PTSD – f-your blog

Hauntingly Ominous Lost Japanese Public Service Announcements (PSA)

To Whom it may concern,

It is I Otto here as Les and Justin took off on a impromptu road trip which I opted out of. I enjoy my own company to that of any other so being stuck in a hellishly small RV with Les and Justin is something I sincerely want nothing to do with. My idea of a vacation is alienation in isolation removed far from the confining shackles of a sick society. Last time Les called he wasn’t pleased that I had in all due favor neglected my FYB Responsibilities in their absence so here we are.

As what to post I was left up to my own dark devices having carte blanche to choose the topic and content of said post. Needless to say I was intrigued with this newly found freedom. You see my main function since I started assisting Les here in the haunted hallowed halls of FYB is research which I am quite fond of. I like being on my own to plunge head first down any and every rabbit hole I wish with reckless abandon. Being that this was all unplanned and very last minute I didn’t have anything in particular in mind initially as it were. I pulled out a volume of notes I had compiled a few months ago and started parozing it to see if anything caught my eye. I then just so happened locate notes I had collected on Isamu Saburo Tadashi.

Isamu Saburo Tadashi had dedicated his life and his career to Japan’s Ministry of land, infrastructure, transportation, and tourism (MLIT). Tadashi married young at the age of 16 to his beloved wife Emiko, and just a year later Emiko gave birth to the couple’s first child a boy they named Masao. At a 18 Tadashi started his life long career at the MLIT, and as luck would have it the couple welcomed their second child a girl named Hiroko that same year. Time marched on and Tadashi’s career at the MLIT was taking off. Early on in his career Tadashi had received promotion after promotion along with a slew of various awards, and received the highest of Accolades from his superiors. Then one sunny summer day tragedy struck when Tadashi’s wife Emiko was struck an killed by an absent minded motorist. Tadashi lapsed into a alcohol fueled depression, but thanks to his loving and devoted children managed to fight through his inner demons.

Life rolled on and the family recovered from the loss until tragedy struck once again. One day on the way home from school Tadashi’s Son Masao then 14 years old and his 12 year old sister Hiroko decided to take a short cut home. Unfortunately for the siblings the short cut required them to cross several sets of train tracks which proved to be a fatal flaw. While crossing the tracks Masao one of his feet stuck in-between a set of rail road tracks, and it wasn’t long before Masao had a Tokyo commuter train barring down the tracks right at him. The panic boy fought furiously to free his foot before meeting a gruesome and untimely death. Hiroko refused her brothers pleas for her to escape to safety, and remained by his side trying in vane to save her brother until the very and deadly end. The commuter train wasn’t scheduled to stop at this particular station and was speeding along the rails at a top speed and hit the children dead on killing them both and obliterating their small fragile bodies.

Tadashi who was now battling PTSD as well as clinical depression started to experiment with unconventional hallucinogens developing a profound fondness for smoking the venom of the poisonous Bufo Alvarious Toad (a rare species of toad native to the Sonoran Desert). The Bufo toad’s is known as 5-MeO-DMT: an extremely potent natural psychedelic. 5-MeO-DMT is about 4 to 6 times more powerful than its better-known cousin DMT (dimethytrptamine). As one can imagine Tadashi’s unorthodox drug use quickly began to affect his work at MLIT where he was finally demoted to developing MLIT public service announcements (PSA). Right before his death at 81 from a massive stroke Tadashi set about creating his most dementedly disturbing series of PSA’s majority of which focus on train/train tracks safety.

The Gritty and some what distorted series not only was hyper focused on train safety but also feature 2 eerie characters both of which appear to be young children, and one if obviously male and his counterpart female. Due to the horrific deaths of Tadashi’s son and daughter on the train tracks people became to speculate that Tadashi had gone mad with grief (and died of a broken heart) having lost his cherished children and adoring wife. The story began to take on a life of its own as it evolved into urban legend status particularly in the paranormal communities. The current version of the story is Tadashi consumed with sorrow at the loss of his family that he began to practice necromancy (the supernatural concept of actually raising/channeling the dead). At some point Tadashi employed the use of an Ouija board in his desperate attempts to reunite with his deceased loved ones, and it resulted in Tadashi accidentally trapping the ghosts of his dead children in the PSA’s where they remain to this very day. Due to Tadashi’s mental deterioration his final series of PSA was locked away and was never intended to see the light of day ever again. Then in 2013 while the MLIT was undergoing a massive revamping the lost Tadashi PSA where discovered stashed in a rusty old filing cabinet that was jammed into a dark corner of the basement.

