Animal Justice

As a reoccurring nightmare, this 2nd tale sets the stage for my dark story series story compilation book, When Nightmares Rule & Other Riveting Tales of Death, Life, & Religion.

Animal Justice

Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

Copyright © 2011 Marvin Thomas Cox

DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

All Rights Reserved

A Thomas C. Flynn Story

… Thomas pounded upon the keys intensely, sweat pouring from his brow, while his little friends watched the words of his story begin to take shape and direction upon the monitor screen … to their dismay it looked to be yet another rewrite of his very first, coldly dark and cruel story ...

____________

Was it safe now, he wondered to himself, or would she suddenly appear back in the drive to pop inside and retrieve something or other she had forgotten, as was so often the case? ...

The boy looked out the living room windows in both directions up and down the street in the darkness, also giving the driveway a quick double check. Yep, it looked like Mom was gone sure enough, gambling again and not to return for hours.

Dad lived across town, only a few blocks from Smalltown's local country club. It was doubtful he would drop by unannounced. No, dad would definitely call first. If there was no answer, then the lack of an answer would be his excuse for not coming over. Besides, lately he had been more interested in banging his new girl friend than showing up to visit his son. All Dad could think about was tits and a*s.

Alright! Time for a smoke and some fun! Strolling down the hall to his bedroom, the teenager searched around under the mattress until he recovered an opened pack of Marlboro Reds in the box with a Bic lighter hidden neatly inside, a piece of old radio antenna, and a piece of mild steel acetylene rod he had found out in the garage. With some imagination, he had fashioned the last two items into a decent pipe and a makeshift push. Gathering these together, the boy made his way back up the hall and towards the back door; a smile upon his face.

Out in the backyard, he raised the door to the concrete storm cellar his grandparents had built many years ago. His Mom had inherited the old home after her parents had passed away. The cellar was a neat place to hang out. His Mom hated the musty smelling old cellar. This suited the boy just fine. It also assured that she was not likely to go snooping into his business.

Musty was not the correct word for the odor that now wafted up from the cellar when he raised the door -- a blend of animal feces and rotting flesh. It was a scent he had grown accustomed to, always prompting him to quickly lower the cellar door behind him.

Below an old twin bed was turned up edgewise and leaned against the cellar wall. A single light bulb illuminated the otherwise dungeon-like darkness. A couple of small wooden tables were the only other furnishings. Upon one rickety table rested a worn-out old boning knife, an ice-pick with the point broken off, a pair of diagonal cutters, and an old rip claw hammer. The other table stood nearby. It was bigger and much sturdier built. To its larger tabletop, the teenager's latest project was securely restrained.

The boy lit a cigarette, pulling long and hard, in gazing coldly at the animal strapped helplessly upon its back on the table. Stray dogs and cats were getting harder to come by. Neighbors had begun to call City Animal Control with complaints of missing pets. He would have to be very careful in the future -- or all this fun would suddenly end.

This thought caused him to pause, reflecting upon the carcass of his most recent adventure. The mutilated remains of a young kitten lay rotting in a box over in the corner. He needed to get rid of it before the smell got any stronger. Neighbors might smell it or, worse -- his Mom … Oh well, he would get rid of the kitten later, but right now he wanted to have himself some fun ...

… Redirecting his attention to the living, the boy loaded his pipe with a small piece of crack cocaine. Wild eyed, the puppy had begun to struggle frantically against its bonds, almost as though it could sense what was about to take place.

Turning on an old boombox, he twisted the volume knob towards max. Classic Rock began reverberating against the cinder block walls … Easy does it … Make it last … Make it all last!

In fact the animal was strapped to the table several days ago in preparation for just such an occasion as this, with his mom gone and the house all to himself. It was near death -- suffering self inflicted injuries -- from struggling against its bonds, and lack of food and water. The tabletop was covered in drying blood, urine, and feces.

“Well b***h, let's see what the f**k you got!” The boy screeched in singing out of tune to the melody of, That Smell, broadcasting over the airwaves.

Chuckling at the irony of Lynyrd Skynyrd performing while he worked, the boy took a long draw on his pipe, holding the smoke in his lungs. Allowing the smoke to work its magic, he took the scalding hot pipe and touched it gently to the pup's undeveloped pisser. The animal yelped in agony. The boy smiled a far away distant smile, almost as if he did not hear the animal's pain at all -- but somehow savored it.

