Horror

The Unborn

jackass — Tue, 26 May 2009 06:46:45 GMT

Release date: 2009-01-09
Film Company: Rogue Pictures
Directors: David S. Goyer
Cast: Odette Yustman, Gary Oldman, Meagan Good, Cam Gigandet, Idris Elba, Jane Alexander, Atticus Shaffer, James Remar, Carla Gugino, C.S. Lee, Michael Sassone, Ethan Cutkosky, Craig J. Harris, Rachel Brosnahan, Kymberly Mellen

Description:

The Unborn is a 2009 supernatural horror-thriller film written and directed by David S. Goyer. The film stars Gary Oldman as a spiritual advisor to a young girl (Odette Yustman) who is tormented by a dybbuk. The dybbuk seeks to use her death as a gateway to physical existence.The film is produced by Michael Bay and Platinum Dunes. It was released in American theaters on January 9, 2009, by Rogue Pictures.

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Top Ten Horror Games

jackass — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 08:15:44 GMT

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jackass — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 20:35:55 GMT

Christmas in the Haunted House!! by Gareth Barsby

jackass — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 15:28:36 GMT

Chapter 1

It was December the first in the uncanny country of the apparitions and spirits and in a old-fashioned, crumpling mansion-house, coffins creaked leisurely in a room with pictures of famous people, cobwebs and Christmas trees.

The things in the coffins were the skilful spirits society. Now, the skilful spirits society weren't the kind of ghosts you'd see in Halloween.

Put it this way. If you made a chart of how many specters came out at Halloween, you'll never have had the skilful spirits society. These are the species of ghosts who come out at Christmas which included Sam Smart, Gary the graveyard guardian, Wilbur the wraith, Percy the pumpkin and Bill the bogyman.

These were sharp-witted phantoms which were the only ones to talk and were marvelous to any ghost in the universe. That day, the phantoms had a scheme. "Let's plan a Christmas party for our phantasm pals. "Wilbur cried.

"But how," moaned Gary. "Loads of ghosts adore Halloween greater than Christmas." What could they do?

Chapter 2

"We need amusement! Music! Superior stuff! Ahem!" Bill cried out. "Fabulous idea! That's what we need! And we know who has it!" Therefore, the specters went to the nation of oddities and weirdoes to see the head with the taste of recreation, Darren the dragon!

He was watching the news when the skilful spirits society scurried straight through the wall of his home. "Well, well, if it isn't the skilful spirits society! What have you come to me for?" "We need a man (or dragon) of entertainment and you're just the thing we need!" explained Sam in an thrilled sort of way. So, at the skilful spirits society's house, Sam was explaining to Darren what they needed him for.

Chapter 3

"Why did the cricket team give up cricket? Dracula took all the bats!" Darren was practicing his distraction after the talk. Then, he sang MONSTER MASH two times and even played uncanny melodies on a organ. "Superb! Superb!" cried Wilbur.

"You better watch out. You better cry. You better shout. I'm telling you why. The specters and phantoms...are here!" sang Darren. Sam and his mates clapped very loud. "We're spooky ghosts in the phantom worrrrrrld. We're real, not plastic. Dracula's fantastic!" chanted Darren. "You're a dragon of entertainment, all right!" said Wilbur, in a "That was marvelous "voice. "Listen," exclaimed Darren. Then he sang, "Jingle bells, the swamp monster smells.

The vampire bats are here. The eerie ghosts are having a huge host with monsters with pointed ears. "Couldn't be better!" said Percy.

Chapter 4

Darren's music went on and on. It was so good that the skilful spirits society made a disco. The other phantoms of the world heard the great music. The ghosts bolted to the house of the skilful spirits society. Then, Darren saw all the guests and let them do the cha-cha and did the organ tunes. Before long, Darren said, "Alright, do the sea monster dance." Ever heard of the sea monster dance? It's like the conga but it has ghosts and monsters. Darren's music has only been heard in December but it was too scary to be in the music library. He could muddle words too.

Like : Het den

That means: The End

Cheap Thrills At The Parker House by Rich Logsdon

jackass — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 15:26:55 GMT

I. Overwhelming evidence notwithstanding, thin and bespectacled Luke Matthews didn't believe in ghosts, werewolves, warlocks, witches, or demons. "To Hell with the Devil" had become a favorite expression of this tall,
stooping intellectual, voiced particularly around fellow graduate students, who admired Luke for his abandonment of belief.

To Luke, sitting now in his parent's living room, puffing on his pipe, watching the red glow of the setting sun, and studying the spire of the old Parker House through the leafless trees in the front yard, Hell was a fabrication of the Church and, therefore, a delusion. The views of this thin bespectacled man were reinforced by Neitzche, Marx, and Derrida, whom he claimed in seminar after seminar as his most significant influences. A doctoral student in English, studying at a major California university, Luke was finishing a dissertation applying deconstructive principles to Bronte's Wuthering Heights. His parents, now away at a church revival this evening, were proud of him. Sitting on the faded green couch he had slept on as a child, Luke put his pipe to his mouth and reflected: during his college years, he had seen the superstitions of his ancestors uprooted like weeds, each tossed onto the pile of cultural discards that Luke kept in the back of his mind, just in case some day he might need a bit of trivia to impress colleagues and students gathered around him to learn about his most recent publication.

Evening shadows darkening, Luke wondered how he was going to use this weekend. He was glad his parents were gone, because that gave him the freedom he needed. Between semesters and burnt-out from too many books, papers,
and seminars, Luke wanted a boost, a thrill. He needed to do something different, he told himself, something that he would remember when he was working on his dissertation in his small attic room just off the campus. In fact, he was tempted to visit the old Parker House, the rickety brick and wooden two story Victorian affair located on the corner of Seventh and Taylor, just a block away. Superstitions aside, the place had a creepy appeal.

Luke had vivid recollections of the place. Even in the light of day during his childhood and adolescence, the old Victorian house had always seemed dark; looking at the place was like gazing through darkly transparent film. For another, throughout his youth, as he had made a point of walking past the deserted place to the local convenience store or to the home of one of his friends, Luke had occasionally heard awful sounds coming from the Parker house, particularly at night. When he was twelve, walking past the place around midnight in late November, he had heard scream after scream, something his father attributed to demonic spirit. Once, when he was sixteen and walking back to his house from his girlfriend's on the darkest night of the year, Luke had seen a light flickering through a corner second story window and a shadow bouncing onto the shade. If Luke were making these stories up, his parents knew, at least the boy's delusions had a solid foundation.