So are Tadashi’s final PSAs in fact haunted by the ghosts of his deceased children? Are they cursed in some way? Will watching them induce insanity in the viewer? Probably not but that doesn’t make them any less creepy as fuck.

Sweet dreams & Bitter nightmares,

Otto Rageous

Short Horror Film Friday: P.O.W

Welcome to this Week’s Installment of Short Horror Film Friday featuring the 25 Minute 2013 P.O.W. Directed by Doug Cook and Eric Covello. Together the Duo of Cook and Covello are also known Collectively as The House of Short Horrors which They Describe as “Two Guys Making Short Monster Horror Films.”

Plot Summery:

When Their Small Rural Town has a Veteran’s Day Parade, Two Bunglers see it as an Opportunity to Rob what They Anticipated as being an Empty Home. When the Evil Lurking just Outside makes its way into the House it sends the Partners in Crime Scrambling for Their Lives. Luckily for the Would be Robbers They manage to Escape by the Skin of Their Teeth making it Safely back to Their Vehicles. In Spite of Their Near Escape the Allure of a Safe (and the Possible Treasures Locked Away Inside )Prove to be Too Much for One of the Thieves sending Him back to the House He just Fled From. Once He Returns to the House is when the REAL HORROR BEGINS!!!

Enjoy.

Thanks For Watching,

Presented By Les Sober

FYB’S Fucked Up Friday Film: COMBAT SHOCK!

FYB is Psyched to Present this Fucked Up Friday Film COMBAT SHOCK!! Combat Shock is a Cult Classic War Drama Written, Produced, and Directed by Buddy Giovinazzo and Starring His Brother Rick GioVinazzo. Combat Shock was Released in 1986 to Mixed Negative and Critical Reviews with the Acceptation of a Small Cult Following of Fans, and is Distributed by None Other then Indie Film Icon TROMA ENTERTAINMENT!

“Filled to the brim with Nerve-Shredding Nihilism, Total Despair, and a Take No Prisoners Attitude…Combat Shock is one of the Bleakest Films you’ll ever have the chance to see.” – Kurt Dahlke (DVD Talk)

“Combat Shock is Dismal and Depressing, and in its Nerve-Wracking Realism it makes Zero Excuses for the Establishment and its Indifference.” – Film Threat

“But this Downer Drama…might be Too Much Horror for the viewer to take without any light moments.”- Dennis Schwartz (Ozus’ World Movie Reviews)

Brief Pot Summer: Set in Staten Island Combat Shock follows Unemployed Vietnam Vet and Prisoner of War Frankie. Frankie who suffers from a Severe Case of PTSD lives in Complete Poverty in a Squalid Apartment with His Pregnant Nagging Wife and DEFORMED BABY Boy. Frankie is convinced the reason for His Son being a Deformed Mutant is due to the Fact He was Exposed to the CHEMICAL WEAPON AGENT ORANGE while serving His Country in Vietnam. Surround by the Depravity of Urban Life and Crime Frankie’s Sanity Starts to Slip. Frankie’s inability to find gainful Employment fuel’s His DEADLY DOWNWARD SPIRAL into Insanity, Murder, Petty Crime, and Death! Enjoy.

We Hope You Enjoyed this Demented Tale of Destitution and Madness as Much as We Did.

Thanks for Watching,

Presented By Les Sober

The Lingering Ghosts of Days Long Gone

Holt Mulligan was considered a good many things, but human never seemed to be one. You see Holt grew up in the tiny rural community of Wayward Louisiassippi. Now its no wonder no one outside of Wayward heard it referred to as Louisiassippi and if They did it was an anomaly.

Back when the community was first settled in 1630 just 10 years after the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock. Louisiana became a State in 1812, and that didn’t much affect Wayward as a whole. It wasn’t until Mississippi became a State itself in the year 1817 that Wayward was presented with an unique dilemma.

Once Mississippi became a State the State Line was created which cut the Wayward Community right down the middle of Main Street placing half of the Community in Mississippi, and leaving the remain half on the Louisiana side.

The Citizens of Wayward had no intention of dividing their Community in any way, shape or form so They had Wayward reclassified in the Federal Land Commission as a United States Territory like Guam or Puerto Rico. And by doing so this allowed the Wayward Community to stay united in spite of the Government implemented, and inforced State Line.

With the exception of Main Street there were no other paved roads in Wayward which instead was connected by an intricate network of Dirt Roads. The system of Dirt Roads bobbed, and weaved through out the dense forests, and along the various Swamplands of Wayward like a Ancient Spider Web.

