October 30th, 2019.
Stark City, Oregon.
11:13 p.m.
Scene One: Exterior. Nighttime. Slick, black, Beamer gliding through the rain-soaked heart of a downtown cityscape. Wide, overhead shot followed by a low, oblique angle. Tire and fender in the foreground. Very menacing…
Simon Green had done this before. Twice, in fact—although neither time had been quite this easy. These types of games required an almost superhuman amount of patience and self-control.
Quick insert shot of lonesome girl standing on wet street corner, anxiously awaiting her ride…
Cruising along, Simon kept his eyes level and his hands upon the wheel. His cold blue eyes glinted in the light from the dashboard. His lips quivered with each measured breath. From the stereo, “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” issued forth like a sonic rake.
Wide shot, front of car. Just above the hood. Driver cloaked in shadow. Traffic lights reflected in the windshield…
Simon’s destination lay just ahead. The Stark City Mall; dark and quiet at this time of night. Spotting it, he stiffened, took a deep breath, and eased up on the gas.
Overhead tracking shot. Car slows, then comes to a full stop beside the curb. Several feet away, a lone figure stands. The girl, appropriately dressed in black…
Insert Narrator: Doomed…but probably too innocent to even suspect it.
Simon always did his best to behave as if on camera, as if being directed by the likes of Spielberg or Kubrick. Big reactions for big moments. Subtle reactions to subtle cues. And this particular moment required a calm yet concerned expression, which Simon managed as he lowered the passenger side window and spoke the agreed-upon greeting:
“Pardon me, Miss?”
The girl looked down, shoulders slumped, long black hair shrouding her face. She couldn’t have been a day older than twelve. Small, thin; perfect for tonight’s feature. Clad in a black sweater and a black, tattered skirt which hung to the tops of her dull black shoes, she appeared to be a stereotypical gothic waif, though perhaps younger than most. With a weary sigh, she looked up, expressionless, and blinked.
“Sir?”
Simon arched his eyebrows for emphasis. “Do you think it’ll be an early dawn?”
The girl raised both her chin and shoulders in a gesture of somehow defiant relief. Her pale face glimmered like porcelain as she uttered the agreed-upon response:
“Only if the night is forgiving.”
Insert Narrator: Oh, it won’t be, I assure you…
Nodding, Simon reached over and opened the passenger side door. With the grace and assurance of a grown woman, the thin, young child slid into the shiny BMW.
“Name’s Simon.”
The girl stared straight ahead, making no move to buckle her seatbelt. “I thought it was Exterminans’.”
Simon smiled, shook his head. “Later on, it will be. What should I call you?”
“Revan.”
Simon frowned. “Raven, you said?”
“Revan.”
“Oh, okay. Revan, then. Were you told what to expect?”
“Fifteen thousand dollars to the sponsor, five thousand to me. Three clients. Pictures. Movie. Nudity required. Sex and light BDSM. Maybe more, involving bodily fluids.”
“That’s right. And you’re good with it?”
“Yes.”
“No reservations?”
“No.”
“Excellent.” Simon switched his foot from the brake to the gas pedal. “Shall we?”
“We shall.”
Wide, low exterior shot as my Beamer pulls away from the curb. Inside the car, “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” fades into the next song. Above, the dark, swirling sky begins to weep its bitter tears.
End scene.
2.
Scene Two: Interior of car. Wide, static master shot of me and Revan in mid-conversation. Closeup inserts as she and I banter over the music…
“So, anyway, after I left the firm in New York I moved here and took over as Director of Marketing at Stark County Medical Center.”
“Sounds lame.”
Closeup shot of my hands clenching around the wheel. An omen of doom for this sassy little bitch…
“Be that as it may, successful marketing takes both knowledge and intuition, and I’ve managed to keep SCMC’s image squeaky clean.”
“Good for you.”
“I’ve also earned a pretty good living. Those annual bonuses really stack up.”
