Supermarket Decapitation

I only nipped in for some garlic bread...

Well what about that poor pensioner who was so grisly beheaded in a Tenerife supermarket? Alarm bells ring back to a similar story of a former mental patient nut here in England who wrote letters to the authorities stating his fantasies and intent to kill a woman. His warnings went ignored and he went on to repeatedly stab an innocent random female – in a supermarket.

If we can hardly believe what we’re reading, imagine the victim’s disbelief as a stranger took it upon his not-so-good self to detach her head at the neck? One minute you are browsing the “whoopsies” in the reduced section, or deliberating the BOGOF deal on pork faggots, and the next all you can see is your own blood.

Remember Derek Bird, that loony sourpuss from the Cumbria shooting rampage last June who went about “blasting” anyone and everyone? Incidentally, news reports used the word “blasting”, which for me glorified it, like he was 50 Cent blastin’ niggaz in the hood. Mums unloading shopping, dog walkers, gardeners – whoever he came across really. Imagine staring down the barrel and not knowing why. That feeling.

Watching CRIMEWATCH doesn’t help when you want to believe it’s a honky-dory world out there. Love thy neighbour? He or she might want to commit the perfect murder on you for no other reason than because he or she wants to.

But back to the most gruesome horror news story since I can remember, anyway. This guy must have been some fruitcake. Talk about voices in his head – he must have had an entire stadium’s worth from the deepest depths of crystal meth hell chattering in tongues via loudspeaker nonstop day and night. Strangely enough, The DAILY MAIL said that he had a “real wild moment”.

Excuse me? A real wild moment? A real wild moment? If he had dropped his shopping and left the store in a panic because the stench of the fresh haddock in the fishmonger’s kiosk was making him queasy – then that would qualify as a real wild moment. Or if he had suddenly burst into frenetic song and dance because his favourite pop number had come on the store radio – that would qualify too. Smashing an aisle to ribbons because they didn’t have the cereal he wanted would also be a real wild moment, or kicking off at the manager because he suspected they suspected he was shoplifting.

Sorry, but decapitating another human being next to shelves of I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER is slightly more than a real wild moment. More like a really wild dose of psychotic insanity.

Also, in the news, it’s reported that one eyewitness said the incident reminded him of THE CLASH OF THE TITANS. And that was it. They left it at that. As if that was all he cared to say. I guess he’s referring to the slaying of Medusa. http://piebald77.blogspot.com/2010/11/medusa-screen-grabs.html One guy sat behind me in the library played the KEN BIGLEY execution on his phone once. The audio alone was truly disturbing in itself, let me assure you. But here we have a witness at the scene who has watched the full living impact of this kinda terror unreel before his very eyes in the flesh with all that blood and shock and adrenaline and squealing – oh Christ the squealing – and all he has to say is that it reminded him of a movie?

Jesus.

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The Public Hanging of Sue Choo

© A.Michael

THE TESTIMONY OF CHRISTIAN TARN PRESTWOOD. They hung the mother, who died silently without protest or struggle, and then they strung up the brother. The mother I felt quite inclined for, as she had a shapely swell of bosom and a generous bundle of hair. She neither resembled a so-called witch in appearance or manner, and I found it sad that she be extinguished in the prime of her life, without so much as a coat to keep her warm during her final hour upon the chilly balcony.

The brother not only displayed a similar calm, but was also relaxed to the point of banter with the gallows master and members of the crowd. In fact, I would go so far to say that he was having a whale of a time up there, moments before his own very execution, smiling and laughing at the jaunts and teases.

The story goes that the brother prevented the local tax man trying to seduce the mother, and, enraged, the tax man pushed her only little child into the river. The mother and brother were later found practising unholy rites on the recovered body before burial and were therefore sentenced to hang. They hail from a long family line of Wiccan merchants.

So the brother swings and dies almost instantly. Exactly then, the huge crowd parts in the middle, as if a fight has broken out. People gasp and rush away. I see, with my own eyes, a young child of about nine years emerge from the soil, as if from a shallow grave. She moves like an old animation on a cinema reel missing some of its frames, juddering jerkily like something in a strobe light, hitting the ground with her fists as she rises. Her hair is matted with muck and her mouth is upturned with a hate beyond her years. Her small ribcage rises and falls rapidly as her meagre frame is silhouetted by the rapidly sinking sun.

