The Worst is yet to come (A bad story) for the competition below


Posted by Emily on September 21, 2004 at 23:16:39:

This is an entry of the competition below,just warming up.


The Worst is Yet to cum
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Antarctica : the land of white snow and also white ice and the famous black and white penguins who always seem quite bored by the limited colors of their cold lives. The land where the south pole is located, and so are the frozen bodies of those bold explorers who have ventured to discover it , men who -though highly educated-didn’t know the meaning of the word “fear” , men who could laugh in the face of danger and spit in the eye of death--in short, a bunch of morons with suicidal tendencies.
Antarctica, the land where about 90 percent of the world’s ice exists, which if melted, the oceans of the world would rise by approximately 200 feet . The land were 312 different species of algae thrive in the most unusual living conditions. The land which is 7000 miles away from where this story takes place.


It was on a totaly different land that on a dark and stormy night--actually not all that dark, but more dusky or maybe cloudy, and to say "stormy" may be overstating things a bit, unless in a very metaphorical sense that depicts the events that were about to happen (and, truth be told, characterizing the time as night is a stretch as it was more in the late, late afternoon because I think Oprah was still on yet it was dark anyway) a bone-chilling scream split the night in two, the first half being before the scream when it was fairly balmy and calm and pleasant for those who hadn't heard the scream at all, but not calm or balmy or even very nice for those who did hear the scream, discounting the little period of time during the actual scream itself when your ears might have been hearing it but your brain wasn't reacting yet to let you know.

Detective Hester Hardware - who was living alone after his pretty wife Jane died in a plane crash with three of his children, and soon later was followed by his youngest daughter due to an HIV infection she got from her math teacher who raped her on the same day his faithful dog Willie got hit by a bus- heard the scream, and hurried out of the door of his decaying house, blissfully unaware of the catastrophe that was soon to devastate his life.

Through the gathering gloom of a late-October afternoon, along the greasy, cracked paving-stones slick from the sputum of the sky, Hester went running to the house where the scream came from, It was the Bester`s house where Bester lived with his sister. Hester knew that Bester was abroad and something in his mind kept telling him “Best not pester Mr. Bester's sister Hester, blast her, lest her blisters fester ” but he totally ignored that inner voice and went inside the house.

He walked cautiously through the garden, the door of the house was open so he entered stealthily, and crept soundlessly up the stairs, no sign of any life in the house, no voices, no movement, nothing except a simple persistent thought that went through his now highly focused mind as he crept forward, a thought that went “Hester creep, Hester creep, Hester creep”.

The moment he laid eyes on the beautiful nude lifeless body of Bester’s sister sprawled across the bathroom floor, Detective Hester made an astounding series of quick brilliant deductions that made him know she had committed suicide by grasping the cap on the tamper-proof bottle, pushing down and twisting while she kept her thumb firmly pressed against the spot the arrow pointed to, until she hit the exact spot where the tab clicks into place, allowing her to remove the cap and swallow the entire contents of the bottle, thus ending her life. Yet that theory was shattered a split second latter when he noticed the large knife handle that jutted from her chest like one of the plastic pop-up timers in a frozen turkey, but from the blood pooling around the wound, it was apparent that this bird wasn't done.
As he leaned towards her, He heard a bang, well not really a bang but more of a crash with metallic overtones of platinum-encrusted steel alloys, hammering against unyielding iron and iridium plates; or maybe it was the clash of huge nickel-zinc rods hitting molybdenum fused sheets of tantalum, then he felt a stab of pain as he heard another bang, and wished, instead of using his extensive metallurgy skills to try and analyze the sound, he would have run like hell when he first saw the gun I fired at him.