Holt lived in an old dilapidated Trappers Shack circa 1880 on the outskirts of of Wayward. The Locals referred to it as Hobgoblin Swamp. Being considered by most to be a highly undesirable place to live Holt was left on his own (aside from the stray Hunter/Trapper wondering through the Swamp in route elsewhere), and seemed to embrace the Isolation.

Holt had being living in His Trapper’s Shack in Hobgoblin Swamp as long as the Oldest Elder of Wayward could remember which only helped to fuel the rumors about Holt that ran through Wayward like a Wild Fire. And there were plenty believe you me.

There were the cliche Urban Legend Rumors such as Holt lived in isolation because He was a Drug Smuggler. Then there were others such as that Holt was an escaped Convict or Mental Patient hiding out in the Swamp. Some thought Holt was your garden variety Serial Killer who avoided detection (and capture) by committing His killings deep in the dark heart of Hobgoblin Swamp.

Other’s believed Holt was some sort of Immortal Swamp Shaman that chose to live in seclusion so He could practice His Dark Arts in the Shadows. Now not all of the Rumors were nearly as Dire.

Some though Holt was a Shell Shocked (PTSD) War Vet who had lost His sanity fighting on the Battle Field. Others were inclined to think Holt was some how involved with/in the Witness Relocation Program, but weren’t sure if Holt was a Good Guy (like a Law Enforcement Officer) or a Criminal (as if Holt testified against dangerous Criminals in Court as part of a Plea Deal.)

The Rumor Mill even had a other Holt related Gossip. Holt drove a massive 1976 Ford M151 Military Jeep which Holt had repainted in Battle Ship Gray. No one even entertained the idea Holt had just bought the fucking thing or perhaps got it from a Family Member or Friend (Though Holt didn’t seem to have either).

The Gossip about the Jeep was Holt stole it from a near by Military Base, The Military gave it to Holt as an accommodation for being a prolific Solider, Holt dredged part of Hobgoblin Swamp and salvaged the Jeep then, The Jeep belonged to one of Holt’s alleged Murder Victims, or the Jeep was stolen by Holt from some Drug Dealer/Gun Dealer/Human Trafficker after he killed them.

The other gaggle of Gossip surrounded Holts “Dog”. I put dog in Parenthesis because according to the various rumors it was considered anything BUT a Dog by the residents of Wayward. Holts dog was an undeniable Beast weighing in at right around 225 or so, and stood so high that Holt had to lift his hand from his side to pet its head while standing. It sure as shit wasn’t a pure bred anything, but rather it had a sort of Frankenstein aesthetic as if Holt had built the Dog Himself one late night alone in the Swamp.

This led to gossip from the Dog was a Holt’s Spiritual Totem, and that the Dog was a bonafide Hellhound Holt raised from a Pup once He rescued it from the clutches of the Devil Himself. Others speculated the Dog was in fact a Hyena that Holt had acquired in some shady back ally manner. Still some thought it was a Russian Wolf Hyena Hybrid a sort of home bred make shift Monster.

Holt and His Hound were so tightly bonded that if they were both sitting out on the Front Porch of Their Trapper Shack when someone or thing approached Holt and the Hound would slowly turn to look in unison. Holt never had to use a single vocal command with His loyal companion as they seemed to communicate using just Their eyes alone.

No matter how much Holt may of enjoyed the quite isolation out there in Hobgoblin Swamp He still had his daily routine. Holts truck could be heard pulling onto Main Street every morning around 10 am.

Holt habitually parked his Shit Kicker Jeep in the same parking spot directly outside of Old Ed’s Hardware and Mercantile before exiting with purpose. He would then stride right over to Grover’s Guns’n Ammo to spend the rest of the morning mulling around the Gun Shop inspecting the wares so to speak.

At Noon Holt would leave Grover’s and walk over to The Greasy Spoon Diner arriving right at 12:30 for lunch. Holt ate only Steak and Eggs with Several cups of Coffee served black. It had reached a point long ago that The Staff at The Greasy Spoon got in the habit of preparing Holt’s Usual as it were everyday without even thinking about it having it ready, and waiting upon His arrival.

After ravenously devouring his meal as though it was His last Holt would make His back over to Main Street. Holt would walk down one side, and back up on the other with a slow, and deliberate stride. By Three Holt was holed up at The Boozehound which served as the Local Watering Hole.

Holt would sit at the far end of the Bar facing the Door, and start the afternoon off drinking Budweiser. Once 5 o’clock hit cloaked in a cloud of Cigarette smoke (Holt had a penchant for Unfiltered Camels) Holt would switch from Beer to Bloody Mary’s (usually holding up 4 fingers to signify “Make it a Quadruple” a drink they would only make for the sole reason that Holt was the one asking.) Finally somewhere around 7ish Holt would switch one last time from Cocktail to Strait Booze, and Holt’s pick was 3 fingers of Maker’s Mark.