That foundation was his grandfather. During the first eighteen years of his life, Luke had heard stories about the Parker place from his grandfather, a crazy old coot who had lived with the boy and his parents from the time Luke was five and had made it evident, to his dying day, that he despised everyone in the family save Luke.

Routinely, Grandfather Matthews would drag Luke into the family room after a winter meal of steak and mashed potatoes, sit the boy on his lap five feet from the fire, and fill his grandson's head full of Parker house stories. Sometimes, as Luke listened to the old man in the darkly carpeted and paneled room, he could swear that his grandfather was trying to scare him to death.

II. "Take the murder and dismemberment of Cassie Russell over thirty years ago," Luke had told his friends a week before, as over beer at a topless tavern near the university he had tried to explain his warped childhood. "That was one of Grandpa's favorites, one that the old man added a bit more blood to each time he had told it. Cassie was high school student who made extra cash delivering pizzas and made the mistake of knocking on the door of the Parker house on Halloween in 1965. Odd thing was," Luke had remembered with a shiver, "no one had lived in that old house since the early '50's. Poor little girl. Anyhow, according to Grandpa, that was the last anyone ever saw Cassie alive; a month later, some teenagers found her body, or the remains of it, scattered and decomposing over the basement floor in the old house. 'Stench was unbelievable, Grandson,' the old man growled at me, tobacco stains on his shirt, beard, and teeth. 'An' blood everywhere: on the walls, on the carpet, on the TV, on the dining room table. Even more curious, little Luke: Cassie's eyeballs was gone.' No one ever explained what the boys were doing in the house, which had not been lived in for years. 'Cassie was sure as hell a cute little thing,' Grandpa would conclude, smacking his lips and looking wistfully into the distance."

When his friends (all doctoral candidates) refused to believe this, but waited for more in breathless anticipation, Luke had lit his pipe and hit them with another Grandpa Matthews story. "Okay. So listen to this. Five years after the discovery of Cassie Russell, the dead and disemboweled bodies of two of these teenagers-a boy and a girl-were found hanging by their necks from a rafter in the attic of the old Parker house. The murderer had tied black nylon chord five times around the neck of each victim. An autopsy report showed the boy and the girl had been disemboweled before the time of their deaths. 'Eyes of the boy and girl was missin', just like Cassie,' the old man told me. 'Maybe the mice ate 'em, the eyes, that is, heheheh,' the old man had chuckled. Jesus, what a mean old bastard.

"Then Grandpa would carry me over to the family room window and point with a crooked and trembling finger in the direction of the Parker house, just visible in evening light through the trees. 'House got some evil in it, boy.' the old man had wheezed, always struggling for air. 'People stupid enough to try to tear the thing down generally died.' The mean old man, actually smiling at me, always followed this up with accountings of some of the 'accidents': the body of city councilman Ed Jeffries, his heart cut out and stuffed into his mouth, had been found on the bloodied kitchen floor; the mangled eye-less body of Susan Thompson, former Miss Idaho contestant, had been discovered dangling upside down from a ceiling fan in the master bedroom on the second floor."

III. Of course, Luke thought to himself as he sat in his parents' family room in Boise, his friends had thought he was making the stories up. No self-respecting Ph. D., one of Luke's friends had remarked, would ever take those stories seriously; doing so was equivalent to believing in the devil, a character now regarded in intellectual circles as nothing more than a harmful fiction, capable of nonetheless inspiring incredibly dark deeds.

Now a young man on the verge of getting his Ph. D. in English, Luke actually missed the old man (who had died of congestive heart failure four years ago) and wondered as he sat puffing his pipe and gazing out the window, waiting for the darkness, how any sane individual could possibly believe the old man's stories let alone the explanation the community accepted: that the house was haunted. Indeed, to prove to himself that there was no basis for any superstitions regarding the old house, Luke had called a former girl friend last night and asked her to spend part of the next evening with him in the old mansion. "Consider it a cheap thrill," he had commented, smugly. "Sure, Luke," Misty had quickly responded, "I like cheap thrills," and Luke remembered then that in high school Misty had been one of those promiscuous beauties that would do anything for a thrill, which had included (on the night of Luke's graduation) taking on Luke and thirteen of his buddies in the back seat of her car.

IV. Luke met Misty in front of the store on seventh and Main, six blocks from the old mansion. A gorgeous brunette with a figure that would give the Pope an erection, Misty wore a blue Boise State sweater, blue jeans, and boots. Luke had worn his frayed green tweed jacket, leather patches on the elbows, faded jeans, and red tennis shoes. From there, full moon overhead, they walked hand-in-hand into the center of town, where they dined at Angel Fong's, an over-priced Chinese restaurant situated in the basement of one of the city's banks.

Misty sat across the table from Luke in the darkened dining room and sighed as she remembered the old Parker place. "Me and my friends usually stayed the hell away from that place, let me tell you, except for once, " Misty droned on, dipping bread in her soup. "Once, Shelly and me threw rocks at the house when we seen someone inside. Shelly's rock went through one of the front windows. That was pretty fuckin' funny. Kind of a cheap thrill, I guess."

Glancing around the room to make sure no one had heard the Misty, Luke remembered the story. It had been on a night after a local high school football game that Misty and Shelly, drunken sluts, had decided to drive by the old Parker place in North Boise and spend an hour or two just throwing rocks at the house. The broken window had become legendary in the Boise high schools, Shelly a local hero, when suddenly, one day after Halloween night
Shelly's nude body had been found in the foothills just overlooking Boise, her beautiful body impaled on a sharp post, her eyes ripped out of their sockets.

"Sometimes," began Misty, taking a noisy sip from her wine glass and looking at Luke, "sometimes, late at night, I get this creepy feeling, like something watching me, like, Jesus, these fuckin' eyes that I know come from that old house. Then I think about Shelly, about how they found her. No eyes and shit. Jesus, sometimes I sit up in bed and cry I get so scared, and Jesus that's when Mom comes in to tell me that it's all right and to shut the hell up. 'You shut the hell up, Misty Jean!!' she'd yell. 'Me an' your old man's tyrin' to sleep.' "

Studying Misty, who at twenty-four was more beautiful and more stupid than he had remembered, Luke slowly chewed his raw steak, savoring the juices. Between bites, he asked her if she still wanted to go to the Parker mansion. "Just a cheap thrill," Luke said.