“Is that how you’re able to afford your…movies?”
“Absolutely.” Simon stole a sideward glance at Revan. “Have you, uh, seen either of my two films?”
“No.”
“What have you heard about them, then?”
“I heard that they’re really sexy.”
“I see. And, uh, do you…like that sorta thing?”
“Sure.”
Simon stole another sideward glance. “You know, you seem pretty savvy for someone your age.”
“I’m not as young or innocent as I look.”
“Oh, I’m counting on that.”
Closeup on my knowing smirk. More foreshadowing of doom.
Twenty minutes had passed since Simon picked Revan up, and she hadn’t moved a muscle—or dropped her shitty attitude. The others had been grateful and talkative, but not this one. Revan just sat there, staring straight ahead, answering in sharp, humorless, sentences.
Still, despite Revan’s icy demeanor, Simon couldn’t help but smirk. No matter how she behaved, he knew that this poor, neglected child had to be impressed with his car, his style, his wealth. And soon, very soon, she’d be impressed with his big, luxurious house in the Hinckley suburb.
Yeah. She had to be both impressed and jealous.
She had to be.
Wide, overhead tracking shot of my Beamer cruising up the driveway to my two-story mansion. Bauhaus music fades as we pull to a stop. Wide shot, just above the Beamer’s hood as we get out. Low, oblique shot of the empty walkway leading to my covered porch. The porchlight’s on, bathing the concrete steps in an amber glow. Next to the varnished door, warm light bleeds through the blinds on the front window.
“Home, sweet home.”
As they walked, Simon dared to put his hand on Revan’s back, guiding her in front of him, and she stiffened beneath his touch.
“Sweeter than mine.”
Simon slid his key into the lock. “Yeah? Do you wanna talk about it?”
A bitter smirk crossed Revan’s lips as she turned her face up to the light. “I know that little girls, whips, and chains turn you on. Do you have a fetish for hard luck stories, too? Wanna hear all about Mommy shooting up in the kitchen? Daddy spanking my bare ass with his bare hand, and what happened afterwards?”
“Uh, no…” Simon shook his head, opened the door. “No, that’s not what I meant at all.”
“Oh. Okay.” Revan turned and stepped inside.
Insert Narrator: Spoiled little twerp! Talk about hard luck stories. You’ll get yours soon. You’ll scream and scream and scream…
Simon and Revan now stood in a narrow foyer, lit by lantern lights mounted on each wall. Simon slipped off his blue parka and hung it on a coatrack. Revan faced forward, as if trying to peer into the next room.
“Are you warm enough?” Simon asked.
“Fine.”
“Would you like something to drink? Wine, liquor? No age limits here.”
“No.”
Slow, level tracking shot as we walk into the living room…
“Are you sure? Maybe just a sip of something to take the edge off?”
“No.”
“Well, as you please. I’m gonna have a taste of cognac.”
Revan walked to the center of the living room, paused next to a large coffee table. She ignored the lavish sofa, the monstrous flat screen television, and turned in a slow circle, gazing at the framed photos decorating the walls. All black and white, all featuring a short, mustachioed man in a bowler hat and baggy pants, clutching a dark cane. In each photo, the disheveled tramp mimed a unique and recognizable emotion. Joy. Sadness. Surprise. Wonderment. An almost complete summation of the human experience for anyone who happened to walk into the room.
Watching Revan, a smile crept across Simon’s face. “You like Chaplin? He’s my favorite actor of all time…”
Revan completed her turn, leveled her austere gaze at Simon. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
Simon’s smile widened. “First rule of showbusiness, never rush the director. Be right back, cutie pie. Make yourself at home.”
Point-of-view shot over Revan’s left shoulder as I turn and walk from the room.
End scene.
3.
Scene Three: Interior. Basement stairs. Downward tracking shot, from the bare overhead bulb to our tense, serious faces…
“Simple Simon, is that you?”
“’Bout damn time, Simon!”
