False Self Control


I sometimes have these thoughts, you know? Sometimes I want to get into someone’s house late at night while everyone is sleeping. I want to pick up one of their knives and I want to cut them. I want to feel their warm skin turn slick as they sweat the life out of their bodies. I want to feel their hot blood on my fingertips. I want them to breathe their last few breaths into my ear as I slowly listen to them fade from their pointless existence. Then, when it’s all over, I want their family to wake up and see what I’ve done. I want them to feel pain, to feel tortured by their loss and the fact that they can never fully recover from such a horrible things. I want to do that, so badly it hurts.

I don’t, but if I did, it would start with the receptionist at work. Every morning I show up, and every morning she’s there. She smiles from ear to ear, a fake one that we all can see but she continues to pawn as if it’s as real as the caked make-up covering her normal face.

Don’t misconstrue my last comment and think that I don’t like the normality of the real human. I do. I love how people smell unwashed, how people look without make-up. I love how their emotions break them, and how they break themselves more than other people do. It’s fake people that I despise, and I’m sure most of you will agree with me, right?

Just this morning, when I got to work, I stepped inside the lobby, and there she was, just sitting there with that little phone device clipped to her ear. Her thick brown hair bounced over her shoulders, three of four strands sticking to her lipstick. She laughed that fake laugh and breathed those fake works into the phone, but I knew. I always know.

That was the moment I knew I wanted her to be my first. Sure, I’d taken out cats in the past, even cut out their tongue because I hated their wailing and moaning and insincere cries for love and attention.

That’s what I wanted to do to Lilly.

That was her name. Lilly. It was cute, sweet, and unequivocally not a representation of what sat in that chair. No. What sat in that chair was a woman who cared more about her appearance and less about her true self. She looked through you instead of meeting your eyes. She talked at you instead of with you. She was a prime example of a human being gone wrong, and I refused to speak to her.

This morning was no different. She greeted me, and I thought about those cats, thought about insincere gestures and thought about cutting out her tongue. I thought about splashing acid in her face to give her a reason to wear that god-awful makeup. I even thought about cutting out those plump lips, which had to be fake, too.

Instead, I just walked past her, ignoring her yet again.

I don’t know why she bothered making an effort to talk to me. I’m not an attractive man. I never have been, and I never cared to be, but my acknowledgement of this and my understanding of such facts, meant that I knew when people were bullshitting me. She bullshitted me a lot.

By lunch, I had calmed down. I had rice and teriyaki chicken. It was good, juicy. A solid meal that wasn’t too heavy nor too light. The problem was that the people in the food court across from my office took too long to cook my meal, and so I got to work later than I usually do. This meant that I got back to the lobby after Lilly, and that I had to once again deal with her. I’ll make the food service employee pay later.

When I arrived back in that lobby, something was different. She continued to look down at the computer at her desk, clicking away. There was no smile, just the slack face of an uninterested person sitting there, uncaring and bored. I furrowed my brow and walked all the way up to her. She continued to ignore me, but I knew she knew I was there. She knew my smell. She commented on how rare the cologne I used was, and was even able to name it.

It’s worth mentioning that I don’t wear cologne because I care what I smell like. I don’t. Other people do. You don’t become as successful as I’m smelling like a rotting onion that bathes in shit if that shit where the diarrhea equivalent for flu-ridden rotted onions. It doesn’t happen. Manipulation is key, and cologne to mask the reality of human decay is always top of the list.

Anyway, I sat there for a moment, and commented, “Hot outside today.”

She simply nodded, and continued to look at her computer screen. She blatantly ignored me. At least if I had said nothing, it might have seemed like maybe she didn’t even know I was there. Maybe she had a cold and couldn’t smell me. It was certainly possible, at least, until I opened my mouth. She remained silent.


When I got back to my desk, I sat there for a moment and thought about how she reacted to me. If there was anything I hate more it’s when people treat me poorly. I can’t stand it.

At the end of the day, I went home. I sat here for a while, too, and then sat there a bit longer. The whole time it was silent, so I was able to think about what she did to me. Then I realized she could make it up. I knew she lived with her mother and father. She had no children and no husband. I’m sure she had a good fuck she enjoyed from time to time, even if it wasn’t always the same man, but there was no one serious in her life. I wished there was because then it would make everything so much sweeter. However, her parents finding her in the morning would have to do.