"Oh, hell yes. Hell, hell, hell, yes, I do!" exclaimed Misty, loud enough for the elderly couple at the next table to overhear and stare at the loud young woman. "I don't believe that shit. No one believes that shit." She drained her wine glass and gesture to Luke that she wanted a refill. Then, turning to the old couple, Misty asked, "You folks still believe that shit?"

V. Later that night, they entered the house easily enough, climbing a tree and jumping onto the roof, breaking a window, and getting in through what must have been a guest bedroom. Luke had brought a flashlight, which
he flipped on as soon as he and Misty were inside.

The dark pine dresser and wall shelves, Luke noticed, flashing his beam around the room, were immaculate, an unusual touch for an abandoned place. He saw no dust anywhere. Too, the frame, Victorian-styled bed looked freshly
made. The only unusual item was the smell: The air was saturated by a thickly metallic odor that made Luke think of blood. Hanging from the ceiling was a chandelier, and when Luke tried the light switch the room lit up in a reddish glow, like a bonfire.

"Jesus," exclaimed Misty, almost breathless, "Jesus, what a place. Jesus."

"Sure is some place," responded Nick, still surprised by the cleanliness.

"Wanna go on?" asked Misty, anxiously.

Immediately, as he nodded, Luke saw a mental image of a corpse dangling bloodily from a full moon and sensed that something was terribly wrong with the house. Sworn, however, to resist impulses predicated on superstitions, Luke looked at the girl. "Fuck, yeah," he said, feeling a slight tremble in his voice, "let's see this place."

And so Misty and Luke explored the mansion, turning on the chandelier lights in the long hall way outside the bedroom, then creeping down the hallway and entering the rooms upstairs one by one. They found the huge master bedroom, saw the ceiling fan and a dressing table stacked with very old photos of people that Luke assumed has once lived in the place. The people in the photos looked cold and sullen.

Next, they crept downstairs into the darkness, flicked on the light switch at the bottom, and walked into the largest and most grandiose living room either one of them had ever seen, filled with padded nineteenth century high-backed chairs, three couches with wooden and bending backs, a grandfather clock that, oddly, was still ticking and keeping the correct time. From there, they walked to the dining room, which was more of a hall, and looked at the long oaken table ringed with old wooden chairs, all of which looked brand new to Luke.

When they walked through the kitchen in the back of the house and noticed an open door seemingly inviting the intruders down into the cellar darkness, Misty stopped in her tracks.

"What's the matter?" asked Luke, who had grown bolder and bolder the longer they stayed in the house.

"Ain't goin' down there, boy friend," said Misty, pointing to the open door.

"Why?" asked Luke. "Can't be a thing down there." As he said the word, Luke felt chilled, sensed something huge and dark passing inches from him, saw in his mind's eye two red eyes blazing directly at him. His heart jumping
into his throat, Luke reminded himself that what he had seen was superstition.

"Shit, babe," Luke responded, shaken but imitating a cockiness which his fellow grad students had come to admire, "then I'll go myself." Luke started towards the door, sensing still that he was moving into danger.

"Luke, Luke, shit, honey, please," whined Misty.

"Please, what?"

"Please don't go into that fucking dark hole. I get a bad feeling about this, Luke. Somethin' not right here. Shit. Like those eyes I told you about I dream about."

Instead of seeing in Misty's fear evidence confirming his own suspicions, Luke pushed onward. He had to go down the dark stairs now. Besides, he needed the rush.

"I'll be back in a minute," Luke said, approaching the entrance. "Anyway, to Hell with the Devil."

"That's a cute thing to say, Luke, but what the hell about me?" Misty whimpered, and Luke wondered if she were attempting to make him feel sorry for her or if she were frightened. He decided this was an emotional ploy on her part.

"You'll be all right, sugar pie," he assured her. "And it won't be totally dark. The moon is full tonight and even without the flashlight," and here he turned his light off, "you can see just about everything."

Luke was right. In the light of the moon, everything in the old kitchen was visible: the linoleum floor, the old refrigerator in the corner, the shelves, the huge sink, everything.

"Ok, Luke. Fuck it. OK, " Misty said, resigned. "But hurry back."

Giving Misty a kiss on the cheek, Luke turned the flashlight on and bounded down the stairs, wondering what he would find when he reached the bottom.

It was when Luke stepped onto the cold concrete of the cellar floor that he knew that he had made a fatal error. The revelation hit like and shovel against the side of the head. Panicked, he flashed the light across the walls of the cellar just as the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut.

He waited, breathless, heard the blood pounding in his brain. Then, he heard footsteps lumbering over the floor above him in the direction of Misty, heard Misty scream. Luke made out unmistakable sounds of a struggle, rapid footsteps indicating Misty was running to escape, heavier footsteps of her pursuer. Then, he heard her shout for him, heard her scream again and again, was reminded of the sounds of a huge animal caught in a trap. As if awakened from a dark dream, he rushed up the stairs, three steps at a time, and threw himself against the cellar door. The door, made of hard, thick wood, did not budge, so he threw himself against the door again and again, frantic, as Misty's screams suddenly stopped. Wondering if his girl were dead, Luke bounded back down the stairs, searched the cellar frantically with his flashlight, passing the beam over walls and floor again and again, nearly giving up hope when he saw something glittering in the darkness in the back of the cellar. Luke ran towards the object, light revealing that he had found a huge ax whose wooden handle seemed as fresh as it would have been had Luke purchased the tool that very day.

Luke rushed back up the stairs, flashlight in one hand and ax in another and, two steps before the door, lay down his light so that the beam shone on the door, raised his ax and swung. At the first chance, the blade struck in the wood, but Luke easily pulled the weapon free. Luke swung again, and again, and again, finally piercing through the wooden door. With several more swings, Luke created a rectangular opening through which, as he dropped his ax, he could reach the door handle and unlock and open the door.

The door opened, and feeling himself exhausted, Luke called out, "Misty!! Misty! Where are you? Where are you? Say something!"

He listened and behind the silence he heard something, a rhythmic panting which grew louder and louder, like two great beasts fucking each other. Terrified, Luke dropped his ax and walked in the direction of the sound, walked up the stairs, down the hall, and finally into a room right next to the one through which he and Misty had first gained entrance to the mansion. Nearly crazed by terror, Luke pointed the flashlight in front of him, thought he saw something large in the middle of the very small dark room, listened for Misty, and then shining the light directly in front of him again realized what it was that he was looking at. He had found Misty.