The jocular voices belonged to Simon’s two closest friends, echoing up from the basement.
“Yes, gentlemen. I’ve arrived with our star performer.”
“Excellent!”
“Well, I’m all ready for my closeup, Mr. Green!”
Simon chuckled. Revan, ever stoic, stared and stepped like an automaton. Or a zombie.
Slow, backward tracking shot as Revan descends the staircase. Looming behind her, me—looking rather dashing, of course—with a predatory grin. Insert closeup shots of the framed film posters lining the walls as we pass. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Metropolis. Nosferatu. The Seventh Seal. All classics!
Simon and Revan reached the bottom of the steps. Two men awaited them, both wearing gray, hooded monk’s robes, pinstripe boxer shorts, and black slippers. One tall and lanky, the other short and rotund. Both held cigars in one hand, and half full tumblers of gin in the other. Smiling, their eyes gleamed with malicious delight.
Insert closeup shot of Revan’s dull, unimpressed face.
“Fellas, meet Revan.” Simon gestured toward the tall man. “Revan, you may call this gentleman, Typhon.”
Insert Narrator: This silly Typhon bastard’s real name is Garland Heller. I’m sure the good folk of Stark City would be shocked to know that he sits on the Stark County Medical Center Board of Directors. Note the graying hair, the Botox around the eyes, the unnaturally straight teeth. I’ll bet he’s chomping at the bit to get on with the evening’s festivities. And who could blame him? His leather whip hasn’t tasted nubile young flesh in quite some time.
“Pleasure,” Garland said, sipping his gin.
Revan betrayed no emotion as she glanced first at Garland, then at the other man.
“And this gentleman, you may refer to as Orcus.”
Insert Narrator: This other silly bastard’s name is Burt Landauer, the president of Stark County Medical. Note the bald spot, the bulbous nose, the beer belly. Mrs. Landauer’s a bit of an ice queen, so I’m sure he’s a little, shall we say, backed up…
“Pleased to meet ya,” Burt said, puffing his cigar.
Revan held Burt’s gaze for a split second, then turned and stepped forward, interested to see the rest of the room.
Simon grinned at his buddies. “She’s a little shy, boys.”
“No, I’m not,” Revan said, prompting all three men to turn her way.
Wide shot. Revan’s point-of-view as she scans my playroom. To her left, a large, three-armed floor lamp and utility table where my friends and I have played poker every weekend for several years. Straight ahead, an old couch facing the far wall. A fresh white sheet covers the wall; a bleak canvas awaiting fresh paint. On either side of the couch stands a large studio light, aimed at the sheet-covered wall. In front of the couch, a video camera is mounted on a tall tripod. The floor in front of the camera is covered by a blue plastic tarp; all the better to clean up the inevitable mess.
“Almost showtime,” Simon announced, approaching the thin girl. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Behind Simon, Garland and Burt grinned, sipped, and puffed.
“Well, then…kindly step over to the stage and strip down, young lady.”
Wide, static shot as Revan slowly turns toward the stage area.
Again moving with the grace and assurance of a grown woman, Revan strode to the tarp and began removing her clothes. Giddy with anticipation, Garland and Burt hurried over to the couch and plopped down, eager to experience this cheapest of cheap thrills. Simon, meanwhile, hid his own mounting excitement by busying himself with the lights and camera.
