The God of Monster Land
*****Please note that this story contains graphic violence that is used in context.*****
***** Reader discretion is advised.*****
I woke up this morning. It was eleven-thirty-nine. Same time as it is every morning.
I sleep in late because I stay up all night long doing things, twisted and bad things.
Yes, I have to do creepy, nasty things. Every night I do sickening things that involve me sneaking around the neighborhood, creeping towards the
things that give me my purpose in life.
Things, things and more things, there are so many things. I do everything I can think of doing. I have a good imagination that can think of a lot of
things. I do them all and more.
That’s enough about things.
Anyway, last night at ten-forty-six, I finished getting dressed in my black night-hunting-attire, and left the house. I locked the front door, and
made sure that the keys were properly secured in my double-sealed jacket pocket. I walked down the front steps and onto the footpath. I lit a
cigarette and began listening to a violent song in my head as I strolled away from home.
The air was nice and crisp, so very cliché. I guess everybody gets to appreciate that. Those of us who smoke, however, well, we get something extra.
We blessed few who molest tobacco with our mouths know the tender way that cigarettes and cool night air mix in our indignant lungs. It’s a marriage
of life and death, built on a foundation of corrosive love that scratches your throat. It bears messed-up and deformed children, but it feels good to
be a mouth-molester. Nicotine is awesome. Go sodomize a few. These days I’m raping two packets a day.
That’s enough about rape.
I was half way down my street, keeping control of my pace. I finished my cigarette, which I flicked away with enjoyment, watching hot sparks scatter
the road. As I walked, I kept an eye out for houses with anything interesting on their front porches. On one occasion I had found an un-opened bottle
of whiskey and half a pack of cigarettes. On another occasion I came across a brand new shovel, a machete and some gardening rope. It seriously pays
to be alert.
Let’s move on from machetes.
I turned left and started down Hinders’ Lane. At the end of Hinders’ Lane is an alley-way that leads you onto Fosters’ Avenue. If you turn right
at Fosters’ Avenue and walk for about six-hundred yards, you will come across Churches’ Avenue. Turn left and then right onto Pitchers’ Road.
Follow Pitchers’ Road for about half an hour and on your left you will come across Talon Circuit.
Last night I lost my God-damned mind at Talon Circuit.
I walked along casually, but still with drive in my step. I was half an hour into the night, and I had already reached Pitchers’ Road. There
aren’t many houses on Pitchers’ Road, mind you, so the potential for fun, if you want it, is minimal. There are a few, mostly older properties
from the nineteen-forties, but you’ll be lucky to see five lit-up buildings the whole way to Talon Circuit.
I stopped in front of an ancient farm-house. The inside lights were on, a small miracle on Pitchers’ Road. The house had an old, rusty gate that
guarded the entrance to the driveway. I wasn’t going to open it. I wasn’t planning on going inside the house and becoming its new violent owner. I
could have quite easily snuck inside with one of my hunting-axes ready to do something in-humane to the occupants of the building. I’d just pry-open
a window, cut my way through a fly-screen, and then chop my way through some screaming, crying people. You know I could, dear reader.
I think that’s enough about chopping.
I was more interested in the gate than anything else. It was old, like I said, so let that seep in. You can use your imagination, too. The gate was
covered in a tepid layer of sky-blue paint that was probably brushed-on fifty years ago. The paint was cracked and chipped away from decades of harsh,
swinging labor. It was such a poor, decrepit gate. It was ravaged by cancerous rust-holes that exposed its empty tubing. It was indeed empty. The gate
was beautifully empty. I raised my black-gloved hand cautiously, and touched the gate softly. I didn’t feel a thing. The gate was a whore and I
became one with it.
I think I may have needed one of my pills.
Ten minutes away from my destination on Talon Circuit, and I was buzzing. It felt good. It felt splendid. It gave me adult-related pleasure thinking
about what I was going to do. I was going to really change some lives. I was going to change the course of History. People were going to be played
with, dirtied. I had the night planned for three weeks. Yes I had.
I was proud of what went into last night. Jesus, I planned on being somebody’s very own monster. It’s funny, because I am and I always will be,
after all and in actual fact, some sort of strange, hate-addicted purgatory-victim, and I’m slowly killing a part of myself and others so that I can
become the God of Monster Land.
Enough about killing, I do believe.