Holt would remain at The Boozehound until after closing as the staff had to clean and prep for the next day so they let Holt stay until they left. Once it was time to kill the lights the Bar Tender would hand Holt a pickled Egg propped up in a shot glass, which Holt would then throw back like an actual shot as He walked out into the night.

Since Holt came from a Strict School of “Don’t speak until Spoken too” so normally He would just nod his head or flash a fleeting smile, but never spoke. There was an acceptation and that was when He was at The Boozehound nightly. Even then He didn’t Indulge in Idle Chit Chat or Engage in Gossip (another favorite Southern Past Time) the few times Holt did speak were more than memorable. Especially since what Holt said was as bizarre as Him talking in the first place.

Holt was noted as say things such as “Sure, Meet Up and We’ll fuck each other up with a Rubber Spoon”, “Smooth To The Groove Like Sandwich Bread.”, “Never Met One I didn’t want killed.”, “Death Comes Quickly For Those Who Wait”, “Guess he Killed By Death”, “Pay it Never-No Mind” and other such oddities.

Holt’s life had gone on in this fashion for more years than anyone could remember (Holt included) until one humid Summer day in 1980 all that changed forever.

That day had run on like any other swelteringly hot and horrendously humid Summer’s day complete with Holt arriving on Main Street around 10. Holt rummaged around Grover’s as he always did, and then He ate lunch at the Greasy Spoon before heading to The Boozehound. Holt’s routine remained the same until 5 o’clock.

Holt approached the Bartender Terry and ordered a Double Quadruple Bloody Mary. Terry baulked at such a extreme drink request, but obliged just the same as it was at Holt’s request. Terry made the drink, handed it to Holt who paid for it, and promptly exited The Boozehound.

Holt stood for a moment or two in front of The Boozehound before downing His Bloody Mary in one solitary swallow. He then lit an Unfiltered Camel, and took a long drag, and vanished into thin fucking air leaving nothing behind, but a lingering cloud of exhaled cigarette smoke.

THATS RIGHT KIDDIES!!!

Holt was the ONE Thing NO ONE Guessed the whole fucking time.

Holt was A BONAFIDE FUCKING ALIEN!!!!

SUCK ON THAT TITTY TWISTER OF A TWIST M.NIGHT!!!!!

Note to Reader : I started this piece and it didn’t turn out at all the way I wanted. Needless to say I got pissed off as a son of a bitch, BUT I couldn’t pull the fucking trigger and delete the thing. So as I was mulling this motherfucker over when this jumped into My mind:

………HE’S A FUCKING ALIEN. He’ll fucking just up and vanish end of fucking story. Why not the post already shit the bed so why not just take it out in a Blaze of Absurdist Angst.

ALSO just in case Anyone is Wondering I have no clue why I took a shot at M.Night considering I’m a fan of a few of his films.

Thanks for Reading,

By Les Sober

Yet Another Reason Not To Visit Mexico

One day my good friend Danka and I were drinking on the stoop of Danka’s house playing the “Most Fucked Up Story Game”. The game is rudimentary and simplistic. The goal is to tell the most fucked up story of the evening thus becoming the winner.

Dana served a short time in the United States Navy before being discharged for being an Alcoholic who was “Derelict of Duty” or some stupidly phrased bullshit statement. You see Danka had a habit of going binge drinking while on shore leave which resulted in a semi concous Danka being dragged to returning to the ship for check in by his fellow soldiers. Finally Danka out did even himself by missing Check In in favor of chilling at some waitresses’s apartment he was hooking up with in Tijuana, eating Captain Crunch cereal, and watching American cartoons in Spanish. Well that was the final straw that broke the preverbal Camal’s back, and the Navy booted Danka instructing him never to return to any branch of the United States Military ever again.

Before being unceremoniously kicked out of the Navy Danka had spent several months down in Tijuana Mexico were he was temporarily stationed for some fucking Navy related reason. While in Tijuana Danka learned some tactics for day to day safety and survival that weren’t taught in the Navy. It was simply how to navigate daily life in Tijuana without running into trouble with Thieves, Drug Dealers, Pimps, Gangs, Cartels, Muggers, Car Jackers, Con Artists, Drug Addicts, Hookers, Ex Convicts, Militias and Corrupt Cops.

