Horror Stories Part 23

"Wherever you want to start, Jane."

"Wherever I want to start. Well. I guess you could say it all started when I was thirteen years old, when my father started coming into my bedroom."

"Your father molested you?"

"Molested? That sounds like he stuck his hand under my bra. My father f.u.c.ked me. Made me suck him off. Called me Daddy's Little Wh.o.r.e. Used to write it on my forehead, in marker. I'd have to scrub it off before going to school. Wretched b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Went on until I ran away, at sixteen."

"And that's when you met Maurice?"

"That pimp f.u.c.ker thought he was so smooth, busting out a white girl. Had no idea my old man busted me out years earlier."

"Was Maurice the one in the pit?"

"No. Maurice was the belt sander."

"Who was in the pit?"

"You want me to tell it, or answer questions?"

"Whatever you're more comfortable with."

"Okay. I'll tell it. Maurice found me at the shelter. Slimy p.r.i.c.ks like him can probably sniff out teenage p.u.s.s.y. He talked sweet, hooked me on crack, and the next thing you know I'm blowing guys in their cars for twenty bucks a pop. Wasn't that bad, actually. I know I'm nothing to look at. Even before all the scars, I was fat and dumpy. Plain f.u.c.king Jane, my mom called me. You got a cigarette?"

"Menthol."

"Beats sucking air. Thanks. Anyway, Maurice set me up with this freak. Guy took me back to his place, had a whole torture dungeon in his bedroom. That's how my face got all f.u.c.ked up. Cigarette burns. Looks like acne scars, doesn't it? Kept me there for four days, then dumped me in a trash can."

"Did you know his name?"

"We'll get to that. You wanted this from the beginning, remember?"

"Take your time."

"s.h.i.t. I'm sorry, I can't smoke menthols. Do you have anything else?"

"No."

"Do I have to smoke?"

"No."

"I want to do this right for you."

"It's okay."

"Thanks...Mr. Police-man. Where was I? Oh yeah, after my face got burned, Maurice couldn't give me away. I wound up a.s.s f.u.c.king winos in alleys for three bucks a pop. You ever have gonorrhea in your a.s.s? Hurts like a b.i.t.c.h. And f.u.c.king Maurice wouldn't give me money for the clinic. Whatcha got there? A picture?"

"Is this Maurice?"

"Jesus! That's disgusting! Is that real?"

"Is this Maurice?"

"Yeah. That's him. Doesn't look too good there, does he? Heard he might live."

"We don't know yet."

"Ha! Be d.a.m.n tough for him to testify. But I'm getting ahead of myself. After a while, the VD got so bad I couldn't walk. Maurice beat the s.h.i.t out of me, left me for dead. That's when Gordon found me."

"Reverend Gordon Winch.e.l.l?"

"He's no reverend. No church would have him. He was just another preacher, screaming scripture at drunks in soup kitchens. Saved my life, probably. Got me to the hospital. Actually came to visit me during my recovery. Seemed like an actual decent guy for a while. Until I learned his kink."

"What did he do to you?"

"On the day of my release, the good Reverend took me to his apartment, tied me to the bed, and began biting me."

"Biting you?"

"Look at this -"

"You don't need to -"

"Don't get all prude on me. See? Nothing there. Bit my nipples right off. If I wasn't in handcuffs I'd show you what he did to my t.w.a.t."

"Jesus."

"You okay, Mr. Police-man? You don't look so good. You want to take a break?"

"How did you get away?"

"He had it all worked out in his head that he'd kill me. But he couldn't. Didn't have the b.a.l.l.s. So he dumped me in front of the same hospital he brought me home from."

"Did you call the police?"

"Are you f.u.c.king kidding me? I called f.u.c.king everybody. When my dad was raping me, I called DCFS, and he paid the a.s.sholes off. When that freak burned my face, I filed a complaint, and you guys didn't do s.h.i.t. Gordon eats my private parts, one of your finest told me to have my pimp take care of it. Is this turning you on?"

"Stick to the story."

"This is some pretty sick s.h.i.t."

"Stick to the story!"

