Short And Fucked Up Stories.

Hersha Alabastor

The simple definition of a mad man can be expressed through so many different flowery words and phrases. Is he a man, with the urge to berate and crush the bones of women beneath his shoe? He could also be a man, finding pleasure in the sinking of flesh under his fingertips when he squeezes the throat of a child too hard. There are all types of us. There is one thing I found intriguing though.

We are called mad. Why exactly? Not all of us are hot headed psychopaths... Many of us find joy in our work. It's therapeutic.

I personally find joy in my area of work. I marvel in the different scenarios that can happen. Perhaps it is why I am so intent on having such money to my name... you see, having a powerful stance in the world and cash to your surname brings you nothing but good fortune.

My good fortune comes in the begging of a limbless man.... well for today that is.

"...listen h-here you fucker, she will come for me and get y-your Casper-looking ass, I swear it on the good name of Jesus himself!"

Here he goes again... I lowered my eyes, the sound of his irritable voice bringing the corners of my mouth to slowly quirk into a grin. The palm of my hand nearly felt like a pillow to my cheek as I gazed outside of the clean glass window and down, to the ground so far below. The people walking there, living their lives so carelessly didn't realize what ants they were. Each and every one of them. Filthy mongrels, undeserving of the fluster of light that we call souls.

"I hear her n-now, my d-dollface, she probably called 'dose cops by now, as she com' up 'dem damn steps!"

I felt the urge to roll my eyes, but that would be quite rude wouldn't it? He was an entertaining client after all... but his southern accent. I wished to rip the vocal cords out of his throat, and shove them up the hole in his shaft. It could probably fit after all... well maybe not.

The thought gave me a chuckle.

I hadn't been too hard on the poor man had I?

Slowly I pulled my gloves up my hands, and stood from my seat. The office had looked so clean from my position in my seat, but upon standing I could see it so clearly now.

The mess I had made.

Across the floor blood had stained its dark yet beautiful residue. I wonder.. would it drip between the cracks and through the floorboards? Would it sink through the thin ceiling panes and drip onto the my ever so fragile coworker's hair below?

Oh.

I hadn't thought that far.

I looked around now realizing that it was time to silence the fat fool. His tears didn't satisfy me.... ah. That will do. With the stretch of my hand I took a golf club from the side of a lounge chair and walked over to the window directly behind my chair. With an unhurried pace, I twisted at the small upper screws to then open the window, allowing fresh air to sift in.

Disgusting.

My disposal of bodies probably wasn't the best. I didn't care much for consequences because having the great deal of money that I did, allowed me to get out of prison time. Well that, and also my position over the internet markets and internal affairs within our fragile government structure. The dark web is my home, and the dark web can do more than what anyone could ever dream. But enough of that... disposal was inevitable.

My office sat at the very corner of my building. That allowed two things. One, being able to drop pennies from the window to my left, to the busy streets below to see if people really would get serious brain damage. And two, there was a caged in forest area facing behind me. I had it guarded, and covered in barbed wire as well as other little fun gadgets that tear and damage flesh. When you have most of a nations money in your pocket, you can just do things like that. Make the forest a trash can for body disposal.

With the thought in mind, I strode over to my client again, letting the head of the golf club run over his nasty jawline. Damn, what an ugly old cunt.

"....my my sir, it appears your tear ducts have finally refused to work for you. Do you wish for any last words?"

I smiled at him as gently as my face muscles could possibly let me, and when his mouth opened to speak, I shoved the club right into his mouth, shattering his teeth. I am sure pieces broke off into his gullet.

I shoved downward with a harsh hand, until the alluring sound of skin breaking filled my ears. It brought a sweet, tingling sensation to my groin.

"Forgive me, but your time is up. I have another meeting today. It would be rude of me to back it up."

How was he still alive? I am uncertain how his eyes still managed to twitch and blink, but I didn't mind. It must hurt having cold metal shoved there.

I drug him with my club until I was out in front of my opened window. It wasn't a small window of course, it began at the granite of my floors, and stopped at the beginning layer of my ceiling panes. It was convenient for games like this.

I set up my "ball" as straightly as I could and positioned my stance, pulling the golf club out. Huh. The blood is a nice touch. Maybe I will keep it there.

Slowly I brought the club back behind my head, and swung through as harshly as I could at his skull and watched through awe-filled eyes the beautiful of the red spray out my window.

My forest.

It would forever be painted a red.