Insert Narrator: Look at little Revan over there. Trying to be so stoic. Such a brave face for one so near to pain and death. She has no real idea of the atrocities committed on the very spot where she now stands. That’s where we filmed our first feature, Innocence Lost. Little Gloriana—that’s what we called her, anyway—trussed up, ravaged, and ripped apart for the camera’s cold, unblinking eye. That gritty piece of celluloid went viral on the underground snuff market. Pulled in over a million shekels in private sales. We rode pretty high on that wave for a few years until the law of supply and demand demanded that we supply. So we cast our nets wide and caught us another wayward cherub. Little Seraphena, star of Eviscerated Angel. The little poppy addict slit her wrists and danced around all herky-jerky until she passed out. Then we each took her in every way possible until she was limp and lifeless, much to the delight of our rather exclusive audience. It turned out to be another hit for Exterminans and crew, which prompted us to attempt our third masterpiece with sweet, young Revan here…
Naked, her clothes in a dark pile next to the couch, Revan stood in the center of the tarp, staring down Garland and Burt’s clownish, appreciative grins. She stood erect, shoulders back, chin up. Dignified; making no attempt to cover herself—although to any sane pair of eyes, a girl her age didn’t have much to leer at, anyway.
Simon looked up from the camera and smiled. “Excellent. Are you ready to begin?”
For the first time that evening, Revan smiled. Not the smile of a sweet, innocent girl, but the smug smile of one who knows some secret, terrible thing. Above this smile, her eyes glittered. Her opal-colored teeth glimmered in the harsh stage lighting.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Now, hold that pose.” Still smiling, Simon pushed a button on his camera—
Click!
“Good. Now, no smile, please. No expression at all…”
Revan obeyed.
Click!
“Good. Now, frown…”
Revan obeyed—
Click!
“Good. Now, hands on your hips….”
Click!
“Arms crossed.”
Click!
“Turn to your left.”
Click!
“Turn to your right.
Click!
“Turn all the way around.”
Click!
“Turn back around and get down on your knees.”
Click!
And on it went; Simon directing, and Revan posing herself as he directed. Garland and Burt watched and attended their drinks as bulges began to rise in their pinstripe boxers. Once Revan had gone through all of Simon’s poses, pantomimed every emotion he could think of, he directed Revan to take five while he and his cohorts readied themselves.
Rack focus closeup of the camera lens, switching to the figures milling about in the background: Typhon, Orcus, and I…
Insert Narrator: If the photo shoot had unnerved little Revan, she didn’t show it. The pale waif just stood there, looking bored, waiting for Typhon and Orcus to finish their drinks and extinguish their stogies while I stripped down and donned my sacred robe.
“Alright, Revan,” Simon said, once again positioned behind the camera. “Last chance for a drink, a toke, a bump, whatever, before we start filming.”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, how ’bout a bathroom break?”
“No.”
Simon grinned, shook his head. “Just rarin’ to go, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Alright, then. We’ll begin with you looking down for ten seconds. Count them off in your head. Then slowly, slowly look up, straight into the camera. Then the three of us will come into the scene, and from there on, just act and react naturally, okay?”
“Yes.”
“And just so you know, we’ll be wearing our robes, and our ritual masks. Sound good?”
“Yes, Exterminans.”
“Excellent!” Simon glanced over each shoulder at Garland and Burt. “You gentlemen ready?”
“Of course!” Garland replied.
“Sure am!” Burt said.
“Well, fantastic! Everyone, take your places.”
With a deep sigh, Revan looked down. Her black hair spilled from her shoulders, enshrouding her face. Simon bent to the camera, gazing at Revan on the display screen.
“Perfect! And now, everyone…ready…set…ACTION!”
End scene.
5.
A Meeting of Monsters
A Film By The Warlocks Three
Cast:
Sacrifice—Revan
Warlock #1—Exterminans
Warlock #2—Typhon
Warlock #3—Orcus
Directed By Exterminans of Hades
The black and white, sepia-toned film begins with a flicker, followed by a wide, static shot of a lone girl standing before a bright backdrop. She stares downward. Her black hair hangs long and straight and still. She stands naked, and her china-white flesh glows as if bathed in celestial light. She’s young; so young and girlish and bony. No curves; almost sexless but for the obvious.
The soundtrack, pure silence. Not even the sound of breath.
Down this girl looks for ten long seconds; a brief, excruciating eternity. Then she raises her grim face as if awakening from slumber. Staring straight ahead, her dark eyes pierce hard into something only she can see. Her expression is both smooth and hard and expectant.
