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  1. #1
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    Default Thegreatsoutherentrendkill lullaby

    Quote Originally Posted by THEGREATSOUTHERNTRENDKILL View Post


    speedy- your too toy for this thread.



    Quote Originally Posted by backalley abortion doctor View Post
    it looks like you live in the attic of some old farmer's house. The pink bed sheets were all they had at the time for you, but you were fine with this. The dust on the mirror doesn't bother you, your low self esteem keeps you from looking in the mirror often. You don't drive, it's a waste. The 50s model bicycle in the barn is more than efficient mode of transportation into the small town a mile or so from the farm.


    You keep to yourself here. The townspeople are aware of you, but rarely converse. This is where you pick your victims. Young women, the average looking, otherwise unnoticed. You find them, and follow them for days on end. Every day you see her, having a coffee at the small cafe across the street from the book store at which she works. On occasion you venture into the bookstore, for no other reason than to cop glances at her from behind the bookshelves. Once, you bought a book. A novel you'd never read, or show any interest in. A cheap, paperback.your eyes met hers, as she scanned the barcode, noticing your uncomfortable glare, giving a half-disturbed, anxious nod and smile as you left, hoping you'd not return. God, doesn't she tease you? You just want to show her you care. You shower her with effection, letting her know she mean something to you. No one else will love her, only you. As she lay, tied up on your bed, sobbing into her pillow, mouth gagged, a knock at your door: The elderly farmer, bringing you up the evening meal. You give her a forboding glance before cracking the door open just far enough to slide the plate of thinly-sliced roasted ham and mashed potatoes inside, giving the farmer a quiet 'thank you' as you shut the door. The young woman who'd caught your affection so intently, sobs as loudly as she can behind you, but the gag forced halfway down her throat constricts her cries to nothing more than the whimper of a mouse.


    To be continued.

    Quote Originally Posted by backalley abortion doctor View Post
    you take a moment to realise what you've done. Who was she, really? Who would miss her? How long until her family would become aware of her absense? It made no difference. You bring your hand to her soft, dirty blond hair, kneeling near her at bedside. Her shoulder-length locks smell sweet, her eyes, grasping at yours pleadingly, hatefully. You caress her cheek softly, wiping away a tear, your hand trembling. The urge is magnificent. You dig your fingernail into her cheek as she winces and sobs pathetically. Your heart leaps to your chest, your breathing so intense, your lungs feel external. You bring the old, rusty sheers from the dresser drawer to her hair, gripping it gently. Her eyes widen. You feel her inaudible screem. Soundless, yet, loud, burning through your ears. Her cold sweat drenches where she lay. "snip"

    a quick movement, and a handfull of her beautiful mane becomes yours. You have her now. You've taken part of her. You caress it softly in your palm, speaking nothing. This has become your keepsake. The trophy of your lover. A true object of affection. Her eyes tearing violently, you caress her again, softer this time, before moving to gently lay out her golden bangs on the dusty dresser, brushing the misplaced chemicals and hair dyes you'd bought at the salon in midtown- your first victim:

    It had taken longer with her. She was different. She was more quiet, seemed to have fewer people in the world she associated with, save for her few regular customers. You'd go in once a week to purchase a random beauty product, the effect of which you couldn't begin to understand. They now littered the dresser in front of your mirror. You loved her intently. She was yours first. But she betrayed you, she didn't love you as much as you loved her. Not like this one, not like the blonde book-store clerk. You could tell, the two of you had something special.

    Her body quivered as you touched it, a single trail of blood massaged her cheek, from where your dirty fingernail had penetrated her soft flesh. Her body is yours, you know this. She's giving it to you. She begs you to have it. You can read this in her beautiful azule eyes. Your hand motions to her nose smoothly, squeezing it tight, depriving her of oxygen, the gag in her mouth thrusting as she ached to thrust it out to no avail.


    To be continued.

    Quote Originally Posted by backalley abortion doctor View Post
    her body tempts you..no, she's in love with you. There is no temptation. As she gasps for breath, you release her nose. God how cute she is, sucking in breath through her now dripping nose, begging for release. Your mind wanders with thoughts of her as you hover above her, watching her gasping for breath. You wonder if her mind is set on marriage. You wonder how many men she's had before you. You wonder if her body was anyone else's fairground before your own. Your mind clouds with disgusting thoughts. She's had another man before you. Another man she loved, even two. Two other men she gave herself two. Those two men, at the same time. Or three. Or more. She'd had so many before you. She's a whore. How could she lie to you? You see her for what she is, now. The filth. Her body, tainted with the seed of others. How could she lie to you? How could sheforce herself upon you this way, and you come to find her body has been used. She was one of the girls in highschool, the ones that never paid attention to you. The ones that teased you, the ones that tricked you, embarassed you. She was a conniving whore. Filth among humans. How dare she present herself to you as though she were pure.