VI. In the brilliant moonlight, he could see her arms and legs were bound by rope and tied to steel rings protruding from each of the four walls. Misty was suspended horizontally in the dark space, three feet or so off the floor, her nude body in a spread-eagle position. The rope that bound her arms and legs had been pulled so tight that Misty could not move. Her face was turned away from him. The figure looked grotesque, seeming to float in the air.

Breaking into a cold sweat, paralyzed, heart thumping wildly, Luke felt himself go numb, wondered what he was doing in this room on this night. For several minutes, unmoving, he stood and tried not to look towards the face, certain the eyes had been removed, sure that he was going to get sick or pass out. Then, he heard a voice he did not recognize rasp, "Hey, can you believe this shit?", and knew the girl had turned her head towards him. Glancing up and down her body, avoiding her eyes, he saw that her wrists and ankles bore red burn marks from where the rope had rubbed against the flesh, could actually feel the girl's pain as she weakly struggled to get loose. Then, with morbid fascination, he watched the blood trickling down her left arm from the rope and in the direction of her bare breast and wondered what he should do about it. Misty's breasts and flat stomach bore scratches that suggested a struggle.

Mesmerized, stupidly almost, Luke stared at the body dangling spread-eagle in front of him, had trouble acknowledging that bound before him was a girl he had known since grade school. Feeling immersed in something so dark and dreadful that it was almost palpable, he gazed now at the golden rings piercing her nipples and pussy, wondered when Misty had decided to go in for piercing, actually felt himself slightly aroused.

Summoning courage, he slowly looked up, towards her face, noticed that Misty's cheek and forehead bore deep cuts, realized she was bleeding slightly from the nose and mouth, and then forced himself to look at her eyes.
With a tremendous sigh of relief, he realized that Misty still had her sight but he could read only emptiness there, as if something had scooped out her soul.

He looked at the girl, felt delirious, actually thought of running his hand over her breasts, lightly touching her crotch when he heard her whisper, mockingly, "Hey, little man, hey, little man; he's here. He's here. He's here. And you are fuckin' dead, dead, dead." This couldn't be Misty, he told himself, struggling to stay rational. This wasn't her voice. She sounded diabolical.

"What?" Luke asked, stunned. "What are you saying?" It occurred to him that this girl, grotesquely suspended, felt no pain.

"I said," the girl growled, guttural, her voice coming from deep within her, "he's here, you stupid miserable mother fucker. Somewhere in the house, shit pot. And, you baby boy blue, Mr. To-Hell-With-the-Devil, he's gonna eat you alive." At this, Misty smacked her lips; she actually seemed to enjoy this moment.

Luke stepped back, looked at the body before him, glanced at the room around him, felt the room beginning to spin, and desperately struggled to focus on the task at hand.

"Who's here?" Luke asked, terror sweeping through him, weakening him. "Who, who, who are you talking about?"

"Who do you think, shit head?," she said slowly, laughing, looking at Luke through glazed animal eyes. "Whatever it was had a huge, huge dick, much larger than your own, and it fucked me-throbbed deeply and deliciously inside me--and I loved it."

Nick paused, fascinated yet repelled.

"Hey, little man, " she asked, smiling, beginning to pant heavily, "you can fuck me now. You can fuck me to death. I'm in position. Put that little pecker inside me. It'll be a real cheap thrill."

Dazed, he looked at her, her mouth open, her face bloodied, then said, "What the hell is going on here? What is this? What the hell has happened to you?" Even as he spoke, he wondered why he had asked, felt a mixture of fear and pleasure, knew that something was watching him, zeroing in on him.

Slowly, almost unable to move, he turned, looked into the darkness, illuminated by the moonlight, searched for whatever it was that had locked him in the basement and raped this girl. While he could see no one, he sensed darkness passing through the house, a cold dark breeze looking for him, felt the eyes of evil boring into him, knew that whatever it was had the power to take to the pit of Hell.

Panicked, wanting to run, he knew he had to free Misty. It was imperative that he do so. So he turned back to her, reached into his pocket, took out his Swiss army knife, opened it, and put the blade of to the straps binding her legs. Frantically as he worked and she giggled, regardless of the pressure he put on his knife, he could not cut the rope.

"Jesus Christ," Luke whispered, falling to his knees, knowing the situation was hopeless. "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus."

"He won't help you now, little man," said Misty, slowly turning her face towards him and staring maliciously. "Go ahead, little man: fuck the daylights outa me. You'll like it. I certainly will. C'mon. Gimme that thrill you promised me."

The rustling behind him, like the wind in the tree outside his parents' house, made his heart stop, the hairs lining the back of his neck bristle, turned his nose, ears, arms and legs ice-cube cold. He shivered, hoped this night would soon be over, felt something brush his shoulder, knew something large and dark and scaly was passing behind him, put his head down and took a deep breath, then stood up, turned and walked through the door into the hallway.

VII. It happened so fast that Luke didn't have time to react: a sharp hook arcing perfectly toward him and cutting into and through his stomach; the sensation of being lifted off the ground; the searing, darkening pain; the sound of someone screaming like a beast; the sudden nausea as the sharp thing ripped into his stomach; the stench of his own blood; finally, the sensation that he was gliding out of his own body, leaving his own bloodied and mutilated form, on the verge of beginning something new and indescribably horrible.

Suspended in the hallway at a point near the ceiling, he looked below, saw his own body limp and bleeding, pierced by an enormous hook; the hook in turn was connected to a chain that dangled from the ceiling. He wondered if somehow he had come under Divine Judgment for believing the wrong things, knew he had been given over to a darkness so vast that it stretched forever beyond his imagination, knew for the first time that evil was a tangible mass.

Floating, he studied his corpse, swinging on the chain, blood dripping onto the carpet, felt incredibly light, felt no pain, thought of Misty in the next room, somehow willed himself into the room where he looked down on the nude body, realized that Misty had died seconds before and then looked into the blazing red eyes of an enormous dark mass hovering before him, thought for an instant of his grandfather, then felt himself gripped by a force whose strength he had never known, saw the massive dark wings of this thing. He felt himself moving at light speed down an endless
dark corridor, heard the screams of millions who had suffered the same condemnation in previous centuries, saw the glow of the Lake of Fire at the end of the dark corridor, sensed Misty was waiting for him, and knew he would travel this corridor for eternity.

