Torturer's Day Off

Editor's note: This one is rather disturbing! - Dr. Grogan

From NIKOLAUS MAACK:

23 Oct 1995

Warning: The following is fiction, so shut up. You're in alt.tasteless. What the fuck did you expect?

Torturer's Day Off

The best part about torture, Jake found, was the way it distanced you from your own pain. Whatever little misery happens to be bothering you is gone, because you are cutting at someone, and that focusses you on the other. The person there, that you are working with, their body like clay, like paint, is what you must consider. Your own thoughts and feelings become distant as you relish the suffering of another. You think to yourself: "Well, I might have problems, but at least I'm not this poor, screaming little fucker."

Jake was in a mental hospital, when the government approached him and offered him work. The pay was good, although he'd have to stay within the confines of the building he was placed at. He accepted right away. He recognized the sincerity of the offer. He knew that they cared about the work greatly. They insisted that all sessions be recorded. That didn't bother him, he liked an audience. To think that someone else would later observe the whole thing from start to finish made his mouth water.

The average session lasted four hours. He didn't mind if the person gave out the information right away. In fact, it pleased him. It meant he could get to the stuff he'd been holding back on. He could damage the eyes, the entire torso and the limbs and all that, but until the person told what they knew, Jake couldn't play with the mouth and the skull in the way that he liked. He liked to saw away portions of the skull. He'd been threatened with lobotomy so many times while in the hospital, it gave him quite a thrill to be performing impromptu ones now.

He'd start sawing away at the forehead, carefully letting the blood dribble down into the person's eyes. That always fucked them up. The blood would blind them, and he'd wipe the blood away, and the blood would blind them again. Then he'd peel back at the skin of the face. Having the head peeled like a grape always fucked them up. They'd usually piss and shit themselves right then, if they hadn't already, and they'd scream and gibber. It was beautiful.

Jake had read many, many books on the topic of torture. His keepers gladly gave them to him. It improved his work. Jake's success rate was highest in the building. Jake had lately been reading about how much direct stress a human heart can take. Jake liked the idea of being a doctor, and though he had no real medical skills, he enjoyed mimicking the work of professionals. He'd do pseudo-open heart surgery, keeping his patient just conscious enough to know their rib cage was being sawed open one rib at a time. Then, POP.

The awareness in their eyes was wonderful. He could see that they were conscious, feeling every tickle and twinge and pierce. He longed to skin a human being and keep them salted, scarring up their entire body, using one being for say, a week, but the government had a schedule, and there was always one more person on the conveyor belt that needed to have information sucked out of their head.

When Jake got his hands on them, they'd usually already been gone over by amateurs. The victims were bruised, sometimes had a broken arm. They were usually proud to have survived up until then. That pride didn't last too long, especially when Jake explained to them how things worked. After they were carefully tied up, he'd give his speech.

"I was a serial killer," he would explain. "A small time one. No big deal. I was picked up after a while. Put in a mental hospital. I've seen my share of torture. Sure. Life isn't pretty. We both know that, don't we?"

He loved pretending to bond with them. It was that sort of tactic that usually led them to believe that it was still an interrogation. Of course, it was beyond that once he got them.

"The government recognizes I have skills they need," Jake would explain. He would touch them all over as he spoke. It was this violation of their personal space that established their relationship: artist to materials. Like a one-sided love affair. Painter and paint. Sculpter and clay. "Pardon my forwardness," he always said as he inserted his fingers up their ass, poking about. He never touched cunts. He dreaded he idea of torturing women. Those jobs were always a chore for him.

"You have gone through the string of people upstairs who mimick what I do," Jake said. "Upstairs, they have a conscious. Down here, there is no such burden. I feel nothing." Usually at this point he would press his thumb into something soft and vulnerable, like an eye, or a testicle. He'd push down hard, and the person would sometimes scream, sometimes not. Then he'd let go.

