Uber Jason torture

Suddenly, a mammoth hand pushed a scalpel through the shower's force field. The scalpel rebounded against the field and slammed back against April's taut abdomen. For a second, a thin red line pulsed above her navel. Then came the crimson flood.

Fully entering the stall, Jason towered over April's body as she struggled to free herself. She felt her thoughts from afar, as though she were observing another person. The dim, thick drone of her heart sounded like the whine of a huge insect.

Jason slashed again. The blade opened her stomach. Thick gray loops of intestine tumbled to the stall's floor in a torrent of blood and effluvia. One massive arm anchoring her torso, the monster yanked down the shower hose and cranked it tight around her neck, cutting off incipient screams.

Oskar felt every swipe, every blow.

Through the smartwater medium, he shared April's death throes. He saw her death as she saw it, saw around it, a flashing x-ray pattern of her skeleton and nervous system.

Her pretty skull. Fractal spectrometers of the chaos beasts.

Jason shoved the showerhead deep down April's throat. Now she hung limply from the hose, her feet hoisted a few feet above the shower's floor. Her eyes fixed and dilated, as they said in the medical funny 'papes.

Too late, Oskar realized through the haze of pain infecting every cell, the Reality Studio recording was melting on a thirty second time delay. Factory-standard protocol. Quite compact, in fact, with room for one more head.

Inside, always. As Jason entered the VR compartment, Oskar frantically tried to unzip the hotsuit. He slid the jaguar head back into its slot and faced the monster wearing only the 'suit, his groin pack still full and jutting as a medieval codpiece.

With a single swipe, Jason batted Dr Hernandez against the back of the skull. The good doctor lost consciousness immediately. Onerous mathematics of the ancient Maya.

Zero. It is not the first number. Nor is it the number that comes before the first number. No. It is the thing, brutal, sulking, unrelenting, that allows the one to exist. The Zero is Jason. Jason is the zero. Zero the hero.

The next few minutes were a lurching, weary dream. The room swam like a night on Hemingway's own meta-absinthe.

Hernandez became dimly aware that the monster was taking him back into the laboratory, where instruments of inconceivable savagery waited for new, undreamt of applications, specific Operations, designed just for him.

Oskar suddenly wished he had paid more attention in catechism class as a child. But nothing, no words of doctrine or consoling scriptural text, could prepare a man for this horror.

Religious platitudes slipped and squirmed through his brain. (We are the sheep. Our fate is to die. Thy rod and thy staff. Lamb of God.)

Not the devil, Jason Voorhees was conceivably worse, an organic machine coded for vengeance. Zero.

His existence meant the suffering and extermination of others.

Zero.

Like a parody of a medical scientist, Voorhees played his fingers through the array of bone-cutters, drills, rib-spreaders and scalpers Dr Hernandez had carefully ranged beside the operating table.

Through his impassive, masked face, the monster had been observing him and Castillo all this time. If his understanding of medicine was primitive, he still grasped some basics. And Jason fully grokked the mechanics of pain. As Oskar attempted to pull himself up, he felt the restraints buckling him in. A white-hot, searing light clicked on above his head.

Jason roved back and forth with intense deliberation, checking to see that Oskar's legs, arms and head were firmly pinioned to the table. Positioned. Restrained by arms of loving care.

Oskar realized that he could only move his neck a few inches. His vision was limited to what was happening right in front of his face, with an oblique, blurry view of the rest of his body. Then he heard the whir of the bone-saw.

His heart rocketing out of his chest, Oskar flicked his eyelids to spatter away hot, thick drops of sweat, felt the air displaced by the movement of the bonesaw over his ankles, the sudden fireball of pain as the instrument grazed his foot.

Washed in agony, Oskar felt his lower extremities growing cold, very cold. He suddenly realized that he could see, right above his head, the closed-circuit monitor that activated automatically when any procedures were performed in the lab.

Oskar's feet had disappeared, replaced by spurting stumps. He tried to cry out. Jason jammed a blood-clotted rag between his teeth.
Whine of the Jaqui-Chan machine.

This is not going to hurt me as much as it kills you.

Oskar saw the high, thin flame of a laser torch. Felt the vibrations, like sheet metal being rattled somewhere inside his sternum. The torch traveled up one leg, flamed across his crotch, down the other leg. His genitalia disappeared like scrub-brush in a virtual firestorm. It was almost painless. The shock was mostly psychological, seeing his baby-making apparatus sunk to a mass of blistered red fudge.

The torch neatly dissected Oskar's stomach. His intestines spilled out on either side, gray loops of sausage. There was blood. A lot of blood. Oskar moaned against the filthy rag. The chemicals still swarmed in his bloodstream, keeping him wide awake and alert to the encroaching carnage of his flesh. Only his mind had disappeared. Chewed by enzymes. Eaten by the Protease Man.

His mother was holding him, rocking him in her arms. "My son," she cooed to him. "My dear son." Later, at university, his mom left long messages on the answering machine. These too contained the sacred words, "My son. My dear son."

He replayed her videotext often when alone, as he stared vacuously, droopy eyed at silent bondage passives uploaded on his laptop.
These moments were always associated with an iced tea concentration he drank to excess, a peach-flavored brew that came in packets of pink crystals. Oskar would sit on the back veranda of his rental house in New Francisco, contemplating and drinking the tea. Practicing his clipboard technique.

Meanwhile, back on the moon, Jason completed excavating Oskar's chest, using a rust-tinged rib spreader much the worse for wear, Jason opened up the doctor: gleaming muscles, pulsing heart. He wrenched Oskar's heart from its membranous sac of tissue and mashed it into his mouth. Thick bright blood drooled down metal cheeks.

He then removed the head, and impaling it neatly on a scalpel blade, left it in the sink. Oskar went home to his mom.

   Jason X: Death Moon, chapter 12