Now with the corrupt Cops it was basic Extortion. If a Tourist per say wandered into the wrong neighborhood the Cops would arrest them, and then drive them directly to an ATM. The Police Officers would then demand a bribe of usually $300 U.S., BUT if you refused to pay they would take you to jail on some bullshit trumped up charge. While it goes without saying that Jail fucking sucks, and is one of the last places anyone would want to find themselves especially in a foreign 3rd World Country. Mexican Jails have a foul reputation for being filthy, over crowded, understaffed, Bribing of Guards, Murders, Rapes, and inhumane living conditions for the most part.

This is what happened to Danka’s buddy named Blackburn. Blackburn was on shore leave and had had a few drinks when he wondered off the main fairway into a shitty neighborhood. While desperately trying to find his way back, which was complicated by his intoxication, Blackburn was picked up by a couple of Corrupt Cops looking for a quick pay day. The Cops drove Blackburn to the ATM and demanded payment ($300 U.S. per Officer times 2 for a total of $600 U.S.), and Blackburn told them too fuck off because he wasn’t giving them a single goddamn cent. So the Cops threw Blackburn into the back of the squad car, but instead of taking him to the nearest shithole jail they drove him to a sleazy Dive Bar on the outskirts of the city that featured Nightly Donkey Shows (if you don’t know what a Donkey Show is Google it) The police shoved Blackburn into the dimly lit backroom of the Bar and tied him to a rickety wooden chair. The Police then proceeded to sell Blackburn to the Bar owner for $775 U.S. and then left quickly.

The Bar owner had one of his cronies take Blackburn out back to a Small Barn located next to the Bar. Once there Blackburn was stripped buck naked and tied to a barn post. The Bar Owner’s henchmen then ground up 3 or 4 bottles of Viagra and mix them with a quarter ounce of Crystal Meth. Once the concoction was full mixed together the Side Kicks laced a 32 ounce Corona with it, and then fed it to a Donkey that was penned up in a cramped stall. About 50 minutes later the Donkey had a raging 18 inch erection and was violently kicking the sides of the pen. One of the Cronies then untied Blackburn from the post, and then tied his hands behind his back while the other crony aggressively lassoed the inscenced Donkey. The 3 men and the doped up Donkey then made their way over to the Bar and entered through a side delivery entrance.

The Bar smelled like hot stale beer and body oder mixed with piss. There were a handful of patrons spread out through out the Bar that was so smoky it was like being trapped in a fucking mist or some shit. The Henchman responsible for Blackburn took him over to a worn out Pummel Horse that was held together with Duct Tape. He then bent Blackburn over the Pummel Horse and bound Blackburn’s wrists and ankles together. Next a shitfaced MC comes on a beat 1972 PA System to announce the Nightly Donkey Show is Starting. After a short pause to allow the Bar Patrons time to freshen their drinks and light a smoke the 2nd Henchman dragged the Donkey over fighting it every step of the way. As the Donkey was being brought over the Bar Owner came over to Blackburn and sprayed him with Female Donkey Pheromones and Menstrual Blood to get the deranged drugged up Donkey’s attention. It worked. It worked extremely well. In an instant the Donkey got a whiff of Blackburn and galloped over to him, and mounted Blackburn placing its front legs on Pummel Horse on either side of Blackburn. As soon as the Donkey penetrated Blackburn it went fuck wild, this Donkey wasn’t playing “Just The Tip” with Blackburn he was slamming shaft balls deep in Blackburn’s battered butthole. It took about 17 minutes before the Donkey finally completed and its semen was seeping out of Blackburn’s broken butthole like a garden hose.

Blackburn was about to be loaded into a car and left to die of his injuries in the Desert to die when the a group of American Military Police busted in the front door of the Bar with a vengeance. Blackburn had to be taken out on a fucking stretcher and Medivaced by Helicopter to a Special Surgical Trauma Hospital in Seattle Washington. Blackburn lived after spending the better part of a year in the Hospital where the Surgeons removed just over 8 feet of his intestines, rebuilt his bowls, reconstructed his rectum, and stitched up his sphincter. Blackburn was discharged from the Navy Under Section 8 Status due to his Donkey Rape induced PTSD. He moved home to Shasta South Dakota and lives in his Mom’s basement on permanent disability watching Anime while drooling on himself while playing with his pecker making guttural sounds.

Needless to say there was no fucking way I could top that Tale of Terror in Tijuana so Danka went home that night quite drunk and the most fucked up story winner.

Thanks For Das READ,

Les Sober

The Absolute Insanity In Editing: The Original

I was talking with my Brother god knows how long ago and I was ranting about how my editing is insane. I’ve actually started editing a piece only to have the end result being a completely different piece all together. I told my brother that extreme editing being part of my writing process takes a good bit of time, and I’m aware people have virtually NO ATTENTION SPAN. My Brother suggested to address my concerns about it by posting an example say an original version, and the the final version in a compare and contrast scenario. Like so many of my Brother’s excellent ideas I fully agreed that would be a perfect solution. I then immediately did nothing about it I just put it to the side. In true fashion though I doubled back and FINALLY have decided to do it.