Now, I wait until the clock strikes one in the morning, whereupon I’ll make my way to her house at the address provided to me by the computer systems at work. I’ll sneak in, and I’ll cut her. I’ll taste her blood. Smell her fear. Feel her pain, and when it’s all over, I’ll revel in the additional pain her death causes. Maybe I’ll leave a note. Perhaps I won’t. I have yet to decide, but I’m sure whatever decision I make, it will be the right one and it will be glorious.


The Haunted Maze (Poem)

We step through the entrance,
And within seconds,
We are welcomed with iniquitous grins
To a place where men go to smile upon death.

Strawberry syrup splatters the partitions slick
Like the oil tapestry of a deranged artist.
Polished blades pierce the wall
Holding disembodied hands high waving, “Hello!”

The second thing we observe
Is a soldier laughing in a prison of red brick.
He weeps to us a deal for release,
But we cannot acquiesce.

Next, a woman supine in bed.
She’s bound at the hands and ankles,
And she screams a tormented ululation.
Her face perverted with cold-blooded rage.

A phantom emerges from the inky black shadows
Sick with insidious intentions.
His deep, heavy breaths
Turn sour with a depraved, yet welcoming smile.

Around the corner, shimmering threads
Of a spider’s web hang from the ceiling.
They softly tickle my neck
As I pass the silky nylon strands.

In another dimly lit chamber,
A man is chained to a lightning machine.
Electricity burns, and soon a
Silvery scentless smoke permeates the corridor.

I tell myself
“This is no place to fear.
It’s all a mirage—
A pretend world to escape.”

Still, I am horrified,
But not because of what we see.
It’s the world that created this place,
The ideas born from a man’s delicious imagination.

Now, beyond the perilous passageway,
We see the exit to safety.
It’s not a long journey,
Yet too long for us.

The last thirty feet
Tells a tale of seven sins.
Each fatality a warning
To anyone who dares to tread.

At last, we step into the frigid night.
She releases her painful grip on my arm,
And I breathe a relaxed sigh.
Wait! — A butcher attacks with a chainsaw.

There’s a deafening buzz
Of its dangerous blades,
But he soon relents, and peace returns
To this night of man’s malevolent dreams

Monsters Beget Monsters

This is a revised tale from my Twilight Nightmares compilation. To read all 50 stories, click here!

The hot summer melted Harvey’s garage into a sticky sauna. A cup filled with a recipe he found on the dark web stood upon the table in front of him. Inside was a black liquid tinted purple with a thick yellowy head. He took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and closed his eyes.

Nine weeks ago, a drunk ran down his wife and son. Alexis died immediately. Charlie, however, flew forty feet from the accident. In the hospital, the boy fought hard to survive occasionally waking long enough to ask where his mother was, but soon died. The final blow came when the judge freed the drunk with only probation and a fine. Apparently, growing up affluent didn’t afford him the necessary experience to make good choices. For this, the murderer walked.

Anger seethed from Harvey’s eyes, raining hot madness upon the surface below. He gripped the edge of the table and his thick veins slithered just below his skin. He didn’t know what would happen if he drank it, but he didn’t care. It would either kill him or help him get revenge. It was win-win.

He grabbed the glass, and some of it sloshed over, stinging his hand. He pressed the rim against his quivering lip, and finished it in three searing gulps.

He didn’t wait long before an acidic burn trailed up his esophagus. He retched, and then vomited the brew onto the table. He heaved until nothing but stringy bile hung from his lips.

Suddenly, the spot just below his ribs began to hurt. He looked down at his nude torso and watched a claw tear its way through his skin. As he fell to his knees, another ripped through the other side. He rolled over, screaming.

Black flaps shot from his shoulders spraying flecks of red against the floor. Bones snaked through them forming bloody wings, and the bone pierced through the ends resulting in sharp bat-like points. He climbed to his hands and knees, coughed, and watched his teeth blast out of his mouth and spin across the floor. Blood drained from his lips as he reached for his gums, and he found jagged fangs pushing through the soft tissue. He leaned back as the skin on his chest split and burned as if someone had doused him with fuel and lit him ablaze. The pain was so intense he scratched and clawed, ripping the skin away, which revealed a hard, scaly armor.

He uttered soft cries as he used the table to climb back to his feet. He lumbered to a mirror, legs shaking. He looked upon a monster. Inky-black wings. Pointed teeth. Sharp claws replaced his hands and he had two extra arms. He felt stronger, though, and when he ran his new claw along the scales, it didn’t pierce. However, he *hadn’t* changed because he was still the same bloodthirsty man that would make all of them pay. Every last mother fucker that wronged the world would pay.