Some of the villagers and other members of the crowd stopped dead-still in their tracks. Some of them hardened to stone, some of them collapsed to dust, and some of them imploded like watermelons. As the girl looked in my direction I was quick enough to turn away and escape the same fate.

Shielding myself from her gaze, I heard all manner of screams and cries. I also heard something very uncomfortable in the middle of my head. It was like a raucous tinny clang in the base of my subconscious, which made my ears bleed. I believe everyone present heard it; the sound of one world grating against another.

I opened my eyes because I didn’t want to drown in the visions and sights that the unearthly noise provoked. On the gallows, both bodies were now kicking, and the mother’s eyes were firing out a long beam of flames, burning up dozens of the crowd with every laser-like swipe this way and that. I tried to stand, because the ground was suddenly tilting as if in earthquake and sucking me and all others in, like quicksand.

All manner of dead ghostly figures from weeks and centuries past grappled to claim me with their rotten limbs; I was half-tipped into their lairs and squalors beneath the sodden earth and they wanted whoever they could clutch to remain with them, alive or dying, whole or broken. The day had vanished from the sky; it was now deep dusk, with crows a-fly, and the hunger-slurps of creatures not known to this dimension, brought in on a free ticket by this young, murdered girl, risen like a new moon to cast our afternoon in a sinister light... END OF TESTIMONY

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[Discuss alternative words for 'strobe' and 'laser' the author could have used in relation to the times]
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A.Michael only writes when he is in a serious mood. He thinks his ability to dredge up a serving of horror at any given time is compensation for being hopelessly crap at some other elements of life. “The last thing my first girlfriend said to me before she split is that I was emotionally retarded. To give credit where credit is due, I can be quite lacking in certain relationships. My inability to fix this flaw just makes me want to invent something real nasty which shouldn’t exist. Some say this is a talent, but I say it’s just another flaw.”

The Cowboy Executioner

I was shaking in my boots in the beginning, as if it was me who was going to die. Did you know that when the head flies, the neck is like a red well? That freaked me out. I couldn’t even look at my packed lunch JAM BUTTIES.

Just yesterday, I was swiping off the nut from a criminal who had re-sold his VAT receipts. No joke. Even some SEX ACTS between a happily married couple can warrant the death penalty. I’m the first to admit, this world we live in just ain’t right.

On my first job I was given a CHEAP LUMBERJACK AXE. I received no formal training. The bloke flinched at the last minute because he wasn’t blindfolded and I planted the dodgy blade straight into his mouth. When I retracted it, his lower jaw dropped to his chest. The handle fell off then, so I dropped the axe and asked for a gun. When one was eventually handed to me, I couldn’t get it to work.

The condemned bloke was a dab hand with firearms – reason for execution – and reached for it himself, bleeding all down the front of his robe but still perfectly conscious. In my naivety, and having never fired a gun before, I allowed him to check it out. Sure enough, he flipped the safety catch....but then SHOT ME IN MY ARM.

“You just shot me,” I said to him.

“I know,” he seemed to say, although it was hard to understand him with no jaw. Then he shot me again.

I turned, hands in the air, yelling, “Who the hell’s getting executed here! Me or him!”

I was relieved when my boss ran in and GAROTTED HIM from behind with a length of KETTLE FLEX. I’ve since learned the art of swift single-stroke executions with my own sword, a fifty-quid scimitar.

It was a woman this morning. Only the second all year. An execution’s an execution, but women are different. If an executioner tells you otherwise, they’re either lying, or they’re a woman. This one wanted her neck anesthetizing, so it wouldn’t hurt as much. I explained that we don’t do that, but she insisted that we at least give her SOME PAINKILLERS. I had a couple of PRO PLUS in my back pocket, to keep me going through a long shift of rolling heads, and told her they were IBUPROFEN. She relaxed immediately.

There were SIAMESE TWINS last week, two heads on one body. I asked my boss for double time but he gave me a day in lieu instead.

Did you know that a doctor sews the head back onto the body, after I’m done? Oh yeah. You didn’t know that? He says he gets by by just pretending he is working at MADAME TUSSARDS.

He’s on a bit more than me, I think.

© Blob of Glob MMX

DNM FICTION®