This is the ORIGINAL version which I wrote for a local writing competition for shits and giggles. There were some CONDITIONS to be dealt with. The rules stated while it could be a horror piece it COULD NOT exceed 1,000 words. Thats not all theres more such as no horror cliches. That meant NO Teens in the woods at a cabin or camp for example. Car/mechanical break downs, eerie/scary sounds, the group CAN NOT split up in anyway, AND the killer had to be human were almost all the rest of the limitations. I honestly don’t remember the rest as this was written a while of go.

Personally I think this piece is just that a piece of shit. The 1,000 limitation wasn’t so much the issue as while I respect and understand why the people throwing the competition banned cliches. the PROBLEM with both of the aforementioned issues cliches are cliches sometimes for a reason. This is one of those times as all those horror cliches are key tools to build suspense and build tension. Without suspense and tension a horror story is at best a shitty thriller (Horror I love, Thrillers are complete shit ,but thats a different story so I digress for now)

I will only post EVERY OTHER Revision as to over burden the readers nor bore them. After I post this I will post the 2 REVISION. I’m current working on the 3 revision currently. Revision 3 will NOT be the Final Version not by a long shot, and I’m not fucking psychic so I have not idea what so ever how many more revisions there will be.

With that said here is the original (in my opinion is childish and utter shit) of:

The Butchers of Backwater

As the pungent odor of the smelling salts filled Joel’s nostril he snapped awake as if he was hit by a lighting bolt. His vision was blurred and he strained his eyes to the point of pain squinting to make out where in fact he was. Joel’s head was pounding like there was a giant metronome was banging away in his head to no end. As his eyes adjusted to the dim candle light of the chandelier and various candelabra’s that sent shadows dancing on the walls with wild abandon.The wall paper was so old it had become yellowed and as brittle as parchment over the countless decades. Large pictures of grimly stoic what Joel assumed where family ancestors framed in dingy gaudy gold frames that lined all four walls of the dinning room. Some of the paintings subjects looked some what deformed but Joel dismissed this to the stone faced portraits of the past where no one dared smile. The black and white old time photographs had faded in various degrees from whitened smudged edges to almost fully faded to the point of being almost black in appearance, and the photos as well as the paintings were emotionless poker faces.There were two medical looking candelabras on the table placed at each end these in combination with the chandelier did little to combat the darkness which encapsulated the room