Veļi māžojas

jackass — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 15:25:09 GMT

Blomu muižas pils dārzā esot dziļš dīķis, ko saucot par Vaidavas dīķi. No šī dīķa pulksten divpadsmitos naktī izbraucot viena pēc otras skaistas karītes. Luktuŗi pie karītēm spīdot, kučērs sēdot uz bukas un priekšā esot četri vareni zirgi. Karītes piestājot pie pils durvim un no tām izkāpot tādi lepni kungi un dāmas, uzkāpot pa trepēm un ieejot kantorī. Drīz vien sākoties dancošana. Dancojot, ka švīkstot vien. Durvis tad pilī klabot un zīda drānas čaukstot. Dancotāji uzturoties tais telpās, kur neesot dzīvu cilvēku. Pienākot arī līdz durvim, aiz kurām esot kāds gulētājs, bet iekšā nenākot un aizejot atpakaļ. Arī ārā durvis esot visas pa nakti aizslēgtas, bet dancotāji tiekot pa tām iekšā, lai slēdzot, kā gribot. Dancotāji lustējoties kādu stundu, tad atkal piebraucot karītes. Viņi iekāpot karītēs un iebraucot dīķī, ugunim mirdzot. Kad gailis uz rīta pusi pirmo reiz dziedot, tad pilī viss esot klusu un mierīgi. Arī durvis esot tāpat aizslēgtas, kā vakarā palikušas. Notiekot tas tādēļ, ka pils esot uzcelta tai vietā, kur agrāk bijusi kapsēta.

Asinis uz loga

jackass — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 15:14:08 GMT

Reiz kādā meža mājiņā dzīvoja mamma,tētis un dēls.
Vienu vakaru visa ģimene skatījās televīzoru.Aiz loga
ķaut kas iesīcās... Tad mamma izgāja ārā, lai paskatītos,
kas tur notiek.Pēc tam tētis, nevarēdams sagaidīt
atgriežamies mammu, arī izgāja ārā.
Pēkšņi dēls izdzird stiprus sitienus un,
Piegājis pie loga ieraudzījis, ka pa rūti tek asinis...
Dēls tad izsteidzās ārā un sastapa māti ar tēvu, sitot odus...

At Tarantula Lil's by Richard Logsdon

jackass — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 15:10:51 GMT

I. Worn around the edges, yet dreaming of vampire strippers, Professor Michael Haddux drove his dilapidated black ‘85 Buick Le Sabre into the parking lot of Tarantula Lil’s. It was getting late, approaching midnight, and a full moon shone brilliantly overhead like a fluorescent clock. His heart racing with nervous excitement, Michael had decided to risk his good reputation in the academic community for one night at the club that Time magazine had described as the wildest and dirtiest strip club in America.

"This could be a delightfully enjoyable, even bloody night," murmured Professor Haddux to himself as he parked out back of the club, turned off the ignition and climbed out of his car. Because of recurring nightmares and severe episodes of depression, he hadn’t slept well for days. He thought that he vaguely remembered having taken his medication that morning.

Adjusting his bright red tie, he walked toward Tarantula ‘Lil’s, the new topless-bottomless nightclub on the corner of Oakey and Western Avenue in industrial Las Vegas. Though not difficult to find, this club--a hangout for dealers, prostitutes, gang bangers, and real estate salesman--was one most people avoided like the plague. It was said that packs of hungry dogs roamed the streets adjacent to the club. Seeking extreme measures, Michael was hoping that this titillating environment would bring him out of his depression.

Tonight, the professor noted that the blood-red moon hung seemingly suspended a few feet from the furiously blazing neon sign that for miles around served as the club’s landmark. As he walked toward the music pounding helter-skelter through the club walls, the professor imagined that he could reach up and touch the moon.

An English professor with a special interest in Pynchon and Nabakov, Michael was mesmerized by the flashing green and black neon sign that extended 100 feet in the air from the club roof; at the top of the sign, a few feet from the moon, a metallic spider clung to its symmetrical web. From the web, red neon droplets flowed, cascading like a bloody waterfall onto the top of the club and to the street below. For Michael, it was like something out of a delicious nightmare, the symbol of a universe collapsing upon itself and creating a progressive degeneration toward evil.

As he approached the dark entrance, he was bathed in the moons crimson glow. As tired, possibly even delirious as he was, the thought thrilled Michael, and he raised his arms in praise to the full-moon, imagining a river of blood winding its way through the dark labyrinth of history and into his heart. He felt strangely energized, temporarily redeemed from the exhaustion that had consumed him for days. The club’s reputation for evil didn’t faze the professor. In fact, the rumors of demonic activity—a wonderful fiction, he thought, sort of like the law of entropy--pulled on his dark soul like a magnet, fascinating him. Going to the club was like being literally drawn into a novel by Anne Rice. It was a stimulant. He remembered that two months ago a local high school principle had been beaten to a black and blue pulp in the unlit parking lot behind Lil’s. The principle’s nude body had been found one morning in a green and black dumpster just beyond the rear door; the man’s body had been mutilated, the face an unrecognizable puzzle of slashes, double-puncture marks extending from head to foot. The object possibly of some occult sacrifice, the body had been nearly drained of blood.

And, as he lit a Camel filter cigarette, put it between his lips and continued his walk, Haddux excitedly recalled that it was here, two years ago, that one of the most memorable out-door executions in the recent history had been carried out as the decapitated body of a local under world kingpin--an Asian-American who had cornered the drug and pornography business revolving around Tarantula Lil’s-- had been found dangling at the end of a long black cable tied to the metallic spider. The man’s body, a grappling hook through the back, had been fried a crispy black. Perhaps, thought the rummy Haddux, I am half in love with easeful death.

Particularly intriguing to the professor were rumors that Tarantula Lil’s was a rendezvous for vampires. No academic in his right mind believed in vampires, but Haddux had never considered himself sane. Certainly, recently, he had been right on the edge. On many occasions in the past three or so years, during a full-moon—in fact for the past week--he had sensed himself undergoing an inexplicable transformation.

During these periods, he experienced bloody hallucinations, found himself incredibly thirsty, desired bloodied steak, had visions of himself having sex with some horned female creature from the deep. During the past week, knowing he was swirling into a psychotic vortex, he felt he could see and talk to the dead alone at night, a realization that brought him back to his psychiatrist’s office. Indeed, Haddux revealed during the most recent therapy that on top of a serious chemical imbalance he had a severe vampire fixation, likely the product of a cultural psychosis fed by vampires movies and vampire literature.