"Okay. Sorry. Where was I? I lost my place."

"The cops didn't help you."

"Right. Okay, here it is. That was it for me. I had enough of playing the victim."

"Is that when you started...?"

"Is that when I started grabbing these sons of b.i.t.c.hes? Yeah. When I got out of the hospital the second time, I tracked down the freak, watched his house until he was asleep, and then broke in. Used his own handcuffs on him. And his own blowtorch. It was hard to restrain myself, lemme tell you. But even holding back, his b.a.l.l.s turned black and fell off after only three days."

"This was John McSweeny?"

"Yeah. He sure was a screamer. Screamed so much, his throat actually started to bleed. Know what the weird part is? He smelled great! Like honey baked ham. When I burned off his face I was actually drooling. Is that funny or what?"

"You stabbed Mr. McSweeny."

"The h.e.l.l I did. I never killed no one. After a week or so, I uncuffed one of his hands, and gave him a steak knife. f.u.c.ker cut his own throat, and that's G.o.d's truth."

"After McSweeny came Maurice."

"Nope. Next came my father. I invited him over, got all weepy on the phone saying I forgave him. Hit him with a tire iron when he walked in the door. The freak, McSweeny, had all of these ropes and pulleys and s.h.i.t, so I stripped Dad naked and hung him up. Then I lowered him down on that hat rack. Right up his a.s.s. Funniest d.a.m.n thing you ever saw. The more he moved, the lower he sunk, the higher the pole went up his p.o.o.p chute. He lasted almost a month. I'd bring him food and water. That pole got about two feet up him before he finally died."

"That's murder, Jane."

"That's gravity, cop. If he stayed perfectly still, he would have lived. Blame Isaac Newton."

"Then Maurice?"

"Then Maurice. When I was honey baking McSweeny, he was anxious to make the pain stop. Gave me all sorts of things. His bank account. His stocks. His car. I went to the dealer who used to sell me crack, bought a needle of H, snuck up on Maurice."

"You mentioned you used a belt sander."

"It takes all the skin off, but then gets real slippery. I kept buying belt after belt, until I figured out I could improve the traction if I threw salt on him."

"How long did you torture Maurice?"

"A few weeks. He'd scab over, then I'd start on him again."

"So...the guy in the pit?"

"That was the good Reverend Gordon. He got a heroin poke too, and when he woke up, he was chained up in the hole."

"What did you do to him?"

"Poetic justice. f.u.c.ker liked to bite, so I gave him a taste of his own medicine. I went to the pet store, bought a big box of rats. Put them in the pit with him. They were tame at first, but when they got hungry they began to nibble nibble. They started on the soft parts - look, do I have to read anymore?"

"Stick to the script."

"But you've still got your clothes on. You don't seem into this at all."

"I pay the money. I make the rules. I want you to finish reading."

"Look, sugar, I'm the best. Why do you want me to sit here and read when I can make you feel good?"

"Please don't..."

"Are you crying? Don't cry, baby. It's okay. Don't be afraid. Let me just get these pants off."

"I don't want to..."

"I like shy boys. Are you a shy boy? Let's see how shy you are - Jesus!"

"You...you were supposed to stick with the script."

"Where's your c.o.c.k? You don't have a f.u.c.king c.o.c.k!"

"You read the story."

"The story?"

"Reverend...Reverend Gordon."

"But that was all bulls.h.i.t, right? Some freaky s.h.i.t you made up?"

"He...liked to bite..."

"You're bulls.h.i.tting me."

"I'm...a wh.o.r.e..."

"I'm leaving. Open this door."

"Daddy's Little Wh.o.r.e..."

"Open this f.u.c.king door or I'll start to scream!"

"McSweeny's house. Soundproof."

"You psychotic f.u.c.king freak! Let me out!"

"I won't hurt you. I want you to understand."

"Get the f.u.c.k away from me!"

"You're a prost.i.tute. You're a victim too."

"Let me go!"

"Someone hurt you, right?"

"I want to leave. Please let me leave."

"You didn't choose this. You didn't choose to f.u.c.k men for money."

"I...want to leave."