As Joel’s eyes came slowly into focus he could see he was in a rather large dinning room that was reminiscent of the kind of dinning room one would find in a Old Southern Planation farmhouse. Joel was restrained with thick chains that bound his feet together, secured Joel’s arms to the arms of the old oak chair he was situated in. The chains were also coiled around Joel’s torso like a metallic python. Joel was positioned at one end of the table opposite the designated head of the table. Joel strained against the chains to no avail as it became a reality that he wasn’t going anywhere, and was being held as some sort of hostage. There was a full place setting in front of Joel consisting of a antique china plate that was chipped around its perimeter. There were three forks, two spoons and a knife laid out as well that looked like they were old enough to be genuine silver. The cutlery showed it age as oxidation over years had left its trade mark patina giving the appearance that it was tarnished.
Joel became aware of someone talking behind him in a deep commanding voice, and with the distinct drawl like that of a “Southern Gentlemen” from an era long gone.
“Ah, I see our company has risen from his prolonged slumber. I was beginning to fear that you might never be returning to this world of the living, but look at you now. A true testament to a man’s will and his perseverance over that which is problematic.”
Joel still was still struggling with all his might to come fully back to his senses. Questions swarmed Joel’s battered brain like enraged Hornets adding to his continued confusion. Where the hell was he? Who’s house was this?” “How’d he even get here”,but most of all at this particular moment the primary question was “Who was this man and why did he restrain Joel with an excessive amount of chains?”
“Mr. Joel Fletcher you have the definite look of confusion as to where you are and to that which is going on.” the voice said with a slight tone of mockery.
Joel then heard the distinct sound of centuries old wooden floor sighing with long groans and loud creeping sound of someone walking across it. The foot steps were coming closer and closer from behind Joel. Joel tried to hide his increasing anxiety and fought to keep his voice from wavering.
“Who are you, what in the name of christ is going on here? What do you want?” Joel said as his speech increased in its rate of speed. Damnit Joel thought to himself I can’t show weakness, I must remain calm and focused as possible considering the current circumstances.
“Questions abound don’t they Mr. Fletcher and you shall have all the answers you desire shortly I assure you.” The voice said from directly behind Joel so that Joel could smell the stink of cigarette smoke.
Suddenly a very tall and lean elderly man strode out from behind Joel’s seat and quickly crossed the vast dining room in only a couple of strides stopping at the head of the table. The old man was dressed in a crisp brilliantly white suit complete with a bolo tie. For a split second Joel wonder if he had fallen victim to the demented relatives of Cornel Sanders from the KFC advertisements of his youth. The old man had a full beard that was as white as his suit and long shoulder length hair that for some odd reason was as black as the bottom of an abyss. The old man pulled his chair out and took a seat slowly lowering his long and thin body into the chair. The old man crossed his legs and placed rested his arms on the table on either side of a second place setting. The old man reached into his suit jacket and removed a cigarette case like the ones from the 1920’s. He opened the case, removed a cigarette tapping it lightly and deliberately on the exterior of the case. The old man took a few minutes that seemed like an eternity to Joel to locate his Zippo lighter that had some sort of military insignia on it. The old man lit his cigarette taking in the first couple of drags with gusto before exhaling. A cloud of lingering smoke hovered around his head like a demonic mist.
Once Joel’s eyes met the gentlemen stranger the man began speaking again.
“You must pardon our lack of light for dining. You see with my condition, I’m an albino you see, I’m afraid my disadvantaged eyes are rather sensitive to light, thusly we forgo the harsh light of electricity in favor of the softer less offensive light of candles.” said the Gentlemen stranger as he puffed away on his cigarette like it was going out of style.
“We? We who? I only see you and me sitting here.” asked Joel, his voice now quivering uncontrollably now.
“Well then as you are my humble quest allow me to explain. My family name is Leviticus and we have kept our bloodline pure for centuries even before my family made their way to America. My family was of great wealth and status until the civil war tore us asunder. War is hell Mr. Joel. War is hell indeed.” said Mr. Leviticus in a slow and steady tone before a brief pause. “After the war my family was banished if you will, into the backwaters of the Mississippi were they eked out a meager living hunting Alligators and selling their skins. Then came the unfortunate great depression and the rural people of this land left this place to find greener pastures in bigger towns or perhaps the city. My family being tougher than the gator skins they sold decided to stay put for we would not lose the rest of our family to the industrial world beyond the boarders of the bayou.” Mr. Leviticus said longingly with pride as he stared off into oblivion.
“Now alas my brother and I are all that remains of the once great Leviticus Family lineage.” continued Mr. Leviticus who at this point seemed to be talking to himself as he didn’t acknowledge Joel’s presence as he spoke. “Now due to the family tradition of keeping the family bloodline clean and pure there were some issues of health with the later generations such as the deformity of both body and mind. My brother being the last offspring born into this family suffers egregiously from these afflictions you see Mr. Fletcher.”
Just then the massive silhouette of a man filled the immense doorway behind the seated Mr. Leviticus. “Ah Yes dinner is served I do hope you enjoy pork Mr. Fletcher” declared Mr. Leviticus with great pleasure.
“Where is my brother?” Joel asked anxiously as they had been traveling together documenting the impact the oil spill had wreaked upon the Gulf of Mexico and those whose livelihood as fishermen had been destroyed.
