Wakey Wakey

Hungover. To. Fuck. Whatever I'd done the night before I'd clearly done it to excess, I felt fucking awful. I lay flat on my back, almost scared to move. I was aware from the milisecond during which I'd opened my eyes that the room was very bright. That was why one of the pillows was now on my head, held down as firmly as I could on my face without suffocating myself. The task now was to lie there until I stopped hurting, or stopped hurting enough to actually move. The problem with that though was that I had time to think, in fact to do nothing else but think. With that came the dread about what I'd said or done that would have upset other people or simply brought shame upon myself. Anything was possible knowing me, which is why I had an apology template good to go on Saturday and Sunday mornings, ready to be sent out en masse to my contact list.

There was no sound, none at all, which was weird. If I was at home there'd be bird song or traffic noise or something, but to hear fuck all was a conundrum. Unless...unless I'd scored which would be a result, however despite thinking I had high standards, even higher when drunk, it was more likely I'd picked up Susan Boyle's lesser sister if I had got lucky. I felt around and nobody else was with me and as my hands wandered I realised that no memories, embarrassing or otherwise, were returning. My brain was as silent as the room. Then another sort of dread starting approaching. A shiver in my shoulders, an uncertainty in my stomach, my heart getting quicker and my toes curling. The feeling was taking me over. I must be dead.

Quite a pisser I thought to myself but luckily there was the upside that for a dead man I was very much alive. I had no recollection of how I expired and to be honest I wasn't sure I wanted any. I was also quite relieved that during the time I'd been frozen I hadn't been conscious. Like the tv show Cold Lazarus or Han Solo in Star Wars. Apparently George Lucas confirmed that Han was awake in carbonite the whole time. Fuck that, it sounded fucking awful. The £250 large it cost for the cryogenic package turned out to be a decent investment. For a long time that money was designated for a suite in Vegas, as many whores as I had bits of me to put in them and a very immodest amount of cocaine. I figured that it would be the best way to go. While it would have been epic I was pleased with decision I'd made.

I took a deep breath and removed the pillow. My environment seemed to confirm my theory - a disturbingly clean and shiny room that reminded me of a private hospital. As I sat up hologrammatic fireworks went off in front of me with a welcome to 3029 message. Over 100 years had passed since I'd passed it seemed. I decided to stretch before moving, mainly I realised because I remembered what Uma Thurman had gone through in Kill Bill. Then I REALLY remembered what happened to her in Kill Bill and involuntarily checked my arsehole for damage. It seemed fine, all of me seemed fine. My body was still mine, I had bumps and scars that had always been there but overall it seemed like I'd been upgraded, which was nice.

With the confidence from that I got up and something started playing on the wall, a welcome video by the looks of it. Wasn't really arsed to watch it so I had a rummage through the box of stuff that I'd found on the table next to me. Couldn't make heads or tails of it to be honest so I thought I'd take a stroll instead. The door to my room was ajar so there didn't seem to be any reason why I shouldn't. As I reached the doorway I noticed a mirror and I was pretty pleased with what I saw. I was slim, tall, bearded but with no grey. I looked and felt de-aged which was not something I had ever entertained but was extremely happy about in the moment. I was in a much better place than Uma was, no atrophy or anything like that, quite the opposite, I had a good spring in my step as I ventured out.

Outside the room everything was still hospital white but a likely looking corridor seemed to guide towards a reception area so I decided to go that way. I came to a desk, with an empty chair and something vaguely computery. The room was lined with more chairs which gave me more cause to think that this was a reception area of a medical facility. There was a whoosh and a door opened ahead of me. A nondescript person came through, caught one at look at me and ran back the way they came. I checked my cock wasn't hanging out, not this time at least, and headed to that door to try and see where they'd gone. It wouldn't open for me, even after I waved my cock at it - worth a try I thought - so I sat down and within a few minutes a white coat came in.