    Your anger builds dramatically. Her body convulses for air, and your heart fills with hatred. You lean down quickly, a solid motion, bringing the ball of your hand against her face with a devoit sneer. "how could you!" you scream at the top of your lungs in pure rage. The first thing you've said to her, since making her your own. Your face drops dramatically as you realise your tone, your attention turning to the thin-wood door to your loft. Footsteps rushing up the stairs, no doubt the elderly man coming to inspect the commotion. As the footsteps cease, and steady, worried raps at the door commence, your eyes dart in either direction.. "hello? Hello?! Is everything alright in there?" the gentleman questions worridly. His voice is frail, brittle. An elderly man, pressing his mid sixties. His voice trembling, but not entirely out of concern, his age contributes greatly to this. You can't help but fidgit nervously as you bring your hand to the doorknob, pulling it open slightly. "yes? Everything is...fine." you quietly assure him, making sure the door is cracked only slightly "i..heard y'h yell in there...wha's goin' on? Everything square?" he asks you curiously, trying to pry his head inside. You react quickly as you can, he's nearly forcing the door open, it's a panic. You reach behind the door for the dusty fire-place poker in the corner, grip it loosely, nearly dropping it, before thrusting open the door. The fire-poker's spikey end connects violently with the elderly man's forehead once, twice, again. His limp body falls backwards, the steel rod plummeting from his face onto the floor before the doorway.

    Your breath heavy, you adjust your shirt collar, closing your eyes to regain composure. This is difficult. Somehow, the whore you'd rescued from her prostitutional ways manages to make her screams audible at the sight. Deep screams emit from the lowest corners of her throat, her now bloodshot, red eyes watering uncontrolably. You turn back to her, leaving the door behind you open. No need to close it anymore.

    You have your privacy, now.



    To be continued.
    tbc.
    Last edited by Backalley Abortion Doctor; 07-16-2009 at 02:44 AM.
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  2. #2
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    This thread gets the official Zof stamp of "Best Thread Ever".
    78 ZOF 78



  3. #3
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    you should post the picture just so everyone knows where all this is coming from
    Fuck off.

  4. #4

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    what the fuuuuuuuck...now what is the deal with this??? further explanation per favore?

    edit: never mind i fuckin get it now...Ine weetahdud
    Last edited by trowel; 07-16-2009 at 02:50 AM.
    Don't hate, appreciate.

    Who you inspire is more important than who you impress...

    Recognize.



  5. #5
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    Look three pages back in wacha look like thread.
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  6. #6
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    (Backalley and I talked via pm's, and I'll be writing the part of Sheriff Peterson. We'll be taking turns as the story progesses. Enjoy.)


    The phone rings.
    Three people are dead after their vehicle was struck by an Amtrak train. Authorities say five people were in the vehicle hit by the Texas-bound train shortly after 3 p.m. Monday.
    The phone rings again.
    You peek over the top of the newspaper at the black behemoth sitting on your desk. It's the same phone that's been sitting on your desk for the past 26 years as County Sheriff. Heck it was even here when you started as a Deputy. It'll probably still be here after you're dead and buried. Not like the department has the money to replace it anyhow. They can't even afford a damn air conditioner in this hellhole of an office. Folding the paper and setting it down, you reach for the receiver just as the third ring starts.
    "Brock here." You croak into the mouthpiece.
    "Sheriff Peterson? It's Deputy Everson. I need you down here right away. There's a dead girl sun bathing in Edgar's soybean field."

    Tbc.
    Last edited by Vagrant; 07-16-2009 at 03:28 AM.

  7. #7

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    im glad i said something hahaha.
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  8. #8
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    we should make this into like the 5 word story thread...except its not five words you just continue where the story left off.idk man.that would be dope.

  9. #9
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    Vagrant and I agreed to co-op.
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  10. #10
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    haha.dope.we should keep this going as long as possible.southerntrendkill is the new jason...

  11. #11
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    oh btw yall should call him the collector....it just sounds cool.

  12. #12

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    the collector or the vagina ripper whichever one....
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  13. #13
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    The Trim Ripper (grim reaper) lawls.
    We'll find out whatever the small town media names him, soon enough.

  14. #14
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    Your writing is very impressive, Rots.

  15. #15

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    This story, is awesome, please continue.
    .

  16. #16

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    Haha, I love it

  17. #17

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    holy shit... WHAT HAVE I DONE?!!??11!
    OVR.TEH.COUNTR
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  18. #18

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    You have inspired one of Bombingscience's best threads in a while. You're a muse man, it's a good thing.
    .

