The Thorn and His Rose: An Immortalis Chapbook

Act 2, Scene Four: Slasher Slayings

Scene Four: Slasher Slayings

A Notion That Slays (Valkyrie Kerry)

A climax permeated with crimson cognizance,
Welted marks from your teeth exquisitely endured,
Our bodies one, sordid notions of pain abound.

My head rests on you in the aftermath,
Romantic notions of the macabre dominate discourse,
Suggestions of a well-trodden path.

‘Let us consummate our desires on vacation,
By the lake sits an unofficial campsite,
The lecherous deceitfully attend, sexual elation,
And drinking their spirits to hell in the night.’

I run my hands over bare flesh, as your lips kiss me;
Cheek, throat, face and head.
My words cease in your amorous stifle,
And then I am passionately spread.

As your passion abates,
My thoughts I do relate,
On fuelling your brutal, destructive guile.

‘Techniques are known to be vast,
A plethora of tools used to smite,
Although the methods do not last,
There are plenty more victims in sight.’
 
Portentous Pickings (Dyer-Bolique)

Eventide’s contrast to the world of day inevitable,
A setting as stereotypical as winter’s baneful winds.
Woodlands masking the truest menace of death perpetual.
Serenity of the unmasked wild, forestry hiding the eventual.

The current flock, born for the sole purpose of our slaughter.
An abundance of fare; boyfriend, girlfriend, son and daughter.
Enquiries trouble, a conundrum of sinister delight.
Who shall it be? And how will they depart tonight?

Behind door number one, the typical frolicking pair.
Out for a lake born tryst, in the lake not even a care.
Shall we stealthily accost them as they rise from the depths.
Harpoons to share, between youth’s beating breasts.

Behold, behind door number two, just one cabin down.
Within its sweet depths, the lonely lady, and the camp clown.
A method of disposal begs further scrutiny and greater examination.
Perhaps ensnare and gradually introduce lurid exsanguination.

But these are all frivolities to yourself and, the exhilarated me.
For what truly electrifies, is behind the colourful door number three.
The prim; the proper, self-assured, strong, independent, and astute.
If this were a script? That would be the potential survivor!
How ordinary and simplistically cute!

Veil of night is calling that individual’s name, as Hollywood is so far away.
For reality has arrived in the shape of human suit wearing wolves today.
I recommend securing a handshake, draw in their confidence, make it swell.
And when they are not looking, decapitate with shovel, disembowel, and beat with a trowel.

Cirque de la Lune (Valkyrie)

Dyer-Bolique, your humour astounds me,
Words so bold and yet painfully dry,
Though I am not so deceived,
But I am intrigued,
And longing to make that clown cry.

We wait beneath the canopy of the trees,
Morose, hideously masked, noxious.

We wait for the inevitable, mismatched battle,
As the clown’s date rejects her potential mate.

Dyer-Bolique, diabolical in his deviant planning,
Meticulous in his over-abundance of supplies,
Has woken the sleeping dragon.

Bear trap and barbed wire, pulleys abound,
Mechanically minded he guides, ever attentive,
Always paying note to their troubled discourse’s climax.

Prim and proper leaves first, nose high in the air,
Disgusted by her blind date’s plain appearance,
She strides furiously into the trees.

Silent bait, for the clown will eventually follow,
Silent, but must be forever silenced,
The bear trap snaps…

Silence breaks into a raucous, short-lived scream,
Silence endures as my lover’s blade steals her head,
Send in the clowns, he comes, unable to accept reality.

Phone’s light guiding, he sees her, behind a stump,
Her head stands tall on a branch, summoning the fool,
Hurriedly he runs, trips, wire tightens about his ankle.

There the pendulum swings, hanging inverted,
Shocked as I approach, such a sight for sore eyes,
Bionic woman, he pleads for assistance, cries for help.

I push his form as it hangs by one leg, it swings again,
Implores and fights, I tilt my head nonchalantly,
Thrilled, impassive, detached, I flay with lash.

Cleaves clothes from flesh, and flesh from bone,
Another swift movement gnaws another welt,
As my Urumi rises for a third strike,
Dyer-Bolique grabs and clasps my wrist tight.