I arrived at Talon Circuit. I re-tied my military-issue boots. I double-checked each and every pocket and pouch. I secured my belt and put my
balaclava on. This part of the ritual is very important. You have to be fully prepared before you enter the game. I also had a very dangerous weapon
on my possession last night. It was a hunting-knife with a nine-inch blade, serrations on both edges. I had purchased the knife from a man in Enfield,
for two-hundred and fifty dollars. I thought it was worth every damned cent.
Everything was ready, I was only one-hundred yards away from a good time, and the children, oh the children. I was going to be killing some little
ducklings when I got inside. Poor little lambs asleep, tucked in tight. I was a fox, a killer that heard only instinct in his mind. I was going to
hunt some ducklings. I was an un-forgiving wolf with no empathy, and I was ready to slaughter some sleeping lambs. I’d probably wake them up first,
and kill them on the floor, so I didn’t have to cut through their nice, warm bed-sheets.
I’d see when I got there.
Just so that you know, I had killed, taken and buried the Dog that had protected my targets house the night before last. It didn’t get a chance to
bark, not even once. I smashed it in the skull with a baseball bat and it died almost instantly. It dropped to the ground, had a small fit and then
just bled-out like some kind of brutal apple-pie.
Poodles are stupid dogs, anyway.
I was now two doors down from number one-hundred and eighty-seven, Talon Circuit. I chose that particular house because I had seen a family of four
living there, and I had never hurt so many people at one time. Pretty simple, hey? Also, there was somebody in there that I had my eye on. I reached
into my pocket and took out two pills, one green, and one pink.
I swallowed the pills, cursing my doctor.
Slowly, surely, I took motorized steps towards the house. I crept up to a side-window, and kept low enough not to be seen. I listened. I could hear
the television in the living room. It was an advertisement for Life Insurance.
Forget Life Insurance, I thought to myself. You’re all finishing up tonight.
The thing that you really have to listen out for is people’s voices. You have to find out where the people are first, and then once they’re under
control and in their places, it’s show-time.
Well, after a few minutes of creeping around the house, I found out that little Jack and Jill were asleep in the back bedroom. From their window, I
could see that their bedroom door was open. Their window, by the way, could easily be opened.
These stupid parents never learn.
Mister Jones was sitting in front of the television with a beer in his hand. He was about thirty years old, balding. He looked sloppy and un-fit, so
it was going to be a pleasure sticking that pathetic balloon.
Missus Jones was in the computer-room. She was really attractive. She had lovely, flowing blonde hair. Her eyes were so enchanting, so hypnotizing.
She was typing away, didn’t even notice when I tripped over and landed hard in the garden under her window, crushing a few of her lovely
I couldn’t wait to play butcher at their house. I still had the violent music playing in my mind. It was surreal music, full of deathly screams and
profanities that would make the Devil cry. It played most hours of the day. I couldn’t escape it. Sometimes it was loud, so loud that I battered by
head with my fists and screamed until I passed-out. Other times the music was a sinister whisper that kept its presence scarcely noticed, but still
felt. Sometimes I enjoyed it, though. Sometimes I liked hearing it in my mind. It was sometimes very nice music.
It was music that you could kill to.
Five minutes later, and I had broken into the house. I had snuck in through the children’s window, as it was easily accessible. Little Jill woke up
first, and I punched her in the face, hard. Her nose exploded in a child-sized spatter of blood and she slumped back onto the bed. I hoped that I
hadn’t killed her, so I checked. She was still breathing.
Little Jack heard, and woke up. I turned around, drew my knife and pounced on the fear-stricken child. He went down easily under my weight, and he
didn’t have the lung-power to breathe, let alone scream. I could see it in his eyes though, yes, he was screaming on the inside. I knew I had seen
that scream before. So, after not a single thought, I decided it was about time to stab little Jacks eyes out. It was a simple beginning.
I covered little Jacks mouth and began. The first eye, his right eye, I jabbed it and it just ripped open and leaked a mucus-like fluid out and onto
his cheek. There was a little blood, but not as much as you might expect. I didn’t push the blade in too deep, so maybe that’s why. I could tell
by the look on the boys face that he was quickly slipping into insanity. I moved on to the next eye. This time I stabbed hard and I got my knife stuck
in his head. His left socket just wouldn’t let go of the blade, so I just figured that I’d enjoy the show. This time there was a lot of blood. He
was shaking his head from side-to-side, throwing what seemed like handfuls of blood in every direction. I whispered to him that shaking would only
make it worse, even though I knew he probably couldn’t hear me. I finally grabbed his head and pulled the knife out of his skull, amazed at the
gripping power of bone.
