothing, opened the door, and entered my cell. "Bend over," I whispered in his ear.

No sooner than he followed this command did his arm reappear as a bloody stump. While he was screaming, I pushed the meal tray through his orbital socket and into his brain. Blood trailed from his eye in a steady stream, splitting in two branches near the middle of the trail, dripping in the same puddle as his severed appendage. I smashed the metal tray against his knees until the skin completely peeled, leaving two shattered and blood-stained kneecaps. I cut his throat with my nails and ripped the door from its hinges, slamming it into his ribcage twice, before tossing it to the side. Somehow he was still alive, as he gasped for air. I cracked my head to either side, planted my fingers in his scalp, and pulled his head clean off. I thrust it at the ground, rolled it like a bowling ball, urinated down his face, defecated down his throat, and stomped his skull into mush and brain matter.

I vomited on the Captain after dressing myself in his clothes, including underwear. I stuck a finger up his rectum and smeared two stripes of feces on each of my cheeks. I sunk my teeth into his neck, draining every drop of blood from him. A light blue ring formed around his neck. After that, I cut my fingernails to get rid of evidence of the Captain's blood.

I was still bloodthirsty, so I went to the showers looking for fresh prey. A teenage inmate looking like Tweener from Prison Break was there, so I stabbed him multiple times, blood running down his face like a river from his newly-made scar, leaving him to bleed out. "Mahone should have killed you sooner, bitch," I told him, referencing his fate in season two of the show.

I went to the kitchen, intending to dispose of the Captain's body. While there, I noticed a wall with the pictures of several prisoners on it. I recognized my own at the top of the list. Next to my picture, the sign read:

Darran Kamran Amadi, Prisoner Sec-Deg-Mur-Seventy-One-Male. Ultra-Super-High-Maximum Security Class. Pod 121, Cell 1437. Gold Star Prisoner. 1 complaint in 14.5 years. To be served food using the punitive nutritional supplementary diet on pages 98-99 of the Diet and Nutrition in Penal Institutions Guide, to receive the bare minimum standards as required by law in penal institutions, and to be given no contact whatsoever with other prisoners until further change or notice. Convicted of the second degree murder of his brother, Adam Amadi, now 33, the penultimate degree of felony, with the ultimate being first degree murder and treason. Received the maximum sentence of 999 years in solitary confinement with the possibility of parole after serving 66 years. He was given a reduced sentence because of his youth. If he was twenty-five years of age or older at the commission of the offence, he would have had to serve 500 years before being eligible for parole. If he was convicted of first degree murder or treason, he would have had to spend the rest of his life in solitary confinement or be sentenced to death by torture. If he was under 21, it would be illegal to place him in solitary confinement for the duration of his sentence or until he comes of age, whichever is the later date. His maximum sentence would have been fifteen years for any crime or crimes he may have committed, including murder. This is especially unfortunate because he received his sentence just two days after his twenty-first birthday.

As soon as I read the part about my brother, my mind went blank. I read the sign again to take it all in, just in case I was skipping over any important knowledge. There was a sound at the door and the yakuza appeared. I flew into a killing frenzy.