I looked at the two dead bodies of Hester and Bester`s sister. I didn’t know Hester’s name until I’ve read it later in the newspapers. His corpse looked pathetic , an unlucky guy who should’ve stayed home. Bester`s sister, even in death, looked tough, as tough as a marshmallow--not one of those soft sticky ones used in s'mores, cooked to a turn over a good campfire, or even like the stale chewy type covered in yellow sugar and found at the bottom of a three-week-old Easter basket--no, she was tough like a freeze-dried marshmallow in kid's cereal that despite being shaped like a little balloon and colored a friendly pink are so rock solid that they are responsible for the loss of more baby teeth than most older siblings. Yet she was mysteriously beautiful.

I could’ve spent more time comparing the bodies except for a sudden strike of guilt that swept me, not the usual sort of guilt that sweeps people when they kill other people, but that which one may feel when he compares unrelated things like Hester and Bester’s sister. One is often told that "you can't compare apples and oranges," but, as I looked at the bodies I thought why not?! Apples and oranges are , after all , both eatable, grow on trees, are about the same size, have a peel, come in many varieties, are approximately round in shape, contain vitamin C and so are good for you, thus, to my horror and guilt, I realized that I was still comparing them and wondered what punishment awaited me and on whose order. Hurriedly, I made my escape.

My name is John, I’m known as Bad John, but those who knew me real intimately (all dead by know) knew that I’m the worst thing that could happen to anyone But not to you, cause I don’t do males unless I really have to. Statistically, you are most propably a male, for females rarely surf the net for purposes unrelated to their work or study, and, if they do they rarely read that kind of stories especially in that kind of websites, and if they do they don’t leave their photos, addresses and phone numbers behind so that you can kill them latter, and if they do -that’s if you are really smart and persistent and all that-they most often provide fake data and so I almost always end up happening in the wrong place to the wrong sort of people who are not the least interested in my rather lethal fetish. Maybe that’s why I never get caught.

My fetish is not really unusual. Actually it’s quite natural regarding the sort of upbringing I had, which was indeed downbeat. I grew up with my Grandma , or so she claimed to be. I never saw neither my mom or dad, and whenever I asked Grandma about them she’d said they went out. It wasn’t until my 17th birthday that I began to wonder if someone could really stay out that long. It wasn’t because I was dimwitted or something, but simply that I didn’t see or talk to any one except grandma until I was 17.

Grandma never allowed me to leave the house. She used to say that the world outside had gone mad. I suggested a few times that maybe we should go out and check if the falks out there have become a little saner but she would firmly insist we stay. Only she was allowed to go and face the world, and that was on very rare occasions during which I was chained locked in the cellar so that I don’t get lost.

Life was duller than dishwater, not the dishwater after a holiday meal with brightly colored vegetable bits and shimmering glosses of vinaigrette, but the dishwater after a Wednesday night macaroni dinner, when the cheese has disintegrated into slime and the macaroni has become mush clogging the drain.
I often complained about being BORED TO DEATH, but then she would try to ease my temper and entertain me with the one and only fairy tale she kept telling me over and over . The one about Gringran Roojner who had gone to see the Great Warlock of Loowith to get his horoscope and who couldn't believe he'd been sent on a quest for the legendary Scromer of Nothleen to ask him for the answer to the Riddle of Shimmererer so that he could give it to the Guardians of Vooroniank, thereby gaining access to the Cave of Zothlianath where he would find the seldom seen Cowering of Groojanc, whose spittle was an absolute necessity in the making of the Warlock's famous pound cake, the kind with raisins.
It was during one such narration that I finally Killed her. Shoving a huge ball of dirty socks that I’ve been saving for the occasion down her long scrawny throat to shut her up.

I had a hard time adapting to the outer world afterwards, a hell of a culture shock that almost sent me back home believing everything grandma said about the world, especially the bit about the horrible things that happened to Gringran Roojner after he left his home. But I’ve burnt the house down before I left and there was no place to return to.

I managed to live in the big mad world. Mingling with people helped my learn a lot of wise things. I learnt that there is no free will, for you may not choose your parents nor the hour of your birth, neither may you select the time and manner of your death, nor may you have any voice in what passes in between, although if you can afford a good plastic surgeon, you might be able to pick your nose.