II. As he opened the heavy black glass entrance door, Haddux was overcome by the hypnotic music, the rhythm and beat of something clearly Satanic pounding intrusively into his soul, and he tingled with manic excitement as he stood in the darkness just inside the entryway, allowing darkness to fill him.

Two topless gorgeous but deathly pale redheads, obviously twins, stood in front of him. As one, the girls smiled and said, "Good evening, sir, and welcome to Tarantula Lil’s." Paying the required ten dollar entry fee, Haddux strode into the room of exotic dancers, the atmosphere a mixture of alcohol, cigarettes, and rock, and slowly, but with great ease, glided to a table just below center stage.

Smoke hung in thick blue clouds in the darkly reddish air of the club, swirling with a life of its own, and he hungrily watched the three black dancers on the stage before him. One girl had a huge live green python wrapped around her neck. Looking around, he saw that there was one stage in each of the four corners of the room, each occupied by a single nude dancer surrounded by men of all ages, some sitting and staring at tits and pussy, some standing in an effort to get closer and maybe grab a little touch.

It was just as he had ordered his fourth Bloody Bill from the gorgeous, scantily clad cocktail waitress that a tall girl with dark blue eyes, blood-red lips, flowing black hair, a white transparent top, and a short green and white plaid dress approached him. She had a flower tattooed on one arm. She smiled and, gently, sweetly, sadly asked, "Mind if I sit down?" The girl’s eyes were dancing pools of dark blue that made Michael quiver with uneasiness.

"My name’s Charlie," the girl began, offering her hand to shake and sitting in the chair right next to Haddux.

Professor Haddux finally took the girl’s warm, soft hand in his own damp hand, nervously brought it to his lips to kiss, and replied, "And my name’s Michael." Relatively new to the striptease scene, Michael wondered how to strike up a conversation with the girl and considered asking her if she had ever read Conrad' Heart of Darkness.

He was saved the effort when the girl casually pulled up her blouse to expose the darkest nipples he had ever seen. Then, like a brick against the head, it struck Haddux that he had seen the girl before, possibly in the pages of one of his favorite novels. His feeling of unease grew, and he wondered if he should leave.

"So, whaddya do for a living?" the girl asked, getting up from her chair and plopping herself down onto Haddux’ lap. She put an arm around his shoulders and drew his head near to her. She rested the other hand between his legs. Wide-eyed, he examined her gorgeous nipples.

"I’m an English professor at the local college," he stated, increasingly apprehensive. For some reason, he knew she knew his profession. He wondered if she were a former student.

"Really?" the girl asked, her face seeming to glow in the dark place. "Oh, my, how interesting!" At that moment, smiling, curious, she made Michael think of medieval paintings of angels, and Michael didn’t believe in angels.

The two of them said nothing for the next five minutes. Fighting extreme nervousness, the result no doubt of fatigue and failure to stay on top of his medications, he stroked her hair and occasionally touched a nipple with his tongue, attempting to generate euphoria within himself. She giggled in turn and gently massaged him. "Relax," she whispered.

"So where have I seen you before?" Haddux stuttered, breaking the silence. Her presence was still unsettling, and he was now starting to sweat. "You look familiar."

"Where do you think you’ve seen me before, stud?" Charlie responded, playfully, almost knowingly.

"How about at church?" he tried to joke, his heart racing. "That old Pentecostal thing on the corner of Bruce and Lamb."

"Well," began Charlie, laughing, "I may go to church from time to time, but I ain’t Pentecostal."

"How about in a Saturday evening bowling league?" Michael teased again, hoping to make himself relax.

"You kidding? " came the amused response. "Only morons bowl."

"True," said Haddux, intrigued by the girl’s quickness. "How about the bookstore? Did you work in a bookstore? Maybe an adult book store."

"No books for this chick," said Charlie.

Smiling, Michael played his trump card: "Uh, how about in my dreams...or would it be your dreams? Did I see you in last-night’s dream?"

Obsessed with nightmares as with vampires, Michael was sure of the answer.

The long stunned silence, the widening shock in the girl’s eyes, suggested to the professor that he had struck pay-dirt. And, sure enough, he knew that he had seen this woman in his dreams last night, the night before that, and the night before that. His blood froze as he finally recognized her by her gentle dark eyes, her long raven hair, her flower tattoo, and her dark nipples.

Ill. In this dream, the world was ending, the night sky a frightening display of exploding stars, run-away meteors, and an enormous black hole that hung just above the planet. The overriding fear was that the sun was going to explode.

In the dream, Michael had seen himself suspended by a cable from the tower on top of Tarantula Lil’s, a grappling hook through his back. Swaying in the steady desert breeze, he realized that he was dead as a door nail, a burnt-to-a-crisp person.

He remembered that it was midnight as he hung suspended, dead but quite conscious, and the metallic spider at the top of the tower had extricated herself from her web and was slowly making its way toward him. In the dream, terrified, he had forced his eyes shut, and when he had opened them again, he had seen dozens of spiders, all climbing down the tower and headed in his direction.

The nightmare didn’t end there. Like a thief in the night, trailing a blue and golden cloud, an explosion of light, Charlie--or someone who looked like her--had come flying out of the night sky, her yellow cloak billowing about her, huge wings clearly visible. Completely nude, she had come in response to his screams.

In the dream, as he had looked up at Charlie and behind her, he could see the black hole widening and drawing near, threatening to swallow them. In the midst of the high howling winds, his eyes fixed on Charlie, he had heard the singing of angels, had begged her to help him, and had wept uncontrollably. She did nothing. Absolutely nothing. He wondered, in the dream, if she were going to eat him. It was at this point that he always awoke, sobbing.

lV. Boundaries between the fantastic and the real having disintegrated, Michael recalled looking in the dream into the girl’s darkly penetrating eyes, the same eyes that now looked into his at Tarantula Lil’s.

"I saw you in my dreams," he muttered, unsure of what to say beyond this. He knew his therapist would have reminded him that this was no way to start a conversation. He suddenly felt his tiredness catching up to him.

"That’s right," she assured him.

"You’re an angel?" Stunned silence prevailed.

Then, "Maybe," she said.

"Or a devil?" he asked.

"What do you think?" she responded, almost offended.

Perhaps, he thought, I am hallucinating, a probably reaction to mixing alcohol with anti-psychotic drugs. "But angels and devils don’t exist," he asserted, trying to maintain control. "Vampires don’t exist.

The devil doesn’t exist."

She stared at him knowingly. "You’re sure of that, baby?" was all she said.

