Dab a little deeper into your murky, quirky well.

Ah ah ah, don't spill a drop. We haven't got nearly enough time to waste such a commodity on janitorial services. Make each down stroke purposeful - stop that tremoring, damn you!

Are you a quivering little maggot?

Would little pretty boy like to 'make water' in his pants?

Why are you shaking so?

Does my acrid breath staunch your mind? All plugged up and no way to release the tension?

Snort a little harder, feel it waft deeply into the back of your throat; that's the scent of not a demon at your side, you see? Nay, it's your own weakness being reflected back at you. You ever wonder what that pungent aroma is, that sickly sweet vapor that stuns you, that cripples you, that chokes you up and won't relent? The answer, dear boy? All your sins come a rollin' on in to pay you homage.

That's a long black parade you got yourself following you. In a place where every bad deed, every ill thought and every road not taken becomes a persistant warrior enlisted to rip it's share of flesh from your bones... well, you've created quite a spectacle to behold haven't you? A legion of hungry hatefuls. Each and every one of them foaming at the mouth and salivating at the prospect of seperating your skin and bone.

Can you feel my hand upon your shoulder? A bony pressure that is just rigid enough to let you know that it's not a lover? Invading your personal space in a subtle manner, disguised perhaps as a lover - but the lust itself is not for pleasure but for pain.

There are many ways to define pain.

In this place, where many sado-masochistic fools end up, we don't limit ourselves to a physical spectrum. No, we've branched out over the years, brought other 'tools under our tent. We've expanded into new territories of 'agony.'

For some, it's an absence. It's a complete devision of self from... everything. Imagine being placed in a small, dark box, where all the world for you resided in said small, dark box and that you will never escape... that small, dark box. Not even able to hear your own screams or feel your own flesh; you see with eyes that you don't have and you hope for sounds you'll never hear. An eternal torment dejour.

Some like the quiet, though.

For others, it's theatrical. They build us up to be a very specific and rigid thing; so we in and of ourselves have the hard work already done for us; it's a simply duplication of a dream. Or rather, a nightmare. You'll have to wax semantic about ti with someone else but... for now? Let's just call that scenario the 'Simpleton's Reward.'

There's a face in front of you suddenly.

A blink and it's gone. A blink and it's back.

Not a face that requires description; just a gray blur that flashes before you from moment to moment in such a haste that you're not allowed a glimpse of your tormentor. The acrid odor of your horror sticks in your craw, doesn't it? That grip on shoulder lurches forward and it rubs against your chest, clutches you tightly and for all the world and all it's treasures, all you want to do is piss your pants and run away isn't it?

The face is here; the face is gone.

An afterimage blur remains for a moment but now it's cresting just aside your peripheral; out of view but not of mind.

You see us, you feel us, you hear us and you smell us but we are all things and nothing all at once; we're a reflection of your confusion.

You haven't picked a poison yet, have you?

Oh, how can we be entertaining to such a devilishly splintered mind?

We're not ones to submit to frustration though; don't fret.

In it for the long haul, we are. It's all about the marathon and not the 'sprint.'

Break - you will. Scream - you will. Weep... plead... bargain... negotiation... swear... betray....

... you'll do many things with us and we'll suck it all up, we'll drain every last emotion and thought process out of you until you're nothing but an empty husk in the palm of our hand....

... then we'll fill you back up and break you right back down, again and again, for all of time in all the universe. Now and for always, as it was then and as it will be; you are property, a slave, an object and a toy for us to lavish with hard use and labor.

You do not matter.

Your torment will never cease.

Your death was a secession of burden to the world.

It was a moment of glory down here.

Now, what did you say your name was again?

Let it out, let it come slow, let it glide down your lips and savor it the best you can for in this moment, you're compelled to tell me in an everyday, matter of fact way of it.

Soon, though, you'll learn to hate your name.

Soon, you'll discard it as it deserves to be. Shed it from your soul and banish it into the ether with every other aspect that is the sum of piss and shame that is before me now.

Remember - just a whisper, not a scream.


I hope you enjoyed it.

I sure did.

I sure will.

But we must start somewhere. shouldn't we?

It's good we started off nice 'n easy.