The only memory I kept from my past life was the euphoric sense of freedom and relief I felt whenever I killed a woman.
I used to think Grandma was a woman, but that again would be comparing apples to oranges, or rather apples to soggy eyeballs who have popped all the way out and are hanging from their stalks after a good slow manual strangulation of their owner. I liked good slow manual strangulation for sometime then got bored, toyed with some beheadings latter, then found that far fulfilling results can be done with knives. It all went fine until I met Melissa.

I’ll never forget how her breath came in short, urgent gasps as beads of sweat slowly coalesced and slipped hesitantly over her slightly tanned skin, leaving glistening trails down a cleavage that was both feminine and primal while her wide eyes betrayed a mind still struggling to accept that her physical ordeal was over and that she had, in fact, caught the bus.
She sat beside me .

I honestly don’t know how the conversation have started between us, but by the time my mind was out of the comatose state induced by her beauty and the galvanizing shock that she was sitting next to me we were already talking . She was so delicate that her voice was a mere whisper and her hair drooped in thinly clumped strands around her pale face with skin which- before gaining that charming tan-was probably as milky as a china plate painted the starkest white glaze and fired in a kiln over 940 degrees Fahrenheit.
During the few minutes we were in the bus we managed to get real aquatinted, talked about all sorts of things. I had that sort of inexplicable gift that makes people trust me, which was the main reason that made me believe that God doesn’t exist, or at least if he did he was doing a lousy job with steering life in the right direction as far as other people-especially my victims- are concerned.

Melissa told me about her parents who live in another state, about her job and her lousy boss, she even told me about her ex boyfriend Tom and how her relation with him had always been rocky, not quite a roller-coaster ride but more like when the toilet-paper roll gets a little squashed so it hangs crooked and every time you pull some off you can hear the rest going bumpity-bumpity in its holder until you go nuts and push it back into shape, a degree of annoyance that she had long ago attained and led to their breaking up.
She was perfect, a girl after my own heart. I knew she was next.

I `m always patient when it comes to fulfilling my desires. After all I’ve waited for 17 years before I snuffed my first victim, and It didn’t bother me at all to wait a few month before I could get my first kiss from a girl I’ve set my eyes upon. Especially a girl Like Melissa.

I’ll never forget the first time we kissed. We were standing at the doorstep of her house, after we came back from the movies. It felt so good that it almost knocked me back on my heels like the bass line of the "Theme from Peter Gunn" -- an odd sensation it was since I wasn't born until 1981 and Peter Gunn was over because Blake Edwards, who created Peter Gunn, had begun the Pink Panther movies starring another Peter,who was Peter Sellars, best remembered for his performance as Chauncey Gardner in "Being There" but whose truly great role was in "Dr. Strangelove" co-starring Slim Pickens who rides an atomic bomb to earth where it explodes -- and that was exactly what Melissa's kiss was really like.

As she eased from our impassioned doorway kiss she said that I could get in for a cup of tea if I wished. She went to slip into something more comfortable and I stood there , holding to the feeling of her warm breath that caressed my face like a hot winter blast from the foyer of a two-star restaurant where they try to warm you up real quick so you're more likely to go in all the way and eat their food, only they leave you hanging by the "Please wait to be seated" sign because they have to clean up your table from the previous customer.

Outside, the rain splattered down the roofs of the few houses in the street like raisins dropped by uncaring gods. I kept thinking of the mistakes I made that might lead to my arrest, appearing with her in several places along several months, driving her to the cinema in a stolen car and breaking the traffic light and getting fined for it , entering into her house in front of all those nosy neighbors . It was nothing, there was no problem at all. My strong faith that there was no God above and that whoever run that world was probably as much a loony as I am have always gave me comfort in such situations. I was going to kill her anyway.