Into my hand the hilt is placed, machete ready, sharp,
Taking a step back, and drawing my strength,
And drive the blade down vertically.

One half of the clown slithers down,
Better a quick death by blade,
Or harpoon, shovel, or garden spade,
Than neglectfully left to drown.

Propelled (Dyer-Bolique)

Ignorance ever carelessly embraced,
Always in bare reckless abandonment.
It shall find its truest reward,
As shroud of night blackens the lake.

A whimsical pair condemned on pre-marital frivolities,
My choice, my solemn judgement.
The boardwalk, my red carpet,
Transporting me to their mistake.

A powerboat my chariot,
Begging my destructive punishment.
A turn of key roars my carriage to life,
Soon churning darkened liquid for its own sake.

Rolling waves disguise my approach,
But soon I see their eyes’ astonishment.
A small cry and jutting bump,
Ending in red tide’s wake.

The Final Girl (Valkyrie)

Ultimate survivor in wait,
Her life force comes from deep within,
Triggered when threatened, hearing cries,
She develops a thicker skin.

Ultimate survivor in wait,
Entombed in cabin, observing,
Her quick brain constantly working,
Never taking the offered bait,
Innocence, a repellent trait,
Detached from her peers without sin,
Counting the deaths as they roll in,
Standing strong, everyone dies,
Espying Dyer-Bolique’s lies,
And plotting to save her own skin.

Her life force comes from deepest fate,
To suffer whatever we bring,
But I am skilled at surviving,
Pitied for my mechanic gate,
She assumes he forced me to date,
Night blinded from my bleak killing,
She offers some kind assisting,
To save me from master of flies,
A master I cannot despise,
She follows my painful limping.

Triggered when threatened by night’s fate,
I suggest until dawn, hiding,
She acquiesces, abiding,
Breathing heavy, fear, I relate,
Trusting me, a trait too innate,
Closing her eyes, quick slumbering,
Resting her head, now lumbering,
In the garden shed we disguise,
I carefully plan her demise,
Secateurs ready for cleaving.

Ultimate survivor in wait,
I develop a thicker skin,
A strange noise draws her from hiding,
Alone, confused, mind in a state,
She marches heedlessly to fate,
Behind her I stride, lumbering,
Secateurs assist bleak killing,
From back of neck comes the surprise,
Three poor clips, and Final Girl dies,
Painful demise, encumbering.

Ardeat (Dyer-Bolique)

Fuelled,
Bodies supplied,
Hade’s flame salutes,
Rising applause of deaths tithe,
Burning.

Bodies,
Consumed flesh
Fodder for our blaze,
Feeding the ravenous inferno,
Consumed.

Silent,
My offering,
Departed from this world,
Conflagrations feast gratefully given
Devoured.

The Harbinger (Valkyrie Kerry)

Watching,
Harbinger drinks,
Muttering of murder,
Menacing ingenuity,
Witness.

Watching,
The old drunk waits,
Preparing to confess,
Speaking of our dark transgressions,
Danger.

Clearing,
Dyer-Bolique,
Collects the dead bodies,
Remains for forest fire’s hearth,
Careful.

Hiding,
Prophet of doom,
Gathering his tales,
Testimony to be laid bare,
Naked.

Watching,
Harbinger drinks,
Woeful words of their doom,
Fire lights high, smoke in the sky,
Danger.

Watching,
I see him lurk,
Warn you beloved man,
Together we hatch a new plan,
Careful.

Clearing,
You speak aloud,
Garner his attention,
Draw his fears and watch the panic,
Watching.

Waiting,
Wire remains,
Easily cut, prepared,
Barbed wire stretched in hand, I sneak,
Behind.

Behind,
Wire round neck,
He struggles and cries out,
Slashing and tightening his throat,
Choking.

Bleeding,
Gurgling gore,
Spilling to the wood’s floor,
A new ember for the pyre,
Burning.

Infernum (Dyer-Bolique)

Added,
Grotesque herald,
His invading entity,
Trespassed on my vocation,
Burning.

Dancing,
Flames amber,
Joy at donations,
Charity in bodily form,
Blazing.

Blazing,
Skin crackling,
Fingers as candelabra,
Putrid flesh-soaked alcohol,
Fitting.