It always began this way. The boy would get high and, sooner or later, the animal would die. It was all a matter of timing. The idea was to not have the animal die too quickly and spoil the high ...

Animal shrieks filled the air as the boy ran the hot pipe across one of the pup's eyeballs. Now blind in one eye, it could only partially observe its tormentor. Rarely would the boy put out both eyes; if he did it would always come just before the end -- and with the ice-pick.

His favorite tool was the pair of diagonal cutters he had robbed from dad's old toolbox. He loved the feel of them in his hands, and the sweet sound of clip, clip, clip, as flesh was slowly snipped into pieces. He would then feed the starving animal pieces of its own flesh, watching intently while it cannibalized itself to his delight … Tonight was no different ...

He now began speaking quietly to the suffering animal, while pushing his pipe and taking another hit.

“You know how I f****n' feel, don't ya pup? We got that in common … You and me … I f****n' hurt inside, and now you're gonna f****n' hurt … You understand that don't ya?”

This ritual conversation took place with the torture and execution of every animal he befriended. The ceremonial content seldom changed. The animals could offer no advice. They could neither sympathize, nor empathize. They simply suffered, not knowing why. The boy simply enjoyed himself -- also clueless as to why ...

The dope soon ran out, and the boy was down to his last couple of smokes. His cruel instincts were telling him this tough a*s puppy would last all f****n' night. Cool! He enjoyed the tough ones. What time was it, anyhow? Looking at his watch, he slowly began to grin.

It was early yet, and it would be hours before his Mom came home. She would either burst through the front door in elation at her night of winnings, or sit down to quietly smoke at the kitchen table -- not wishing to discuss how much of this months bill money had slipped through her fingers in losing.

It was time to make a run. The boy turned off the light, bounding up the familiar cellar steps in the darkness. Pausing momentarily, he lowered the cellar door so the neighbors would not be roused by the loud music from the boombox.

Exiting through the back gate, the teenager shoved his hands into his pockets and began the short walk to the convenience store. He planned to stop a few blocks over on the way back and pick up a couple more stones ...

… The boy was a fast walker, his mind always deeply immersed in thought. This night was no different as he contemplated the whys of why he did what he did. Guilt -- like cancer -- ate away at his brain. He hated himself for what he had become. He lived in fear of the pleasure hurting animals brought to him. He also lived in fear of that exquisite next step which would surely lead him, from animals -- to people.

Addictions and fetishes such as this never got better -- only worse. Addictions are fetishes run wild. Secrets seldom remained f****n' secret … Sooner or later ...

____________

… The boy never saw the car that struck him when he began crossing the street, upon leaving the convenience store. He was lighting a cigarette when the impact sent his body sailing. Blood oozed from his head where he had struck the ground -- his body now crumpled and broken.

As the driver stepped out of his car, panic stricken and scrambling for his cell phone, a passing police cruiser happened upon the scene of the accident. The driver excitedly tried to explain to the officers what had happened while they examined the boy for signs of life ...

… The distraught driver failed to notice the split second of eye contact made between the two officers, before a request for an ambulance was called into dispatch ...

The ambulance came, but silently, and without its emergency lights flashing. It turned out, the Cops knew the kid. Talk about town had it that the kid was a real sicko. The local druggies were said to be scared s**t-less of him.

So, the Cops did their job, simply failing to report the accident as a life threatening emergency due to the boy's obvious head trauma and the near certainty of internal injuries. He was pronounced dead at the scene. One thing was for certain: By the time the ambulance rolled up, the boy truly was dead …

____________

In the darkness of the cellar, the voice of AC/DC's Bon Scott screamed “I'm on a highway to hell,” from the blaring boom box.

The tortured puppy lay whimpering and afraid. Most likely it would not survive the night. Otherwise it would surely die in the next day or so if no one ventured down into the cellar and discovered it there.