"And what are you here for, to save me...?" Michael knew that if this woman considered herself an angel, the answer would likely be yes.

"Of course?" she stated, simply.

He gazed into her eyes and took a long sip on his drink. Maybe, he thought, she just wanted to play him for the sucker and take his money. He didn’t know what he thought. Suddenly, he wanted rest from the anxiety this woman seemed to bring.

"Look around you, study the dancers, watch the main stage," she said, kissing the tip of his nose, "and maybe you’ll see it."

See what? he wondered. He hated conversations like this, those that pushed him to the boundary between sanity and insanity. Suddenly, he could feel the black ice of panic rising to the surface of his conscious mind as he considered her words. It was the panic he had fought every night for the last week. He took a deep breath and tried closing his eyes. In his mind, he caught an image of himself drinking this girl’s blood.

He rambled as if under a spell. "Sometimes," he said in a barely audible voice, words tumbling from his mouth, "I think I’m a vampire. I see a shrink about this, what, delusion." Why the hell am I saying this?

he wondered. He was now shaking.

"I know. You’re seeing Dr. Leonora Russell right now. Try to relax, honey. Please, please, relax, Michael."

He paused, fighting panic, wondering if there were any other way she could have gotten this information. He knew there had to be.

"I go to Russell--actually, I’ve been to several therapists in the past several years--and she treats me as if I’m mildly, harmlessly insane."

"You’re no vampire, Michael," Charlie assured him, addressing his worst fear and putting her arm around his neck and kissing him on the forehead. He lips were warm. She also continued to caress him. "That thought is--what can I call it—an ‘unhealthy manifestation from the dark side.’" Her dark eyes blazed furiously at him when she said this.

He thought he could see a red glow coming from somewhere within the darkness of her eyes.

"What?" mumbled Michael, unsure of what he had just heard, disturbed by what he thought he had seen in her eyes. Good and evil did not exist as actual dichotomies, as far as he was concerned. They were no more that literary fictions, useful for discussing novels and short stories, fabrications of the nightmare world he was nightly drawn into. "Some people call them evil spirits. They want to kill you."

"What? Why?" Michael asked, his heart pounding wildly, wondering if he were going to die, his nightmares rushing to the surface of his consciousness. He had had a morbid fear of his own extinction since childhood.

"Evil needs no reason for destroying the good. Evil always seeks to destroy the good simply because it’s good." It suddenly occurred to Michael that this woman could have extracted this definition of evil from just about anywhere.

The conversation seemed disconnected, moving forward by fragments that suggested an entirely other level of conversation was going on between him and the dancer. However, this girl, he thought to himself, couldn’t possibly be an angel. She couldn’t be. The claim she made about herself was preposterous. Suddenly, in a burst of shrewd awareness, he knew she had been putting him on.

Michael could feel his panic subsiding as he felt himself regaining control. Breathing easier, Charlie still sitting on his lap, her gorgeous tits exposed, he wondered if he were out of his mind. He had just bought into a paranoid delusion, affirmed by someone who likely made her life turning tricks for horny men. This girl, this Charlie, was a stripper who was playing him for a fool.

"Go away, honey," he coldly and abruptly stated, glaring at the woman on his lap. He was tense as a board.

"Michael," she responded, in tone somber, "you are on the verge of a terrible mistake. You want me with you. Right here, honey. They can’t hurt you as long as I’m with you. But if you refuse me, if you invite me away, I gotta go. You sure you want me gone?" She smiled. He wondered if she were laughing at him.

He was certain that she was. "Off my lap, babe," barked Michael, confidence returning. He partially stood up and nearly dumped Charlie on the floor.

"All right, Michael!" shouted Charlie, smarting from the fall, aware that others were watching. People from adjacent tables watched; the hugely muscled bouncers from over by the door started their intimidating walk though the room and toward Michael.

"It’s all right, fellas!" Charlie yelled to the bouncers, pulling her top over her breasts and then holding up a right hand. "It’s okay. I’m all right. This guy will leave soon enough."

As the bouncers stood their ground ten feet away, Charlie approached Michael, took both of his hands in hers, asking him not to send her away. "If you send me away, I gotta go, can’t return," she whispered.

"You won’t be able to call me back." Her eyes were whirlpools of blue darkness; Michael felt he was in danger of falling in.

Convinced more than ever that he was dealing with a lunatic, Michael, silently said, "Please, leave. Now. I want someone else."

For an instant, stunned, Charlie stared at him, her deep dark eyes touching him, and for a second Michael got the distinct impression that he was making a mistake. But he persisted, backing away from Charlie.

With that, Charlie gave one glance back at Michael, who was smiling and cock-sure that he had seen through this woman’s ploy. She said "Get out, now, Michael," and gracefully walked away. As she did so, the bouncers shrugged their shoulders, looked at him, one wagging his finger at Michael, and slowly walked back toward the entrance.

V. Now, thought Michael to himself, it’s time to relax. Letting the music of Aerosmith fill him, he ordered another drink and looked around the room for an available dancer. He didn’t have to wait long.

"Hi," came a soft, almost lilting voice from behind him. He looked around and saw one of the Oriental dancers looking down at him "Would you like some company, big boy?"

"Sure," responded Michael, moving the empty chair away from the table so the new dancer could be seated. This dancer, though incredibly beautiful, had harsh gray eyes that seemed to look into him, making him uneasy again. He decided to force himself to relax.

She had long crinkly blonde hair (obviously dyed), a gorgeously thin body, small breasts, and killer legs. Michael approximated her height at 5’9". She should have been a dancer with one of Las Vegas big stage shows, he thought. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

"My name is Lucy," said the girl in broken English, easing herself into the chair, looking directly into Michael’s eyes, and putting her hand between his legs. "You wanna dance, horny son-of-a-bitch?" the woman asked, moving closer to Michael and lightly kissing him on the mouth.

Something about the girl unnerved Michael, who nonetheless found himself hugely aroused. Recently, Michael assured himself, most everything unnerved him.

"You like Lucy, yes?" the girl asked, patting the bulge between Michael’s legs. "Big prick??"

"Very much," whispered Michael in a hoarse voice. As he felt himself drawn to this woman, he glimpsed an image in his mind of a bat entering a very dark cave.

"Then let’s you ‘n’ me go to the back room," Lucy said, standing and taking Michael by the hand. Michael noticed Lucy’s long fingers, her blood-red fingernails. "You gonna be my bitch," she said.