I placed my hand on the first yakuza's head and jerked it to the side, breaking every bone in his neck. I cut out his face and wore it as a mask, leaving only a rotting and fetid piece of flesh. I shoved the second onto the active stove, setting him on fire. I took the fire extinguisher off the wall, beating him to death with it, pounding his body through hundreds of feet of earth. I dug through the ground, stripping him, and scratched his corpse multiple times in several different areas using my nails. I pressed an iron into the chest of a third yakuza, and he yelled, his heart exploding, spraying blood across the whitewashed walls. A fourth yakuza charged at me, and I kneed him in the groin, pushing him into an open dishwasher laden with knives. He struggled to keep his balance as he fell backwards onto the knives, impaling himself in seven places, and staining his shirt with blood. I pulled him out and cut him in half straight down the middle, his entrails hanging out like worms. The fifth yakuza threw a shuriken at me, and I caught it in my bare hands. Spinning it around, I released it through the air, the blade cutting through his neck and decapitating him. I tripped a sixth yakuza, grabbed him by the collar, and repeatedly bashed him into the ground until blood stained his forehead. I churned the seventh's testicles in a meat grinder, and he fell on his own sword, rather than live in shame. I beat the eighth to death with a baseball bat, carving a swastika into his head using my fingers and his own blood. I gave the ninth a diagonal sash of blood from right to left. I held the tenth's head in the deep fryer until his body stopped jerking. I ripped his melting face apart with my bare hands, and bit out chunks of it, plastering it on the wall and riddling it with bullets. I disemboweled the eleventh with a swift stroke across the chest, his entrails spilling out in a straight line. I pushed the twelfth yakuza to the ground and stomped on his windpipe until he died. I cut the thirteenth's artery, causing him to bleed to death. I smothered the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth with a pancreas, the first yakuza's face and a cadaver, respectively. I forced the seventeenth to penetrate a corpse's mouth and rectum, then to use the former parts and genitals of a corpse to penetrate his own, castrating him and chopping off his head at the end. Then I stuck my hand in his mouth, ripping his brains out. After that, I wrapped the pancreas used to kill the fourteenth yakuza across the length of his head. I ripped a femur from a corpse, jamming it through the smoked sausage, which started spraying a light pink fluid down the sides of his face like a geyser in the shape of a waterfall. I pounded a clenched fist into the bone, nailing it to him like a headband and the boards from which I was suspended. I licked the eighteenth from ear to ear, started breaking each of the fingers on his right hand, and shoved him to the ground. Then I stomped on his left hand until it was bent. Next, I stabbed a needle into his arm, injecting his veins with a deadly poison, causing him to twitch two seconds after I pulled it out of his flesh. After the fourth twitch, the light faded from his eyes and his body went still. His heart had stopped. I pulled the nineteenth's entrails from his mouth like a magician does with a handkerchief, using them as a jump rope and wearing them like a necklace. His eyes rolled in the back of his head and he died. I dropped a grenade down the twentieth's pants, launching his genitals across the room. He appeared stunned for a moment, then fell to the ground on his face. Finally, I shot the twenty-first point blank in the head, killing him instantly. The twenty one pilots were dead, but there was still one left, the so-called leader, who looked like Dogen from Lost.

I forced him to shed his clothes, desiring to kill him slowly and painfully. I gouged his right eye out with my right index finger, poking my right middle finger into his empty socket and rectum before sticking it directly in front of his remaining eye. Then I gouged out his left eye with a rusty spoon and bit into it. It tasted soft and squishy. I placed it on the tip of my tongue, moving it around every inch of my mouth, savoring it to the fullest. Fine dining was meant to be savored. I licked my lips and boasted about the succulence of such an eloquent and exquisite course. Finally, I swallowed it whole and spat on the ground. "Please, you've already taken my eyes, let me live," he pleaded, attempting to appeal to my no longer existent sense of humanity. "Quoth the raven, nevermore," I said as I pulled out my pistol and fired five bullets up his rectum in revenge for the feedings. After the last shot, he hit the ground with a grunt as blood cascaded down his anus like a waterfall.

I shredded the other bodies with a chainsaw and burned his to ashes, but not before engaging in various acts of necrophilia in a multitude of positions. I burnt the first yakuza's face while still wearing it, the flames sculpting the face like melting wax and a Picasso clock, frying blackened pieces of flesh into my skin.