She is to be the sacrifice, and this she knows.
Behind the sacrifice, three ominous shadows appear upon the backdrop. Still, no emotion appears on her young, stoic face.
A moment passes, then three figures enter the scene. In they stroll; rigid and solemn. Three men, also naked but for long, gray robes and bone-white masquerade ball masks concealing their faces. The warlocks, come to enact their terrible rites upon the sacrifice. Down they look at her, eyes slit behind their mannequin-like disguises.
With no extra movement, no change in countenance, the sacrifice flits her gaze from warlock to warlock, then straight on once more. Neither bothered nor concerned by their presence.
In unison, all three warlocks raise their left arms, forefingers extended from beneath baggy sleeves, and begin circling their adolescent sacrifice with measured, careful steps.
“Hear us, O ye Gods of The Pit!” they chant, still circling in their zombie cadence, still pointing with puritan vigor. “We, The Libertines of Lucifer, The Sybarites of Satan, offer up this gift of flesh, this gift of blood!”
From the sacrifice, no response. Just the hard stare into the camera.
“Lust!” Exterminans cries.
“Pain!” Typhon cries.
“Death!” Orcus cries.
Still, the sacrifice stares; oblivious to her plight.
“No words from the sacrifice?” Exterminans asks. “What have you to say, girl?”
“Nothing,” the sacrifice replies in a dry tone. “Just get on with it.”
“As you wish!” Exterminans chuckles, gesturing to Warlock #2. “Typhon, you may have the honors.”
Typhon chuckles. “I give thanks, Exterminans.”
Still, they circle. Still, they point.
Still, she stares.
“Gods of The Pit,” Typhon declares, right hand rubbing his bare belly as if anticipating a sumptuous meal. “We now consecrate this sacrifice in your honor! Look kindly upon this meeting of monsters and give us your unholy blessings!”
“Well done, Typhon,” Exterminans says. “And now, let the feast of fleshly delights begin!”
“Begin!” Typhon echoes.
“Begin!” Orcus adds.
“Monsters,” the sacrifice whispers, eyes widening for the briefest of moments.
“Brother Orcus,” Exterminans calls, tilting his head toward his fellow warlock. “What would you desecrate first?”
“Her mouth, Brother Exterminans!” Orcus replies with no hesitation. “I would feel her lips and tongue as she prays for mercy!”
“So be it!” Exterminans replies. “On your knees, girl! Time for penance!”
At this, the sacrifice stiffens. Her face contorts into a grimace; her first display of emotion. Her virginal lips part, revealing small but sharp, white teeth, then twist downward in a moue of utter disgust. Her dark eyes roll up, gazing heavenward for an instant before disappearing; pupils hidden, the whites bulging from their sockets. Then, her head begins to loll back, as if following her gaze.
“See? She stirs, my brethren!” Exterminans calls. “She hungers for our caresses! For the whip! For all the sweet pleasures of pain!”
“I see!” Typhon replies.
“Let’s indulge her!” Orcus adds.
At this, a low, guttural groan issues from deep inside the sacrifice’s chest, echoing in the back of her flexed throat as her hands rise in a welcoming gesture. Her jaws open, and her pale tongue slides forth as if tasting the air.
“Horny bitch—HERE!”
Leaning forward, not breaking formation, Orcus places his extended forefinger upon the sacrifice’s tongue. In response, her head snaps forward, lips closed around the warlock’s digit. Her cheeks crease inward as if sucking on a straw.
“Excellent!” Exterminans cries.
“God, her tongue is talented!” Orcus replies.
“I’ll bet!” Typhon says.
Now turning in step with Orcus, the sacrifice reaches out on either side. Her right hand closes around Exterminans’ forefinger, her left hand closes around Typhon’s forefinger, and she becomes the hub of an obscene carousel.
The Warlocks Three tilt their heads back with howling laughter.