Michael allowed himself to be led, as if he had no will of his own. He simply wanted to try to enjoy the evening. Though something about the girl urged caution, Michael couldn’t wait to get to the back room where both of them could become extremely intimate. In a fleeting moment of panic, his mind filled with the image of this woman sucking his manhood and his life right out of him. Michael fought within himself, feeling himself moving to the edge of psychosis.

The back room was so dark that Michael couldn’t see the hand in front of his face at first. Yet he heard people whispering, like ghosts in the attic. Unable to find his own way, he therefore allowed Lucy to guide him to a couch at the far end of the room. By the time he sat down, he was beginning to make out images of couples seated in couches scattered about the room. Lucy was next to him, one arm around his shoulders. She put her free hand between his legs and easily massaged him into hardness.

"The next songs, sweet willy," Lucy said, softly, "we dance."

"Sounds fine to me," Michael responded, feeling breathless to be in the presence of someone so beautiful. He thought of sleeping as she danced.

In a minute, the present song over, Lucy rose to her feet, removed her panties and, with the beginning of a piece by Boston, began to dance, gliding up and down his body like a snake, sitting on his lap, placing the crack of her ass over his bone and rocking back and forth. Michael relaxed, certain he had entered the gates of heaven when Lucy turned around, put both arms around him and began kissing him on the forehead, the cheek, and the neck.

As he let her make love to him, Michael put his hand between her legs and brushed her pubic hairs. Images of paradise flooded his mind when he felt a sharp prick on his neck followed by the slow flow of warm liquid.

Quickly reacting, remembering instantly Charlie’s injunction to leave, Michael sat up and ran his hand over his neck. He held his hand before him. In the dark light, Michael could make out enough of his hand to see, barely, that it was stained by something dark. Surely, it was his own blood.

"What the hell?" he asked, frightened, glancing at Lucy, who had been looking away from him. When Lucy turned slowly around to face him, terror coursed through him like electricity, and he saw that she was grinning grotesquely, her mouth filling her whole face. Then he noticed the long sharp teeth, touched at the ends with a dark stain. He knew now he had been pulled right into a vampiric nightmare.

For a minute, he stared at the face, his brain spinning from the realization that the vampire stories about Tarantula Lil’s were true.

Maybe, just maybe all things were true. If not, this woman was wearing fangs and had just bitten him on the neck, drawing his own blood. Michael didn’t really know what to think.

With a sudden effort, Michael tried to push the Oriental girl off his lap and onto the couch, but he could not match her iron-like strength or grip. Easily, she kept her arm locked around Michael’s neck and used her other arm to move Michael’s left arm down to his side. He couldn’t budge her.

Too frightened to speak, a piece by the Blue Oyster Cult climaxing in the background, he stared at the ghoulishly grinning face before him and knew he had reached the moment of his own dying. Then, glancing behind Lucy, he noticed three or four other strippers approaching him, all with the same ghastly, ghoulish grins, all bearing their teeth, all bearing long sharp teeth. He thought he could hear them snarling. They were like spiders crawling though the black hole of his recently recurring nightmare. He noticed that no one else was seated in the room.

Giving a second effort, Michael sprang up from the couch and, determined to live to see another sunrise, bolted for the door to the dark room. Passing through the entrance to the room, he continued to run to the main glass doors, where he was abruptly stopped by the largest, most muscular bouncer he had ever seen. The guy had a ring in his nose, one in his ear, and on his left arm a tattoo of a pentagram.

Solid muscle, the man before him stood at least 6’5".

"Gotta leave," whined Michael, anxious to get around the man and out to his car and away from Tarantula Lil’s.

"Gotta stay," came the big man’s raspy retort. "Gotta stay for the girls’ dinner," he said.

Not wanting to stick around for an explanation of the remark, Michael quickly dodged around the big man and burst through the doors into the cold autumn night. He heard howling all around him and, looking across the parking lot, saw huge mangy growling dogs moving between the cars lot toward him.

Turing away to sprint to the unoccupied street, Michael heard a loud hissing noise and realized that someone or something was near him and almost on him. Sure enough, with his next stride, he felt the huge hissing thing land on his back, bringing him crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust. Barely turning, thinking of the web overhead, he could see that it was one of the black strippers, the one that had performed with the python. Now, transformed, she was a beast, a predator, who had obviously found her prey.

As his body came crashing to the pavement, he heard the shuffling of feet through gravel and knew that more were following. Looking up, he noticed six young women, scuttling like spiders to gather around him, grotesquely grinning, their fangs visible. These were the vampire strippers of his dreams, and dream had become reality at Tarantula Lil’s.

Attempting to rise, he found he couldn’t move and, putting his hand to the side of his face and taking it away again, realized that he was bleeding profusely from a serious head wound. Panicked, he struggled to rise again as the girls moved over closer, put their mouths down to kiss him and then attacked him collectively with all of their strength, biting him again and again, everywhere: his head, his arms, his hands, his stomach.

After what must have been only several minutes, he could feel himself drifting out of this world as he turned his mind to Charlie. He realized that, as unlikely as it had seemed, Charlie was obviously an angel.

Bleeding profusely, his mouth foaming red, Michael sputtered, "Charlie!! Charlie!!" but it was too late as Michael looked overhead at the full moon. Once again, it reminded him of a clock; indeed, time had run out for Dr. Michael Haddux as the biggest of the girls shrieked and brought an iron-pipe crashing upon his shoulder blade and then his head.

Knowing that Charlie had left the planet, Michael sank back to the earth, watching (suddenly as if from above) the girls go to work on him, kicking him, biting him, clawing his flesh to get at his blood.

Floating in an explosion of transcendent light, Michael looked down at the dark patch where one of the girls kicked his corpse again and again to the side of the head. Floating, he wondered where and who he was.

~~~~~~~~~~

When they had all finished drinking the corpse’s blood, two of the vampire strippers picked up his legs and dragged the body to the huge green and black dumpster that sat thirty feet away from them. Then, with an effort, they lifted the bloodless soul-less corpse off the ground and over their heads and tossed it in the huge garbage container.

Surely a symbol that the end of the age had arrived, the huge green and black landmark sign continued to blaze over head, the droplets of blood cascading downward from the metallic spider and, at that particular instant, into the dumpster and onto the body. The garbage inside the dumpster was bathed in a bloody glow.

The body would be discovered two weeks later, by a cocktail waitress, mutilated and decomposing and covered by a thick web-gauze.