"Such shallow little bugs" A shadowed figure crouched in the corner of a bare room, pearly teeth glinting in the light of a single candle as he spoke. "Ruled by their perceptions of 'normal', and out-casting, alienating, fearing, and attacking those who do not fall into this category." He stood and walked towards the candle, its flickering light illuminating with its dancing flames only what lay in the center of the room, the light just barely caressing the walls.
The terrified eyes of the young man's soon-to-be victims came and went with that dangerous dance the candle put on for them all. He knelt down on his hands and knees and bent forward, so now he could feel the dancer's heat on his nose. Incontrast to the terror in their eyes, this man's own eyes were two toned, in the emotional sense, that is.
Villainous glee overlapping hurt and depression.
"These.... these shit-bags," He growled bitterly to the flame, slowly he raised his left fist so that it hovered next to his face. "Because you just can't call them 'bugs'. Isnt that right, Mr. Samsa?" He opened his fist to reveal a writhing cockroach, held between his index finger and thumb by one of its antennas. The man frowned as he held it over the flame, as it jerks in.... pain? Does this bug feel pain?
"Not 'bugs', hm, Mr. Samsa? Because a bug doesn't discriminate against what's different, doesn't hurt it, doesn't laugh, doesn't yell. Because it's too simple... It can't." He whipped his head to the side, spiked hair bobbing with the action, and blows a strand out of his eyes, as a crazed grin splits his face. He locks eyes with one of the shit-bags he has shackled to the wall.
A man. Or immature little shit, whatever you like, because this one... this one is here for for being just such an inane anal tick, like most the others.
"Don't you think so too?" He cackles waving the burnt husk of what was once Mr. Samsa in his victims face, the victim doesn't reply, why? Well his lips are staple-gunned shut, for starters. "I guess you are simple, but unlike the recently deceased Mr. Samsa, you can. You can discriminate against what is different from yourself... Like me for instance." He dropped the cockroach and reached into his back pocket, pulling out two tightly folded leather gloves. He slips one on his right hand and raises it to the victime's face. Gently, ever so gently, he lines up the pad of his thumb with the victim's right eye.
He struggles, jerking against the chains that hold his wrists high above his head and the ropes that hold his ankles firmly together. The man's torturer only grins his crazed grin, that deep-seeded depression and hurt shines through the manic glee clearer now.
He removes the glove from his hand, internally cringing at the sick opaque liquid that coats the thumb. He tosses it carelessly to the other side of the room, staying silent for a few moments, listening to the quiet broken sobs of the victim.
"Now that I have allowed you speech for the moment, I am going to ask you a question."
He turns to face the shallowly breating man, smirking at the bloodied hole that was once where his eye sat. Sat and let this filthy piece of dookie see and watch. See and judge. He snarled.
"What is my name?" The victim raises his head tiredly, pain and question flickered in his single eye, "Wh-what?" His bloodied lips slurred the word, but that was his own fault wasn't it? When there are pieces of steel in your flesh holding your lips shut, it's wise not to try to scream in agony, hm? So simple.
"What. Is. My. Name?" He grounds out, growing tired of this game already. When the victim does not answer, he pulls out a hooked blade and slips it into the empty cavern that is the victim's eye socket, the tip set atop where Mr. Samsa rests, not far enough in to puncture the brain.
"N-nn-noo-o-ooo-o, p-plee-ase..." The victim wails in miserable torment.
"SHUT UP." He knees the shit-bag in the groin, and answers the posed question for him; "Its Johnny C. You piece of shit. My name-- MY NAME IS JOHNNY, NOT FAGGOT." And with that scream, Johnny C. thrusts the blade in deep and rids the world of another sentient cockroach.
(end part one)
A/N: Hello, The Name's Windup Dollie, and I Bring You NnyxSqee. That Means Yaoi, BoyxBoy, Gay! So If You Are A Shallow Minded Cunt Licker, Leave. For Everybody Else, Have A Rainbow -Passes Out Rainbows-
The Romance Doesn't Start For awhile, and Stuff. Anywho:
Don't Own Johnny The Homicidal Maniac. Jhonen Does though.... Please Don't Sue Me.
(part two start)
The wall is freshly painted, it's acrid smell is making him feel sick, so he slinks up the many series of staircases that will lead him out of these dimly lit torture rooms of his. The wooden plank creak and groan beneath his steel-toed boots, he drifts into melancholy. A quiet daze that gnaws at his thoughts, sending whispered wishes through his mind... an irritated sigh passes his pale lips.
Still, Still! He has not beaten down those damned human qualities that make him feel so... But that's it, isn't it, 'Feel'?? Feel hurt, Feel Misery, Feel pain, Feel.... hungry.
"Why!? It makes no sense, for to have these feelings, and only have them bring me such depressing thoughts and needs. Why can't I get rid of them!?" He drops his head in irritation, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists.... "Oh?" In the dim light that shines, filtered through the splintered door at the top of the stairs Johnny sees a slight movement down by his feet. He crouches, a scowl plastered to his face. "Mr. Samsa? Why do you taunt and goad me like this, with your simplicity. With your inability to feel?" The Homicidal Maniac straightens himself out, coming to stand again. With his next step, he kills Mr. Samsa for the second time this evening.
"If I could only be like you... I'd kill to be like you...." He paused, seemingly in thought, with his hand resting on the doorknob that lead back to the main house. A ghoulish grin plays across his lips, and he swings the door open, "Oh but I already do!"
"If Only It Would Work.....
I feel like a Cherry BrainFreezy and some Senor Salsa chips."
(end chapter one)