“None of the others were quite so willing, were they?” Orcus asks in all earnestness.
“Not even close!” Typhon replies.
Orcus then turns to Exterminans. “Shall we give her what she wants, Brother?”
“Oh, yes, Brother!” Exterminans returns. “This one we will take in every manner possible before the real terror and pain begins! Before we paint the walls with her very lifesblood!”
And here, Exterminans raises his right forefinger like a pious televangelist.
“But first…let’s make the nasty little brat confess each and every one of her sins in as much dirty detail as possib—”
The film flickers. Then, in one smooth motion, the sacrifice bites down, snaps her chin to her chest, and jerks her petite fists downward. The sound of finger bones cracking and snapping rifles and ricochets about the room like gunshots.
All three warlocks fall to their bare knees.
All three warlocks cry out in horrendous pain behind their masks.
Arms flexed, tendons straining against her delicate flesh, the sacrifice opens her mouth. A thick glob of blood drips onto the floor as Orcus’s severed, convulsing finger rolls from her now dark tongue.
“FUCKIN’ WHORE!” Orcus shrieks, cradling his rent and bloodied hand to his chest.
“GODDAMNIT!” Typhon screams.
“AW, SHIT!” Exterminans screams.
Eyes still rolled back, whites still bulging from their sockets, the sacrifice grins, baring gore-stained teeth. Orcus glares up at her with hateful, tearstained eyes while Typhon and Exterminans clutch at her dainty wrists with their free hands.
Again, that horrid noise of bones cracking.
Then, grinning her ghoulish grin, the sacrifice releases her grip, turning her palms up and raising her thin arms in the eternal pose of the crucified. Exterminans and Typhon both crumple forward, cradling their injured hands as Orcus cradles his. Orcus, rising to one knee, has murder in his eyes as he balls his right hand into a quivering fist.
“I’m gonna beat your face in, you little cun—”
But Orcus’s epithet fades as that deep, guttural groan returns. Louder this time; the sound of a demon being summoned against its will.
“Oh, fuck!” Exterminans gasps. “What have we done?”
And there, before three pairs of startled, uncomprehending eyes, the young sacrifice begins to rise as if suspended on an invisible wire. Staring straight ahead through the whites of her eyes, arms outstretched. Grinning. Groaning. A living conduit to all the souls of the damned.
“What have we done?” Exterminans repeats, this time in a hoarse whisper. Forgetting the camera, he rips his mask away to reveal a harrowed, sweaty face.
Orcus, still poised on one knee, right fist still cocked and quivering, gazes up in disbelief. “God help us!” he breathes, oblivious to the blood gushing from his severed knuckle.
As if mimicking Exterminans, Typhon also rips his mask away. Mimicking Orcus, he also gazes up, his face slack and pale. His lips flutter but no words form behind them.
Now hovering in midair, looking over her kneeling subjects, the would-be sacrifice’s groan ends, though a faint echo remains. In its wake, an ethereal glow has begun to seep from her eyes and mouth; bright white and blinding.
Moaning, wheezing, the Warlocks Three raise their right hands to shade themselves.
Then, it comes. A voice from the center of the sacrifice’s being. Deep and husky and dripping with an unmistakable timbre of doom:
“Vile wretches…ignorance made flesh…ye dare invoke The Gods of The Pit in one foul breath…then Jehovah…then His Son, The Risen Christ in the next!”
The warlocks, now reduced to the postures of groveling peasants, let out a collective gasp of terror.
“Ye have befouled this plane…spilt blood ye had no right to spill…extinguished life ye had no right to extinguish…”
“It was Simon!” Typhon shouts. “He did this! It wasn’t me!”
“Yes!” Orcus adds, clawing at the plastic mask covering his face. “Simon led us!”
“Spineless bastards!” Exterminans replies, still cringing from the light. “Don’t listen to those two, for God sakes!”
“SILENCE!”
As she speaks, or as the voice speaks through her, the harsh light from the sacrifice’s eyes and mouth grows ever brighter, ever harsher.