  19. #19
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    You set the phone receiver back on the base. A satisfying "clunk" confirms it is seated properly. A quick glance back at the paper and you grimace. It'll have to wait until later. You lower your dirty military-style boots from the desk to the floor and stand up, the creak from the decrepit office chair sounding like a gasp of breath. The office is not much bigger than a single stall in a horse stable, 10 feet by 12 feet. The furnishings are meager, at best. A desk, and chair command center attention in the room. A phone and two tiered wire mail basket rest on the desk. Nearby sits an overflowing trash can, a small refrigerator barely big enough for a six pack, and several large cream colored filing cabinets, which match the cheap wood paneled walls quite horrendously. A few framed newspaper clippings, licenses, and diplomas hang about the room, trying to hide the tacky paneling but failing completely. Across the room, in the corner next to the door with a broken handle, is a large floor standing fan. Set to high the blades shake the entire contraption violently, emitting a pulsing screeching sound similar to the trademark shower murder scene music in the movie Psycho. In the other corner lives a dead potted plant.
    You turn to the mini-fridge and open it. After snatching a can of beer from its grasp, you pop the top and look out the window. It's 104F outside and you might as well get some fluids in you before heading out. It'll take a few minutes but you're in no hurry, the girl's not going to get any deader.

    A dead girl in Edgar's soybean field. That must be the Wright farm, considering Edgar Wright is the only farmer in the county growing soybeans right now. Most of the land, apart from his plot and the town, is trying to grow corn right now. They're all hoping to cash in on the Ethanol boom, even though everybody in the county knows this dirt ain't good for much more than blowing in your face. Good ol' Edgar lived during the Dirty Thirties, when this whole area was known as the Dust Bowl. Ever since then he won't grow nothing but soybeans, something his pappy taught him when he was a kid back then. The soybeans thrive here, and now-a-days them yuppies out east can't get enough of 'em.

    You finish your now warm beer and walk outside to your squad car, an old '66 Ford Galaxie 500 which has see many, many better days. The two-tone white and black paint job has been almost completely covered in dust for years. The county name can't even be read on the door. The sound of a dying cow fills the air as you open the driver side door and get in, the beige vinyl interior hot enough to make you stand for a week if not for the scrap of carpet you have on the drivers seat. You put the key in the ignition and start the beast, bringing life to all 8 cylinders of the 7 liter engine. You start to pull away, but the engine stalls and dies. Cursing loudly you bang on the steering wheel and restart the car. Still cursing, you pull onto the dirt road and head towards the Wright farm.

    tbc.
    Last edited by Vagrant; 07-16-2009 at 11:06 AM.

  20. #20
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    You pace the room anxiously, your heart leaping with each step. Your left hand repeatedly gropes at your earlobe and pulls, a nverous habit you'd had since your boyhood. Another day had gone by. By now, the elderly farm-keep's body had begun to bring about a stench to the entire house. The hot, 104'+ weather, coupled with the lack of an air conditioning in this old style building made for a quick rot. Flies buzzed around the body en masse, adding to this disturbing atmosphere. The night before, she'd slept. Whether it be from exhaustion, or simply passing out from hysteria, it didn't matter; she was beautiful as she slept. As your mind again wandered over the filthy things she'd done, the men she must have given herself to, the godless ways she'd presented herself, all she'd done, you feel your rage growing yet again. You grab the tweezers from the nightstand as you had the night prior, a jerking, rage-filled motion, knocking over a bedside lamp as you do, her eyes light up with horror as she sees you do this.

    The tips of your fingers connect violently to her soft, sweat-soaked, greasy cheeks, jerking her face into position. Her eyes shut as tight as she can get them, she knows what's coming. "You should have been fucking faithful to me, you bitch!" You spit, screaming at her through clenched teeth, bringing the tweezers down, into her clenched eye. You pull at her undamaged eyelid as her head uselessly tries to jerk from your grasp. "Just, just hold still fucking who~ore!" your voice carries, ripping up her eyelid in a rage-filled motion, splitting it down the middle, just as you had the other. This outlet doesn't fill your rage today, not for this harlot. "Ahhhh!" you yell in pure rage, bringing the tweezers back heavily and stabbing them into her tender, fleshy shoulderblade mercilessly, then pulling the bloody prongs out, and jamming them down again. Again, again, again, until your rage has finally been outletted.

    You throw them to the night stand. Her sobs pathetic; gentle, hopeless whimpers into the pillow of the man who'd only wanted to love her, hold her, protect her. trickles of blood caked her shoulder from the multiple tiny stab wounds you'd inflicted. You could still save her, change her. This harlot could someday become worth something to someone. She could still be your loved.

    She just needed to be retaught, how to be a lady.


    Tbc.
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