"You have to understand you have gone past a certain state of affairs," Jake said softly. "They no longer care if you live. That's why they've given you to me. You're already dead. Once you are down here, you are scratched off a chart upstairs. See that hole in the wall over there?" He'd hold up their faces so they could see. "That's where a camera is. It's filming all this. There are also tape recorders rolling. The most sensitive kind available, I'm told. They'll take down your every word. Once I get what I need from you, I get to kill you. Most people think I'm bluffing. They think 'No, he couldn't really be a serial killer. I'll tell him what I know and he'll stop hurting me.' I'm telling you now, I won't even stop if you talk. You will talk, I just want you to know it will make no difference to me. I don't want you to have any hard feelings when you realize that everything I am saying right now is true. I'm not torturing you for the information. I'm an artist."

They never believed him, of course. It sounded like an act. They expected some torture, and that would be it. In a way, Jake found it utterly depressing, the hope that is in a human heart. Sometimes, even as they were having all their limbs taken off one by one, they believed it would stop, and soon they would be free. Someone would come in and save them. Some sort of decision higher up would be made and they'd go free. He could see the hope in their eyes, in their tears running down their cheeks, in the way they fought him, fought for their lives. Like a life as a blind, crippled, half-sane thing would be worth something.

Jake would then take out his instruments, and start sculpting. He saw each human being that came to him as an uncarved block of stone, and inside them was a work of art. Only, really, it was inside each person was a death, and it was finding this death that was so wonderful. He would poke and prod, and how the person reacted would tell him where to go. Where ever they were most sensitive is where he would concentrate. Some people had sensitive feet, others sensitive genitals, others sensitive eyes.

There were occasions where people would fake a sensitivity. That is, he would cut off a few toes, and they would scream like mad, hoping he would just stay working on their feet. He could see through these tricks. He could tell exaggerated pain from real pain any day. No one ever seemed to consider that this was a skill a human being would possess. They quickly found out how they'd underestimated Jake.

Feet are incredibly delicate things, really. The skin is thick, but under that are all sorts of delicate bones that Jake just loved picking at. It was like a complex jig saw puzzle that he was taking apart. Shredding feet, gouging in between toes and creating long strips of skin and bone... That was quite nice. Cracking into the spine... Removing testicles and placing them, all bloody, in a person's mouth. Rather a cliche', but effective. Especially when you force their jaw into biting through the tesicle. That sound was inimitable. That crunching egg sound. It gave Jake beautiful chills of joy.

Anyhow, it was all good fun. Jake would sit in his chair, reading a newspaper, feeling like the local barber, and then someone would come tumbling down into his play room. Time to get to work.

Sometimes he fucked the bodies. He was nervous the first time he did this. He thought the government might get mad. They'd said he could do anything he wanted, but he wasn't sure if this was a part of that anything. He'd sawn a hole in one man's chest, and couldn't resist fucking it. He'd stared at the camera, feeling guilt, but then did it anyway. Warm blood pulsing around his cock, the heart beating right next to the head of his dick. The two throbs, uniting as one.

They never said anything about it, and he realized he was really allowed to do whatever he wanted. There were no limits. He was so grateful, he cried.

He loved coming on them. When they saw him actually orgasm in their blood, they knew then that there really was no hope at all. They finally, finally saw that Jake was doing it for pleasure. Then, finally, their eyes would fill with the proper respect and fear.

"I am an artist," he would repeat to them over and over. Sometimes, when it was a woman, he would apologize, and, even, cry. "I'm sorry," he would say, sobbing, "but I'm an artist."

Fortunately, they were very rarely women. Thank god it was a man's world, Jake would think to himself. He couldn't help but think of his mother when he did women. His mother had taught him almost everything he knew about killing. She'd raised him alone. Jake never knew his father, well, not to talk to, anyhow. Mom taught him all the pain points using dad's body. That was the first kill they did together. Mom showed him where to cut so that the person would last longest. Dad's thin face, staring up at Jake when he was 8 years old, the long knife wobbling nervously in his slick red fingers. It was his fondest memory. His mother holding him around the waist and saying "Harder, Jake! Push down harder!"