“Ye have been judged…above…below…the souls ye have taken cry out for vengeance…now penance must be served…true penance…YOUR PENANCE!”
Shivering with dread, Exterminans dares to ask, “What—what is to be done with us?”
A roar of humorless laughter fills the room like thunder.
“As ye have reaped…so shall ye sow!”
“Oh, no!” Exterminans whispers. “Oh, God—NO!”
Again, that wicked laughter as the light from the sacrifice spreads out in an all-consuming wave. And behind that light, wavering screams of unimaginable horror.
Here, the film blurs, then flickers. What follows is the same wide, static shot against the bright backdrop. A macabre ten seconds pass, showing Orcus on his hands and knees, sans robe, being violated from behind by Exterminans, mouth filled with Typhon’s turgid flesh. Several large contusions are prominent on Orcus’s flabby back and buttocks, along with deep slashes and copious amounts of dark blood. Exterminans and Typhon both stare down with maniacal grins, enjoying Orcus’s mewls of pain and exertion. In Exterminans’ right hand, a large straight razor gleams.
“Suck it, pig!” Typhon shouts, gripping Orcus’s ears and spitting on his bald spot.
Hips thrusting, Exterminans growls like a starving dog as he slashes his weapon downward. “Bleed, pig! BLEED!”
And the sacrifice is nowhere to be seen.
Again, the film flickers. The next scene shows a pained Typhon on his knees, facing the camera. Behind Typhon stands Exterminans. Around Typhon’s neck is a black leather whip, twisted tight in Exterminans’ clenched fists. Deep slash marks crisscross Typhon’s pale chest. Blood gushes from the wounds, and Typhon’s ruddy hands clutch at the whip. The look on Exterminans’ face is orgasmic. The backdrop behind them is covered in a mélange of bodily fluids.
“SMILE!” Exterminans screams. “SMILE FOR YOUR FUCKING CLOSEUP! SMILE LIKE YOUR FUCKING LIFE DEPENDS ON IT!”
To his credit, Typhon does his best—
Another flicker, then…
“Hello, out there!” Exterminans says, his face in extreme closeup as he leans forward. His eyes have been gouged or perhaps carved out, and stringy nerve endings hang from their black, bloody sockets. Shivering, he holds the straight razor to his throat with both hands and smiles the smile of the insane. His broken forefinger twitches against the gore-flecked steel as he licks his gore-flecked lips. “Hope you enjoyed the show! I know I did!”
As he speaks, blood and saliva spurts from his wet mouth.
“See, it was all for art! Our contribution to cinema! I could’ve been a great director! The world would’ve seen my talent and handed me an Oscar on a golden plate! But, no! You sad, deranged fuckers never recognize real talent, do you! You have eyes but they’re worthless! You just don’t SEE!”
Coughing, Exterminans spits, then resumes his wide grin.
“But…too late now! Too fucking late! I could’ve given you all genius in exchange for your mediocrity! But you don’t deserve it! You never did!”
With a long pause, Extermnans catches his breath. Still leaning in. Still holding the razor to his throat.
“And now…for the famous, final scene!”
Here, the black and white, sepia-toned film blips and wavers as Exterminans, smiling yet beginning to weep, peering out at the world through eyeless, hateful sockets, presses the sharp steel deep into his own flesh…then goes black.
Jesse Lynn Rucilez was born in Reno, Nevada. Growing up, Jesse was an avid reader of Sherlock Holmes stories and Marvel Comics. Throughout his life, Jesse has mainly worked in the security industry, both in Seattle, Washington and Reno, Nevada, and taught self-defense for several years before deciding to focus on writing. Inspired by authors such as Harlan Ellison, Stephen King, and Kurt Vonnegut, he prefers to write literary horror and science fiction, exploring what he calls “the dark side of the American Dream.” Read more of his work at http://www.jlrucilez.wordpress.com