“I was a kid once too,” I said as I raised the blade, covered in his blood, “it simply goes down-hill from here. You have absolutely nothing to
look forward to”.
I stabbed him six times, three times in the chest and three times in the stomach. He died quick. I ruined him. I opened him. There was such a lot to
look at. I was the greatest artist in the world.
I turned around and stepped towards little Jill, knocked-out and bloody on the bed. It had taken about forty seconds to kill little Jack, his sister
hadn’t stirred at all. Her poor little face was severely damaged, all from one punch.
She’ll need surgery, I thought to myself, but I’m a really good surgeon.
I taped her mouth shut and tied-up her little body. I had the tape and the rope in my pockets. Again, you must be prepared. I got my trusty-knife
ready, and strolled out into the hallway, leaving the broken little girl for later.
The computer-room was on the left. I entered slowly, and I spoke softly and calmly to Missus Jones, who was a little startled to say the least, but
she quickly knew who the dealer was.
“If you scream, I will cut your children’s heads off and empty my bladder on their lifeless bodies. I want you to answer my questions with a nod,
or a shake of your pretty head. Do you understand me?” Missus Jones gave a small, quivery nod. “Good. Listen to every word that I say or I will
get really, really weird and really, really violent. I’m going to shut the door to this room. We are then going to have a quick chat. If I shut this
door, will your husband think it’s strange and come enquiring?” Missus Jones shook her head.
I looked at her for a few seconds, silent and still. Fear is palpable, and so is a lie. I figured she wasn’t lying, so I reached over and shut the
door, keeping an eye on her the whole time. I could tell by the expression on her face that she didn’t like the look of the bloody knife I was
“Now, can I just say that you have very pretty eyes?” Missus Jones seemed confused to hear that. “In fact, I believe that your eyes are so
beautiful you deserve to be punished for having them”. Missus Jones looked like she wanted to shout-out to her husband, so I pointed the knife
straight between her beautiful green eyes, the tip of the gruesome blade only an inch from her face. “I’m the God of Monster-land, lady. I decide
who lives and who will die.”
Three minutes later Missus Jones was mouth-taped, and tied to her chair. She had agreed to it, because I had whispered some horrid things into her
ears. “I’m going out to visit your husband. If you have moved when I get back, or I even think you have moved, I will prove to you that your God
I snuck out to the lounge-room. I grabbed a surprised Mister Jones in a choking head-lock, but I was surprised by something different. My new boots
were very quiet. I was surprised by them.
I was seriously surprised.
Mister Jones began to cry when I pointed the knife at his face, its serrated edges dripping in blood, and told him to obey or die. He urinated in his
pants and chose to obey.
He let me tie his hands behind his back, very tightly, too. I taped his mouth, and then punched him in the face. “Put your feet together you fat
slob. This is my movie.” I taped his ankles together, again, very tightly. “Let’s just see you try and mess with me now, you ignorant
I punched him again, this time in the lower abdomen, and he fell to the floor, whimpering muffled, pathetic sobs. I kicked him hard in the stomach,
and I could hear Missus Jones in the computer-room, crying for her husband. “I’ll be back in a second for you, Burger King.”
I entered the computer-room, and Missus Jones was in the same place she had been in when I left. “You’re a good girl aren’t you? I like good
girls. If you keep doing what I tell you to do, well, I’ll be happy.” I grabbed her by her hair and she let out a scream.
I dragged her out of the computer-room. I found it quite funny actually, dragging that silly vixen by the hair, rolling along, with her sitting in the
desk chair. We got to the lounge-room, and I rolled Missus Jones next to Mister Jones, who looked like he was in a world of hurt. “Well now, the two
lovers are together again.” Mister Jones looked up from the floor. His left temple was split and bleeding. Missus Jones was crying. I think that
they knew I was serious about my game.
However, I don’t think they knew just how serious I really was.
I peered down at Mister Jones. “You, dip-stick, who’s blood do you think, is on this knife?” Mister Jones’s eyes grew wide, and I could
literally see the sweat begin to pour from his forehead.
