The Killing Floor – A Verse Style Story


Ten fathoms down

dark, damp

earth’s tears trickle down the limestone

it’s a quaint little hell room.

I have him strung up in chains

hands and feet bound

mouth gagged with his own boxers.

He thought he was oh so slick

slipping her a rufee while she powdered her nose

I was much the slicker one

I saw him

Saw what he did.

When she staggered out with him, barely conscious

I was following in the shadows.

His quaint little bachelor pad

in the bedroom, whips, chains, bindings.

I watched from the fire escape.

Stupid boy, left the window open

rain-soaked, I readied myself

his back was turned

he was a busy boy

he rushes.

She was bound, naked and gagged

enough now


my turn.

He didn’t even hear me enter the room

and then I was behind him.

One swift crack to the back of his skull

down he went.

He lived in seclusion

perfect for me

no one to witness his disappearance.

Bound and gagged now himself

I drug him to my truck

left him in the flat-bed and made my way to my dark retreat deep into the woods.

His torture will be my pleasure

I slap his face until he awakens

dazed, confused, afraid

what a turn of events.

You thought you would be giving a rather good flogging to that girl tonight, didn’t you I say.

Bloody mumbles, static in my ears

no matter it won’t be to long now

I will be enjoying his complete silence.

First I remove his fuck-stick

that’s right, he rapes, doesn’t know any other way and doesn’t want to,

Shame, but non-the-less he chooses not to learn,

It’s left a bloody hole about the size of a golf ball

Messy… I am enjoying this.

You won’t be needing that where I’ll be sending you

I laugh, a devil’s type laugh, almost.

Now, these hands of yours, such evil things, I growl.

First, I break each finger at the knuckle

he screams and chokes on his own fear.

I grab the handsaw 

this is going to hurt you fucking prick.

I cut ever so slowly

just as he did with his hunting knife the night he took me

tearing me to shreds, every part of me.

Escaping him after the horrid torture provided my clarity as to what I would do with the rest of my scared and disfigured life.

The second-hand fell to the floor

blood trailing and circling round the drain.

Hmm, your feet and legs, well, you won’t have any more use for them I’m afraid, they must come off.

This time I grab the chain saw, reve it up and cut off his feet first and I kick them across the room

I pause a moment, a good surgeon needs music, yes, Frank, sing to me.

I put on Frank Sinatra’s Fly me to the moon and continue my dismantling of our world’s predator.

Slicing through both legs at the knees comes at such ease

I then move up to the top of his thighs as “My Way” plays

How poetic.

My patient has ceased to be now


wish he could have felt the rest of his dismemberment.

 I finish, with the last cut being the removal of his head

I have something special I want to do with that, so,I place it in a pot of boiling water for several hours.

The other parts go into the incinerator of the killing floor

I grab the hose and after admiring the blood and painting myself with it, I wash away the crimson river, down the drain it goes.

I pause  moment more to dance around to “New York, New York”

Now the fire in the incinerator is burning bright, flames licking the body parts like the devil himself

I can turn to mister’s skull.

The flesh has been boiled off and the eyeballs fell from their sockets and where easy to scoop out of the pot.

I hang the skull to dry

tomorrow it will become my newest piece of artwork.

The killing floor is my art gallery you see.  Filled with velvet numbness of my vengeful kills of those maniac butchers of women.

I may have survived his hell but he did not survive me.



Copy Right Protected by the Crimson Vaults 2015.
Copy Right Protected
by the Crimson Vaults

**Click on any Image to redirect to the images webpage/designer where it has been provided.
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I hold no ownership to any image used unless otherwise stated**

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