That thought intensified when she came holding a tray with two cups of tea, 18 ecstasy pills and a few expertly rolled joints . I watched her curvaceous figure that Venus would have envied, her unblemished face that shone above her pillar of alabaster neck and framed with lustrous thick brown hair, her deep azure-blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, perfect teeth that vied for competition, and a small straight nose, she had indeed a beauty that defied description.
“What are these?” I pointed at the pills, I new what the weed joints were though never tried them before, but until that day I’ve never knew what XTCs looked like.
she smiled coyly and said they make her mode good. and gulped her share, so did I.
What happened afterwards was rather odd.

From that moment on, my stream of memory of that night didn’t go the normal way, that’s to say it wasn’t a stream at all but rather a badly presented slide show done with a horrendously out dated laptop wrongly connected to a fully incompatible projector that sent its display to dirty bumpy wall in a foggy room.
But I clearly remember being in her bedroom. Me and Melissa in a rather weired sex position which she kept telling me that she had never tried before. I was able to see her face and my ass in the same time which some how mocked all my previous knowledge of spatial coordinates.
Her pendulous breasts swung first to the left, then to the right and finally in independent directions, much like semaphore signals, and although I couldn't understand semaphore, I was damn sure they were saying, "Never ride the Tilt-A-Whirl with your grandma."
She was trembling, shaking really--shaking like a Harley-Davidson idling at a stoplight, one of the ones with the old Evo-style engine, where people's dentures vibrated out as they rode--and yet when I touched her skin, it was smooth and inviting like one of the new Harleys, the ones that copy the Japanese engineering and use rubber mounts and counter-balancers . . . not that I would know, because I the only bike I’ve ever rode was a British one that was stolen anyway. I was trying to figure out which parts of my anatomy where inside which parts of hers but soon discarded this attempt as futile and went on pumping whatever I was pumping into whatever it is in her that was receiving it and it felt like ninth heaven. My heart felt like claustrophobic epileptic pigmy suffering a fit while playing a death rhythm on an ancient cursed huge war drum inside some hefty well built - and very nervous- African elephant.

As I approached Orgasm I fumbled for the knife which was inside my jacket which was nowhere to be found. I tried to reach for the phone to tie the phone wire around her throat, but some how it either crawled away from my touch or it was reality herself that was performing stunning somersaults with the bed upon which we were fucking. I finally had to use my bare hands, clasping her ivory smooth throat and squeezing with all my might.
I kept strangling her for what seemed to be an eternity , with a preposterous blend of wild lust and blind fury that wouldn’t fade until I could feast on the site of her popping eyes and protruding tongue , which was not going to happen due to the fact that I was both too stoned and short sighted - after I managed to knock my contact lenses away somehow- to focus on her face, and due to the more important fact that Melissa - stoned too - was seriously doubting she would be in a better position if she yelled at My back to tell Me that what I kept so purposefully squeezing as her neck was actually her ankle.
Instead she emitted all the choking voices required in such situation, and let her leg go limp in my hands.
Being sure that I was strangling her I kept on digging my thumbs into her foot till all sounds and movements ceased, and until what my dick, which only God-if he ever existed- may know where it was inserted, have shot its load, before I released what I thought of as her throat, which was actually her badly bruised left leg , which fell limply on the bed.

Bathed in the satisfaction of another killing done well, and with a rather superhuman effort of searching for the main door that went on for some 15 minutes or so. I crawled out of the house to be greeted by the police which the bitch have managed to call.

The charge of attempted murder appeared to be groundless,partially because both the alleged victim and the the alleged criminal were stoned, but mostly because it was only a minor damage done to her ankle which I pleaded was non intentional. I’m once again a free man now, believing, more than ever in what grandma used to say, especially that bit about Gringran Roojner.If there`s a moral in my life’s story it is this: Never take too much XTC right before you attempt to strangle someone on a first date.