The corpses were mutilated beyond recognition. They were hideous monstrosities; faces of the demons in hell. I took the head from a body and microwaved it until it burst like a grenade. A dark red liquid dripped down the sides of the microwave and you could still see pieces of his cheek, eyes, ears, mouth, teeth, and chin sticking out. The remains looked like an R rated version of a melting Frosty. I dropped an ear in the toaster oven, and a few minutes later, there were a few light brown lines running horizontally across it. A few of these lines were sunken-in craters, overflowing with blood, which made the ear look like a twisted version of a strawberry filled dessert. I did the same thing with an eye, and it resembled a laser surgery gone horribly wrong. I plopped a hand on a skillet and grilled it on the stove. It took less than five minutes to cook, and when I bit into it, I picked up a sharp tangy flavor like barbecue sauce. Must have been the blood. I picked up some bloody guts and entrails from the ground and dropped them into the bottom of the hand. Before I ate it, I used the hand to pretend to choke myself and to scratch my back and rear end. I also used it to pleasure myself for ten minutes, counting by the number of times the hand had touched my genitals. When I finally bit into it, it reminded me of a meat filled puff pastry. It was crunchy with lean and tender meat inside, which tasted like chicken. Pieces of flesh dribbled down my chin, and I wiped them off with my sleeve. I saved two fingers from the hand. One for myself and one for later. While in solitary, I had already bitten off two of the fingers on my left hand and one on my right, but this was a replacement. Ever since I was a little kid, I had always wanted to have a chink finger. Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm a racist. I bit through flesh and bone, and my finger ripped from its joint. Blood sprayed out in a single stream like a broken shower nozzle. I aimed the blood at my face, rinsing my head, eyes, mouth, teeth, and chin. I stripped myself naked and washed the rest of my body. I spit on my other hand and rubbed the saliva in the bloody nub. Then I used my other bodily fluids to make an adhesive. I attached the dead man's finger in place of mine and pushed it in deeply. I turned it around a few times and stuck it through the joint using the full force of my other hand.

Now to dispose of the Captain. I cut through his bones using a hacksaw and dropped his remains in the blender, churning them into a mixture of blood and guts. I moved a bucket filled with cleaning solution over to my direction. I submerged him in the acid, burning through his flesh and skin, and even eating through bone. I poured most of the acid on the twenty remaining corpses, then dumped the rest on my genitals. I picked up a pair of scissors and stabbed myself in both of my legs. I cried out in pain and fell to the ground. I stood up and moved the scissors level to my genitals. I cut my sexual organ first. Joy was out of my league anyway. Then I cut my testicles. Blood dripped down my legs as I fell unconscious.

When I woke up, my genitals were completely eviscerated, lying shriveled up on the floor like dates. I cleaned up the kitchen and cannibalized the corpses. I changed back into the Captain's clothes, and made my way out of the prison. On the way out, several yakuza noticed me, but I took care of them in even more brutal fashions than before, not caring whether or not their corpses were found. As I jumped from the barbed wire fence with cuts and bruises all over my body, I heard a gunshot ring out. I looked down and saw blood. My leg was on the ground; a dark, gray-rimmed shrapnel filled circle imbedded in the kneecap, lying in a pool of blood like a log floating in water. I had no time to think about that now. A deafening sound blared through my head as blood raced down my eardrums. The sound was maddening; a ringing that was an alarm clock, fire alarm, electric drill, chainsaw, jackhammer, and nuclear explosion all at once. The blood continued to pour for fifteen minutes until it solidified, hardening around my ears like frozen tomato sauce. It was crusty and infected now; encrusting the inside of my eardrums with a rancid stench reminding me of sulfur. I was almost at the airport when a two-ton deathtrap rolled across the street in front of me, knocking me out cold.

I woke up in a hospital bed with three police officers standing over me. I felt like the narrator in The Tell Tale Heart. They were speaking to each other, but I couldn't hear them. The last thing I remembered hearing was myself screaming. I tried to get up, but was restrained by an unseen object. I noticed that I was handcuffed to either side of the bed. I began to formulate a plan; any plan would do, as long as I didn't have to go back to that life-draining, soul-stealing place. I asked for toilet paper and spent an hour writing this very tale. When I was done, I folded the scroll and placed it neatly in my pocket.

Before the officers could react, I gnawed through my arms and dove out the window with all of my strength. I fell eighteen stories before landing on a one-year old in a stroller, killing us both.

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