“You see Mr. Joel when my brother and I happened upon you and your business partners as well as your aforementioned brother you were all being beaten mercilessly by a group of roving bikers outside a rather unattractive bar in Bella, the text town over from ours. I phoned the police post haste at which point the bikers fled. My brother and I collected y’all, brought you to our family home, mended your wounds and have been caring for y’all ever since.” answered Mr. Leviticus promptly.
Before Joel could get the next question out of his mouth the monstrous silhouette standing in the doorway made its way into the room carrying two dinner plates, one in each hand. The mountain of a man with gnarled and twisted limbs like that of a ancient oak coated in a thick layer of sweat placed a plate in front of Mr. Leviticus delicately. The grotesque giant was where grimy dirt encrusted over alls without a shirt. As Mr. Leviticus’s younger brother made his way over to where Joel was seated the floor boards strained to support the weight of his extremely large frame. The long greasy unkept hair obscured the titans face especially since Mr. Leviticus’s brother tended to walk with his head lowered as if in mourning. Mr. Leviticus’s brother made his way over to Joel where he unceremoniously dropped the plate in front of Joel. The plate crashed down upon the table with a loud clatter which sent some of the meat juice to splatter upon the table.
“ID!” yelled Mr. Leviticus outraged, “You know quite well this is a family heirloom and must be treated with the respect it deserves. Must you be such an uncouth savage brother? Your just lucky that what you lack in the mind you make up for in body. Now leave us and don’t let playing with the food to even enter your minuscule mind.”
Id who had frozen into a statue at the mention of his name cocked his head sideways with his back to his brother Mr. Leviticus as if he was struggling to control his own outrage as the case may be. His gargantuan muscles tightening at ever word that came out of his irritated brother’s mouth. It seemed that Mr. Leviticus’s brother Id was physically affected by his brother’s harsh reprimanding. When Mr. Leviticus was done chastising his younger brother Id promptly bent down and wiped the meat juice off the table with one of his hotdog sized fingers. Id the hastily exited the dining room utilizing the door behind where Joel was seated.
“Please excuse my brother’s lack of manners for he is not as civilized as and your aforementioned brother we and I did warn you his appearance is quite off-putting especially upon the in initial meeting.” said Mr. Leviticus apologetically before continuing “Dig in Mr. Fletcher you need to regain your strength.”
Joel and Mr. Leviticus ate in silence. Joel couldn’t help but notice the pork chops were fresh and succulent unlike any he had had before. The meat was so tender it melted in Joel’s mouth coating his young with the fantastic taste of the meat. The smell of the meat was intoxicating just on its own.
“Pardon me Mr. Leviticus but this pork is divine I’d hate my brother to miss such a grand meal.” Joel said in all honesty.
“Don’t worry Mr. Fletcher your brother is here in spirit and on the plate.” Mr. Leviticus said matter of factly with a slight sneer.
“What the hell are you talking about, what are you saying?” Joel asked in full blown panic his heart pounding as if it was attempting hammer its way through Joel’s ribcage.
“You see Mr. Fletcher when times are tough and food is scarce my family’s motto is “If there is no meat there is always man” and this motto has gotten us through many a lean time in our history. We are you see cannibals of conviction and convenance .” announced Mr. Leviticus with a growing grin of sadistic delight as Joel processed what he had just been told.
“Thats fucking insane, your insane!” screamed Joel at the top of his lungs, “This is bullshit!! Your a liar! Your fucking lying you sick son of a bitch!” Joel fought relentlessly at the chains that confined him to the chair trying desperately to free himself.
“Id can you summon Mr. Fletchers brother to the table please I would appreciate it so.” Mr. Leviticus said in a booming voice that dominated the room.
Joel was terrified, completely confused and disoriented. His pulse was racing like a jack rabbits on meth, sweet was rolling down his face like a mid summer rain shower. His eyes frantically searched the room finding nothing to hope for. Joel was trapped alone with two cannibal brothers one of which claimed that they killed and cooked his brother. Not only that but the mentally crippling thought that he may have in deed dined upon his brothers flesh drove Joel to the point of lunacy.
The slow solid steps echoed down the hallway as Id returned to the dinning room. Joel’s racing mind was flooding his head with horrible scenarios of torture and death. Joel was so wrought with panic it seemed that he could actually feel his hair growing. Finally Id’s imposing body once again filled the doorway behind Joel his shadow looming over him like a storm cloud waiting out the calm before the storm. Id crept up behind Joel stopping directly behind him. As Id lurked behind Joel could hear the labored breath of Id with the steady deep inhalations that ended more or less in a exacerbated sigh coming from directly above his head, but Joel was to terrified to even entertain the idea of looking up into the face of the monstrosity standing over him.
“Where is my brother you demented backwoods inbred hillbilly son of a bitch? Where is HE?!” demanded Joel in frustrated anger struggling so hard the chains that bound him rattled like a wind chimes in a hurricane.
“Id if you’d be so kind” said Mr. Leviticus in a monotone voice indicating his boredom with the matter.
Without warning the immense arm swung around in front of Joel and slammed something on the table before withdrawing itself back to its owner standing behind of Joel. It happened so fast that Joel was initially too startled to comprehend what was happening, and sat transfixed by fear like a deer in the headlights of an eighteen wheeler barreling down upon it. Then Joel saw what Id had deposited upon the table in front of him, his brothers severed head.
“JESUS CHRIST ZANDER!” exclaimed Joel in a fevered pitch as he gazed upon his brothers decapitated head.
“Don’t worry Mr. Fletcher you aren’t long for this world yourself so the time of grievance over eating your brother will be short I assure you” said Mr. Leviticus leering as he bent forward running his tongue over his yellow nicotine stained teeth. “You see Mr. Fletcher whats on tomorrow night’s dinner menu is you, but until then how would you like some dessert?”