And then the knife crunched through a rib. That was a lesson his mom had taught him: show them their bones. That really panicked them. "Look! See this? It's a rib. It's your rib. I just took it out. See? This is you. Your rib. What I am now going to suck on, stick in my mouth, is your rib. Think about it." Then perform mock fellatio on it. Yeah, mom was a real pro. Jake often wondered where she was now. The government really should be using her too, he figured, but mom never would get caught, and if she did, she'd never work for the government. She was strictly freelance.

Jake loved his job. He figured very few people really did. The modern world really is very angst ridden. People commute from here to there and back again, never knowing what to do with themselves. It was sad.

There were other killers in the basement. Jake really wasn't allowed to socialize with any one too much, but he'd had some contact with the others through letters. The other torturers seems really crazy. Some of them thought they were death, or god, or even Christ. Jake realized how sane he was when he talked to them. Jake was merely jaded. He had no moral centre. The others though, they were very delusional. One killer believed that once he killed six hundred and sixty six people, he would become Satan. It was all very sad, really. In a way, the other killers had their own sad hopes, just like Jake's victims did. Jake knew he was just a man, and that's what he would always be. Nothing but a human being. He could live with that, but it seemed that no one else Jake knew could. They all wanted to be god, or nothing. It made Jake depressed just thinking about it.

And the days went on, and the years went on. Jake killed and killed and killed, and he never got tired or bored, because every death was an art. he was using and refining his skills. The other killers around him came and went, but Jake was always there. The others snapped, or lost their touch, but not Jake. He always maintained his skills.

Then, one day, no body came down the chute. Jake had been working for the government for eighteen years. He'd been killing, hacking, sawing, drugging, and had loved every minute. Then suddenly, no more art supplies. Jake stared at the chute nervously. What was going on?
Upstairs, very faintly, he could hear yelling, cheering. What was it? Jake had been locked in his room for so long. There were two rooms, really. The room where he did his work, and the room where he kept his books and belongings. They, that is, the government, gave him his food through a slot. He tried to convince his keepers he would never hurt them, that he loved them and was grateful, but they couldn't trust him. Everything was passed to him through a slot.

So he was alone with his victims. Maybe that was why he loved them so much. Because they were the only people he ever saw. But now, the source had seemingly dried up. There was always at least two people a day. And what were those noises upstairs? More cheers, and a smashing sound. It sounded like there was a mob of people.

And it was getting closer. He could hear the noises. His room was supposed to be sound proofed, but now, the noises outside were so loud he could hear them. So many people... What could be going on? He sat nervously in his chair, and waited. He tried not to fidget, or move about too much.

Then his door suddenly just smashed off its hinges. A crowd of cheering people rushed into the room. They yelled to Jake: "You're free! The revolution's come, you're free!" And then they trashed his room. They destroyed all his possessions, and all his tools. He stood back and watched silently, agonized over the loss of his things. The mob tore his books to pieces, smashed his mirror, crushed his bed.

He knew he looked like a victim. His hair was long, uneven. He had to cut it himself. He was washed, but he hated showers, and took them infrequently. These people... Who were they? What revolution? Jake grabbed a man by the arm.

"Who are you people?" Jake asked. "Revolutionaries, mister," the young man said. "The revolution's come! We've overthrown the government! We're going to set up new rulers who listen to the people! You're free! Any prisoner of the old regime is just a victim of tyrrany!"

The young man burbled on and on. Propaganda. Jake recognized it when he heard it. So many of his victims had had it pounded into their heads and they would spew it all up while under the knife. Background noise. Rather unpleasant to have to listen to.

"Free?" Jake whispered. "Free!" the man yelled, and ran off, continuing the destruction. Jake slowly walked out of the room. He couldn't believe it. In a way, it was very depressing. He felt like a domesticated animal, kept inside, taught to expect the food being brought to him, his art. And now he would have to hunt on his own. He'd have to track people down and kill them using his own skills. Oh well. Hope had finally arrived for all those people he'd wanted to kill. Too late for them, Jake thought. But what about himself? What would he do?

He wandered out into the streets, in to a whole new world, looking forward to whatever would come his way.