Missus Jones began hollering wildly. She knew, also. It was a good thing I taped that honeys mouth shut. I stabbed down and thrust the knife-blade
into her right thigh, tearing it open viciously. She bled hard, staining her tight-fit jeans. Her hollers now became coarse shrieks. “Shut your
mouth, or I’ll tear you a new face, you idiot woman.” She calmed down, just a little, even if it was a charade to stop herself from getting
stabbed again. I didn’t care though; I was having a nice night.
I turned to Mister Jones again, and pointed the knife at him. “I’m as serious as a dead child. This is the only place in the world where this is
happening at this exact moment, so you should feel blessed.” He barely had time to react, before my steel-capped boot met his mouth, probably
shattering every tooth inside. Fine sprays of blood spat out from behind the tape that covered his broken mouth. Mister Jones moaned, curled into a
ball and started shaking.
The violence was still minimal by my standards, so I decided to pick up the pace.
I leaned down, and with one, swift movement of my knife, I removed Mister Jones’ left ear from his head. I stood up and threw the ear away, and
watched him writhing on the floor. His eyes were rolled back in his skull, so I couldn’t tell if he was having a seizure, or if he was just in a lot
of pain. “I told you I could get weird and violent, didn’t I?” I laughed and gave Missus Jones a smile under my balaclava. I think she could
tell I was smiling.
I left the bleeding pair for just a second, and returned with little Jacks dead, gutted corpse. I dropped the tattered boy in front of the duo, and
they went ballistic. It turned out that Mister Jones was conscious, after all. They screeched like insane parrots. It was a sight to behold, two grown
adults going out of their minds over a deceased animal.
I picked up little Jack, and his dead head rolled forward, pouring dark blood out of his eye sockets. “I really destroyed this one, didn’t I? You
have to understand though, that I did it for him. Imagine having to grow up in a world as violent as this one is. Bugger that for a joke.” I dropped
the slain boy again, and sat down on the couch, watching the scene unfold. I realized that a crazy woman can still be attractive. She was panting like
an animal, getting as much air as she could through her nostrils. It was real wild stuff. I learned that a man with his teeth kicked-in and an ear
cut-off can still muster enough energy to scream over a six year old piece of dead-meat.
I got up from the couch and decided to end the scene.
I looked at Mister Jones lying on the floor. I told him that his exercise regime had not worked, then stomped his head until it was a crushed mess on
the floor. His skull was broken into about seven pieces. I could see slightly off-pink innards through the cracks. His hands ticked a few times with
dying nerves, and then he lay still.
Missus Jones was still screaming, surprise, surprise. I snatched her head back and punched her in the throat. I heard a cracking noise, so I did
something right. She started flailing, and I stabbed her in one shoulder, and then the other shoulder. “Stop screaming, and forget your happiness
too. I am a Demon, and this is what I do. You’ll understand when you’re dead.” I punched her in the chest, and she keeled over with a gasp of
air, winded. I was laughing as I plunged the blade deep into the back of her neck. It must have severed her spinal cord, because she stopped moving.
Her eyes, however, they moved from side to side, up and down.
She was a real strange one.
“Do you want me to kill you yet, my love?” Missus Jones just stared at me. I tore the tape off of her mouth, and I asked the question again. “Do
you want me to kill you now?” She let out a gurgle that was incomprehensible.
I stood up and looked at her. She really was an outstandingly beautiful woman. I took in her beauty for a moment, and then sighed. “I just want you
to know that I’m not going to touch you or your daughter in your naughty places, okay? By the way, I told you that your God is dead.” All she
could say was a soft ‘no’ and then her throat was cut from ear to ear. She died quickly, too.
These people had been lucky.
I sat down and watched television for the next two hours. I watched a documentary about Lions, and how they hunt their prey. I watched a cartoon about
a planet of robots that make other robots. It was all interesting enough. There was plenty of beer in the fridge, but I didn’t touch that garbage.
Beer gives me monstrous head-aches. There were a few bottles of Cola, so I drank those instead.
I finally got bored, and as if by chance, little Jill could be heard rustling in her bedroom. I got up from the couch, and walked to the room.
She lay on the bed, covered in her own blood from the punch I had given her earlier. She looked maybe six years old. I thought she looked pathetic. I
crept over to her in the darkness, and knelt down next to the bed.
