Mama Weer All Crazee Now

Or I am at least.

The following is not at all connected to Wet Works. Or possibly completely connected.

Disclaimer the First: I have much respect for human life, I do. In Real Life, I’m quite the pacifist. This is just too little sleep, too much caffeine, end of term jitters, and a well meaning and usually lovable friend who would not just shut the hell up even though I was not in the effin mood. Not a psycho, just like to play one on TV.

Disclaimer the Second: The following material is of a graphic and disturbing nature. If you've got any qualms about murder or torture in fiction you should give this a miss.


If I were to kill you, this is how I would do it. The room would be empty of furniture, stark clean lines, no color on the walls, no covering on the ground. Well lit center, edges in shadow so that you can wonder if there was an exit out there somewhere. I’d like to have you hung from your wrists, but it would be too much of a cliché. Instead I’d have you on a table, ankles and wrists bound tight, stretched out in a nod to the medieval. Black Sabbath’s Paranoid would be on constant repeat, to prevent things from getting too somber. No blindfold because that would rob me of the pleasure of your expressive face.

We would be alone, you and I, with no one around to hear you scream. And trust me, you will scream. You’ll resist at first, choke them down, but I’ll rip them from your throat until it bleeds, and then I’ll make you scream some more. See my plans for you are much bigger than a happy dagger slipped softly between your ribs. I’m going to take my time with you.

I’ll let you admire my large, shiny hunting knife; twist it this way and that in the bright lights, letting it glint cheerfully at you. It would rest briefly at your temple before traveling oh so slowly down your face. I’m going to use it to lightly trace your neck, sinews tight with fear, down down, collar bone, fluttering chest, heaving sides before stopping just below your navel.

Just as panic begins to set in, filling the room with the wet rattle of your breathing, I’ll pause. Frowning and feigning reluctance I’ll pull away and wait for the guarded hope to slip into your eyes before plunging in to the hilt. My grip will tighten on the handle before I pull up. I wonder how much resistance your body will put up as I split you open.

I’m not going to eviscerate you. Entrails are all good and well in theory, but the reality tends to be too messy. That said I don’t know how I’ll resist the lure of being elbow deep, and tinkering around with your blood warm insides. The liver is supposed to hold your body temperature for ages I've heard.

Will you beg? Will you cry? Cover everything in tears and sweat and snot and the stench of your fear? Will you be worth all the work, all the quiet preparation? I put in a lot of time and effort for you, you know.

“Shhhhhhh,” I’d whisper to you stroking your face with a maternal touch. I’d press my lips gently to the top of your head and lovingly smooth back your hair. I’d solemnly look into your terrified eyes before slashing your throat and stepping back to watch your life bleed away.