ATROCITY

His head was a pus riddled mixture of boils, blisters and burns from when I’d taken a blow torch to him. Not with the intention of killing him, it was purely for his pain and my pleasure. He still had his eyelids, at least for a few minutes. His nose was broken and his tongue had to be removed a while back. The noise he made when I punished him was both deafening and sickening. I did it with some regret though. Our location was such that nobody else would ever hear his shrieks and screams but with no ability to give me feedback any more I couldn’t be confident of his mental state. I was 99% certain he’d lost his mind. Overall I was pleased with how I’d got my revenge but at some point he must have shut down. I’d probably taken him over the edge which was a shame.

Most of his teeth had been smashed or pulled out a week or so ago. I’d cut one nipple off, the cat did for the other. Both arms were broken and over time I’d removed his fingernails. When they were gone I broke each of his fingers and eventually I cut a few of them off. His torso showed a mix of cuts and burns and I’d experimented with acid on him with some success. Both kneecaps were shattered and when the mood took me I did the same to his toes and toenails as I’d done to his fingers. He was in a bad way but while his mind may have gone he’d just about lived through it physically, as I’d hoped. It was a fine line to tread but I think I achieved what I’d set out to do. I didn’t just hurt him though. I realised in the 2nd week that pain heaped upon pain was a limited strategy. As Nice Guy Eddie said in Resevoir Dogs: If you fucking beat this prick long enough, he'll tell you he started the goddamn Chicago fire, now that don't necessarily make it fucking so!

So sometimes I gave him a treat – Bonfire night for example. I took him outside to watch the fireworks. He could still talk then, went on about his kids probably being at the public display and wondering where their dad had got to, all very tedious. He begged me to let him go so he could see them. I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. He had no idea at the time that the chair he was tied to was placed on the grave of his eldest. He whined a lot, cried a lot that night and wasn’t even pacified when i offered him some candy floss. He didn’t much enjoy the sparkler either, possibly because before I lit it I’d poked it into his urethra.When he regained consciousness I threatenedd to force feed him his testicles. If I thought he'd have survived I would have followed up on that too. I had to eat the candy floss in the end, horrible fucking stuff.

Over the course of a few weeks that didn't take up as much time as you might expect though. I got most of it done during the afternoon double bill of Judge Judy. There was a time when I'd toyed with releasing him some day. I liked the thought of him returning to normality and then shitting himself whenever he heard REAL CASES, REAL PEOPLE, JUDGE JUDY on the TV. I played Ed Sheeran to him a lot too, at least while my personal headphones worked. I told him that when I set him free he'd always be tortured by hearing that whiney prick. Most people are of course but for him it would be x1000. When Judy finished it was time for me to rest up for an hour or two and in my dreams I conjured up ways to properly hurt him. As a side note, for her age Judith Sheindlin is a FINE woman. I have no idea how a 70+ year old woman looks after herself down there but even I would tempted to have a munch on it, it'd be hotter still if Byrd was giving me directions or shoved my face in her snatch while she wrapped her legs round my neck. Are you with me? No? Oh, ok.

Anyway. Now it was time for the hostage to die. Not that he was a hostage as such. I'd let him believe that there was a monetary value that could end his torment but that was never really the case. He was now sprawled naked over a small desk with each limb tied to one of the legs. As I approached the noise was the first issue, his terrible scratchy wheezing was like nails being dragged down a blackboard to me. Along with that he had the aroma of the gents in a Wetherspoons that hadn't been cleaned for a week. He had little to no control over his toiletry habits and I certainly wasn't going to clean the wanker up so I just left him to it. He did try and look at me and it sounded like he was trying to speak. The moment passed quickly but it was enough to give me hope that maybe there was enough of him left to know what was happening. Awareness enough that he could experience his final moments and suffer one last time.

I had a few words prepared and I went through them in my head as I unpacked the strap-on. Even if I could have got an erection that fetid wreck of a human being in front of me would not have got me excited so I'd had to buy the relevant equipment. The mirror was in front of him and the Stanley knife was to hand so I could take off his eyelids. The plan was to slice them off so that he had no choice but to watch himself die. All I had to do then was get behind him and rape him until almost the point of death. He'd be staring at himself in the mirror while this happened and if able to comprehend it he'd be hearing about my plans for his family and his friends. And their families and their friends, proper Kaiser Soze stuff. At some point I would twist his head round so that we made eye contact and he could no longer see his reflection, I would complete the speech and then snap his bastard neck and be done with him. The cunt.