One thing more was for certain: No one would hurt it again -- tonight … Justice had been served … Animal Justice …

____________

Thomas slumped back into the computer chair, letting go a sigh of relief … The story was finished -- the ending now slightly altered from its original draft … His little friends looked upon him in horror at what he had just written, wondering if they had witnessed his transformation from gentle old man to monster …

(Written 11/7/2011)

Animal Justice

Written By Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

Copyright © 2011 Marvin Thomas Cox

DBA: Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

All Rights Reserved

A Thomas C. Flynn Story

… Thomas pounded upon the keys intensely, sweat pouring from his brow, while his little friends watched the words of his story begin to take shape and direction upon the monitor screen … to their dismay it looked to be yet another rewrite of his very first, coldly dark and cruel story ...

____________

Was it safe now, he wondered to himself, or would she suddenly appear back in the drive to pop inside and retrieve something or other she had forgotten, as was so often the case? ...

The boy looked out the living room windows in both directions up and down the street in the darkness, also giving the driveway a quick double check. Yep, it looked like Mom was gone sure enough, gambling again and not to return for hours.

Dad lived across town, only a few blocks from Smalltown's local country club. It was doubtful he would drop by unannounced. No, dad would definitely call first. If there was no answer, then the lack of an answer would be his excuse for not coming over. Besides, lately he had been more interested in banging his new girl friend than showing up to visit his son. All Dad could think about was tits and a*s.

Alright! Time for a smoke and some fun! Strolling down the hall to his bedroom, the teenager searched around under the mattress until he recovered an opened pack of Marlboro Reds in the box with a Bic lighter hidden neatly inside, a piece of old radio antenna, and a piece of mild steel acetylene rod he had found out in the garage. With some imagination, he had fashioned the last two items into a decent pipe and a makeshift push. Gathering these together, the boy made his way back up the hall and towards the back door; a smile upon his face.

Out in the backyard, he raised the door to the concrete storm cellar his grandparents had built many years ago. His Mom had inherited the old home after her parents had passed away. The cellar was a neat place to hang out. His Mom hated the musty smelling old cellar. This suited the boy just fine. It also assured that she was not likely to go snooping into his business.

Musty was not the correct word for the odor that now wafted up from the cellar when he raised the door �" a blend of animal feces and rotting flesh. It was a scent he had grown accustomed to, always prompting him to quickly lower the cellar door behind him.

Below an old twin bed was turned up edgewise and leaned against the cellar wall. A single light bulb illuminated the otherwise dungeon-like darkness. A couple of small wooden tables were the only other furnishings. Upon one rickety table rested a worn-out old boning knife, an ice-pick with the point broken off, a pair of diagonal cutters, and an old rip claw hammer. The other table stood nearby. It was bigger and much sturdier built. To its larger tabletop, the teenager's latest project was securely restrained.

The boy lit a cigarette, pulling long and hard, in gazing coldly at the animal strapped helplessly upon its back on the table. Stray dogs and cats were getting harder to come by. Neighbors had begun to call City Animal Control with complaints of missing pets. He would have to be very careful in the future �" or all this fun would suddenly end.

This thought caused him to pause, reflecting upon the carcass of his most recent adventure. The mutilated remains of a young kitten lay rotting in a box over in the corner. He needed to get rid of it before the smell got any stronger. Neighbors might smell it or, worse �" his Mom … Oh well, he would get rid of the kitten later, but right now he wanted to have himself some fun ...

… Redirecting his attention to the living, the boy loaded his pipe with a small piece of crack cocaine. Wild eyed, the puppy had begun to struggle frantically against its bonds, almost as though it could sense what was about to take place.

Turning on an old boombox, he twisted the volume knob towards max. Classic Rock began reverberating against the cinder block walls … Easy does it … Make it last … Make it all last!

In fact the animal was strapped to the table several days ago in preparation for just such an occasion as this, with his mom gone and the house all to himself. It was near death �" suffering self inflicted injuries �" from struggling against its bonds, and lack of food and water. The tabletop was covered in drying blood, urine, and feces.

“Well b***h, let's see what the f**k you got!” The boy screeched in singing out of tune to the melody of, That Smell, broadcasting over the airwaves.

Chuckling at the irony of Lynyrd Skynyrd performing while he worked, the boy took a long draw on his pipe, holding the smoke in his lungs. Allowing the smoke to work its magic, he took the scalding hot pipe and touched it gently to the pup's undeveloped pisser. The animal yelped in agony. The boy smiled a far away distant smile, almost as if he did not hear the animal's pain at all �" but somehow savored it.

