Cerebral Discharge

Steven sat in a slump on the stainless steel table.

A table so clean you could eat off of it. If it wasn't for that puddle of gore and a few organs Stevie was sitting on, anyhow. He was anally cored out, the inside being pretty much roasted. They could tell this because the intestines had somehow attained the consistency of a sausage that was in the microwave far too long. There was a also a rupture in his purple pants, a mixture of brown and black pooling out from underneath.

"What the fuck is this?" whispered the sergeant into his walkie-talkie. Jackson took a look around. The kitchen was spotless all around, although it seemed quite easy to keep it that way. It was about the size of two cubicles, you couldn't swing a cat around here without it hitting somebody. A man clad in what looked like purple sat slumped over, as if he was on the john. Another goddamn murder?

The forensic analyzist delicately removed the Freddy Fazbear head, from which blood was dripping out of the eye sockets, and almost shat himself when he found the upper quarter of Steven's head  removed. His eyes and nose were replaced by a pulpy mush of bone and brain matter spilling through his cheeks, as they bulged with his former memories like cold chili. Smoke and steam emerged from the mask, as burnt flesh filled the nostrils of everybody in the room. Wires ran through the pile of goop like lifelines.

Steven spat out something into Edward's eyes.

As the forensic specialist gifted the tiled floor with the salad and cola he had for lunch, a few other men began coughing and retching.

"I think it's like strawberry ice cream," a female voice blurted out from over the talkie. "It's my favorite!"

The one door in the kitchen slammed shut, and the lights flickered.