“How are you little one? Does your face hurt? It looks like it does. Do you know what is happening?” Little Jill shook her head, crying in small,
choked gasps. “I am the reason that you are alive. You are the reason that I am alive. We meet each and every life. Did you know that this world is
actually Hell? You’re in Hell, little girl, and I’m here to punish you for your sins. I want you to think really hard for me, and remember back a
long, long time ago. Your name was once Denise Chamberfields, do you remember?”
The little girl lay still for a moment, her eyes wandered and I could tell she was thinking very hard. I held up a little black pendant that I pulled
from my jacket pocket. The pendant had a six-pointed star etched in silver on its face. She looked at the pendant for only a second, and then it hit
her. Her eyes opened wide and she froze.
She now remembered exactly who she once was.
A few lives ago, little Jill could remember being an alcoholic woman named Denise Chamberfields. She was a horrible, abusive mother who beat her
children well into their teen years. Her first child, Elaine, died at the age of twenty-one from a heroin over-dose. Her second child, Victor, had
been in and out of reformatory programs until he killed himself at nineteen. She hadn’t even paid for their tomb-stones.
Denise Chamberfields was a useless drunk who had no morals and no love in her heart. Denise decided to live a life of various sexual partners, drugs
and booze. She was fat, she didn’t work, and all she said when Elaine died was ‘Is there any money that I’m entitled to, or what?’
Her two children could have been great adults. Elaine could have gone on to marry a nice man who worked as a Train-driver. She could have been a chef.
They could have both enjoyed a life of love, and maybe even had a few children. Victor could have easily gone on to pursue a career as a builder, or a
stock-broker. He could have been successful, the Jewel of the Chamberfields family.
Denise Chamberfields messed it all up.
“My name is Jimothy Cross Sprocket,” I whispered in little Jill’s ear “and I’m here to kill you. I’ll be doing this to you for eternity,
so you better get used to it. We have given you chances, you disgusting person. You’ve had plenty of chances. You are a failure.”
I picked up little Jill, and cradled her in my arms. I walked her outside, passing the bodies of her now ceased family. She squealed, but it didn’t
matter, her mouth was taped up good. I always make sure of my work.
“How is it that you can cry and squeal, when you practically killed your own children with neglect and abuse? I’ll tell you why you’re able to
cry, it’s called compassion. We gave you a little in this life, so you’d learn a few lessons. Hurts doesn’t it? Maybe, just maybe, Denise,
you’ll be born as a good mother, and take care of your damned kids. It won’t matter though. You’ll be ending up here for some torture every,
I placed little Jill on the cement ground outside. There was a table and some chairs. No more family gatherings here from now on, though.
I grabbed little Jill by the ankles, and held her up-side down. I swung her little body from left to right, until I was able to gather enough momentum
to send her hurtling face-first into the concrete, smashing her skull open instantly. I swung her again and yes, sent her shattered head pummeling
into the concrete. Her brains were lying in chunks on the pavement. I dropped her body and spat on it.
“Damn you, sinner. You think I like being a demon? You think I like punishing people? Every day, somebody hurts their children, or abuses their
wife. The whole thing is sickening. This cannot go on. You all destroy yourselves and each other, because you’re all distorted, and then you end up
here. I am a demon forever, my eternal role is to punish. I can never be free, and neither can you.”
I threw little Jill’s messy corpse back inside, and promptly lit the house on fire with petrol that I had found in the garden shed. It burned
quickly, engulfing the whole building in a huge inferno.
I was long gone by the time the emergency services arrived. I had completed my mission for the night. Denise Chamberfields was about to be re-born
again, and hopefully this time she doesn’t become the reason her kids end up dying. Like I said though, I would continue seeing her for a brief
moment of Hell every life, every time. She would die through the experience of Hell, forever.
You see, my dear, appreciated reader, I perform acts of violence for a reason. It may all look and sound rather brutal, but as a demon, I can’t be
soft. I hope you understand why I have to be so cruel to sinners when I dish out their punishments. Just pray that I never meet you.
That’s a joke.
I woke up this morning. It was eleven-thirty-nine. Same time as it is every morning.
I got out of bed, and wrote this story for you.
edit on 21/02/2011 by IIIiIIIIIIiIII because: Added content warning