It always began this way. The boy would get high and, sooner or later, the animal would die. It was all a matter of timing. The idea was to not have the animal die too quickly and spoil the high ...

Animal shrieks filled the air as the boy ran the hot pipe across one of the pup's eyeballs. Now blind in one eye, it could only partially observe its tormentor. Rarely would the boy put out both eyes; if he did it would always come just before the end �" and with the ice-pick.

His favorite tool was the pair of diagonal cutters he had robbed from dad's old toolbox. He loved the feel of them in his hands, and the sweet sound of clip, clip, clip, as flesh was slowly snipped into pieces. He would then feed the starving animal pieces of its own flesh, watching intently while it cannibalized itself to his delight … Tonight was no different ...

He now began speaking quietly to the suffering animal, while pushing his pipe and taking another hit.

“You know how I f****n' feel, don't ya pup? We got that in common … You and me … I f****n' hurt inside, and now you're gonna f****n' hurt … You understand that don't ya?”

This ritual conversation took place with the torture and execution of every animal he befriended. The ceremonial content seldom changed. The animals could offer no advice. They could neither sympathize, nor empathize. They simply suffered, not knowing why. The boy simply enjoyed himself �" also clueless as to why ...

The dope soon ran out, and the boy was down to his last couple of smokes. His cruel instincts were telling him this tough a*s puppy would last all f****n' night. Cool! He enjoyed the tough ones. What time was it, anyhow? Looking at his watch, he slowly began to grin.

It was early yet, and it would be hours before his Mom came home. She would either burst through the front door in elation at her night of winnings, or sit down to quietly smoke at the kitchen table �" not wishing to discuss how much of this months bill money had slipped through her fingers in losing.

It was time to make a run. The boy turned off the light, bounding up the familiar cellar steps in the darkness. Pausing momentarily, he lowered the cellar door so the neighbors would not be roused by the loud music from the boombox.

Exiting through the back gate, the teenager shoved his hands into his pockets and began the short walk to the convenience store. He planned to stop a few blocks over on the way back and pick up a couple more stones ...

… The boy was a fast walker, his mind always deeply immersed in thought. This night was no different as he contemplated the whys of why he did what he did. Guilt �" like cancer �" ate away at his brain. He hated himself for what he had become. He lived in fear of the pleasure hurting animals brought to him. He also lived in fear of that exquisite next step which would surely lead him, from animals �" to people.

Addictions and fetishes such as this never got better �" only worse. Addictions are fetishes run wild. Secrets seldom remained f****n' secret … Sooner or later ...

____________

… The boy never saw the car that struck him when he began crossing the street, upon leaving the convenience store. He was lighting a cigarette when the impact sent his body sailing. Blood oozed from his head where he had struck the ground �" his body now crumpled and broken.

As the driver stepped out of his car, panic stricken and scrambling for his cell phone, a passin

g police cruiser happened upon the scene of the accident. The driver excitedly tried to explain to the officers what had happened while they examined the boy for signs of life ...

… The distraught driver failed to notice the split second of eye contact made between the two officers, before a request for an ambulance was called into dispatch ...

The ambulance came, but silently, and without its emergency lights flashing. It turned out, the Cops knew the kid. Talk about town had it that the kid was a real sicko. The local druggies were said to be scared s**t-less of him.

So, the Cops did their job, simply failing to report the accident as a life threatening emergency due to the boy's obvious head trauma and the near certainty of internal injuries. He was pronounced dead at the scene. One thing was for certain: By the time the ambulance rolled up, the boy truly was dead …

____________

In the darkness of the cellar, the voice of AC/DC's Bon Scott screamed “I'm on a highway to hell,” from the blaring boom box.

The tortured puppy lay whimpering and afraid. Most likely it would not survive the night. Otherwise it would surely die in the next day or so if no one ventured down into the cellar and discovered it there.

One thing more was for certain: No one would hurt it again �" tonight … Justice had been served … Animal Justice …

____________

Thomas slumped back into the computer chair, letting go a sigh of relief … The story was finished �" the ending now slightly altered from its original draft … His little friends looked upon him in horror at what he had just written, wondering if they had witnessed his transformation from gentle old man to monster …

(Written 11/7/2011)