[[File:Please be Careful.jpg|thumb|280x280px]]
one time me and my friends were out hunting in a big forest in our home country in australia, and I saw a huge monster which had arms and legs like a human but it definitely was not a human. I told my friends that I saw a monster, and they suggested we split up to look for it because we had guns and could easily fight it.

... … …

“Wait. Michael, ''this'' is the best you can do?” In my hands I grasped a page of smudged and scribbled writing, barely legible, and barely readable. I didn’t need to read past the first paragraph to know it was garbage. “This is 11th Grade English buddy. Your writing should be leagues better than this.” I tried to continue the story, but decided not to over fear of losing all respect for the daft young man that stood in front of me.

“Oh come on Sir!" he whined, "This is ''English Studies''. This is the class we elected so we ''didn’t'' have to put in any effort.” He tried to weasel his way out of doing work, like he always did. Every day. I was fucking sick of it.

“I don’t give a flying-” at this point I realized the probable repercussions of swearing at a student, so I regained my composure and prohibited myself from doing so. “-aeroplane if this is Standard English, Advanced English, Extension English or English Studies. So long as I am your teacher, you will put in the correct amount of effort. Now take this story back to your desk, throw it out, and rewrite me something that isn’t absent of character development and a decent plot.”

“Wow sir, I almost thought you were going to say ‘flying fuck’ to me!” he exclaimed. The class chuckled to themselves, as Michael’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“Excuse me Michael but that language is-”

“Because we all know that my father would love to hear how I am getting verbally abused by my English teacher,” he interrupted. “That would be quite the scene at the Parent-Teacher interviews tonight.” The class went quiet, knowing full well that Michael's father had a history of arguing with teachers in public. These weren’t quiet arguments either; tears were shed.

I swallowed my pride and put on a fake smile just for the shit of a kid that stood in front of me. “I am sure your father and I will have a lovely conversation about your progress in class and your attitude towards learning. Now I will reinstate the fact that your story deserves a place in the bin more so than a mouldy apple. So sit down, write a decent story, and be quiet for some time.”

Michael, obviously disappointed at the fact that he could not intimidate me, did exactly as I asked of him.

"Remember our writing tools Michael; please be C.A.R.E.F.U.L." I motioned to a massive poster, prominent on the wall beside the white board. It was an acrostic poem I had created for the class.

'''''C'''oncise (make your point clear)''

'''''A'''rticulate (express ideas without unneccesary ramble)''

'''''R'''ealistic (in relation to the actions of characters)''

'''''E'''motive (make the reader care about your characters)''

'''''F'''oolproof (dig no plot holes - ensure plot comes full circle)''

'''''U'''nhackneyed (be original)''

'''''L'''iterate (make sure spelling and grammar is correct)''

I was proud of it, but it seemed my class paid no attention to it.

And that is a regular lesson in 11th Grade English Studies at Bowral High School. Granted, English Studies was a non-ATAR subject so there were no exams, and everyone who elected the subject was either planning to drop out, too lazy to do work, or generally stupid. My whole class was the former two.

I was supposed to be teaching Advanced and Extension English, but it was my first year working here and the staff weren’t too keen on letting a newcomer take the reins.

Either way I had made it through one semester, and tonight was my first Parent-Teacher Interview at the school.

All the interviews went well, and I met a range of parents and personalities. Some parents took their children’s learning more seriously than I do, and some parents were less enthusiastic about their children’s learning than their children were. However, the last minute booking was what made me stay later than most other teachers; Max McInnis. Michael’s father. Whilst I hate to admit it, I was a little nervous. I had heard the stories, and his reputation preceded him. Eventually I convinced myself all would be well, and that Max couldn't possibly be the monster that my fellow colleagues had described.

I was reviewing Michael’s homework when his father entered. The man paced like a predator, as if each step was methodical and meaningful. His clothes were well worn, but tattered to a degree that almost made them fashionable. His head consisted of thick dark hair that slicked back over his scalp and hung to his shoulders. His hair continued down onto his face in the form of a beard, which concealed all but the menacing eyes that fixated on me as if I was his prey, and the chiselled nose that twitched ever so slightly as if he had picked up on my scent of Joop aftershave and freshly dry cleaned clothes.

With a big smile on his face, he extended his paw-like hand to shake mine and said: “G’day Mr. Tyrell!” The man spoke in such a kind and gentle voice it took me by surprise. I met his hand with mine and we shook them.

I always tell my students to not judge a book by its cover. It seems as if I failed to follow my own advice. The man’s personality was the exact opposite of what his physical appearance displayed. We spoke for a few minutes about his son's learning. He seemed oblivious to Michael’s distaste in English and his disrespect towards me. Max seemed almost shocked, and said his son would ‘receive a nice scold’.

“I am sorry buddy. His mom passed a few years ago and I am working constantly on my farm, I just don’t see him that much. He was always a little shit, but I have left him to his own devices for too long. I don’t know where his respect has gone, and I don’t know where his motivation has gone. But I will find it, and I will bring it back to him,” Max sighed to himself, as if he knew his attempts would only be in futility.

“I know how it is mate,” I said. Desperate to divert Max’s attention away from his son, I said: “Actually I grew up on a farm myself. I loved to go hunting, still have my old rifle locked away somewhere.”

Max’s eyes seemed to lighten up. “What calibre is she?”

“Oh, nothing big. I just have a 17 HMR.”

“Do you use it often?” He asked, his interest obviously piqued at the new topic of conversation.

“Not since I moved here,” I replied. “So much land out here to hunt on but it’s all privately owned. I don’t know anyone who owns property though.”

“You know me,” he said, smugly. “I’d be glad to take you out hunting with a few of my mates. Michael will be furious but honestly, he never is happy.”

“Haha! I couldn’t impose on you.”

“Bullshit! You aren’t imposing, I go out hunting every weekend anyway. You’ll get to meet a few of the lads from town, and we can murder a few bunnies and kangaroos. You can’t pass it up.”

I sat there silently for a few seconds, pondering whether to take him up on his offer. Ultimately I decided it was a good idea. What was the worst that could happen? “What day is good for you?”

“Tomorrow night, it's Saturday so that really suits everyone I suppose.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Where abouts do you go hunting? Where do you want me to meet you?” I said.

“We have a little spot just outside of Belanglo State Forest,” Max said.

My heart sunk, and I felt a shudder of dread run up my spine. The kind that makes you queasy and send tingles through your face and hands. I had to readjust my position in the chair just to feel comfortable enough to continue the conversation.

“Is that good with you?” Max asked, obviously seeing that I was a bit shaken.

“No it’s fine,” I said. “Just a bit of an ironic place to go hunting.”

“All that shit happened years ago mate!” Max barked, his voice raised a little and he was visibly frustrated. “Don’t tell me you are scared of a fucking incarcerated serial killer!” His voice raised a little more this time, border-lining on an aggressive shout.

“No,” I stuttered. I was taken aback by his sudden change of tone. Maybe I deserved it, digging up old wounds that the town has obviously tried to bury and forget. “That was immature of me. I-I’m happy to come out.”

Max smiled, and he returned to his happy and bubbly self. “That’s great mate! Just meet us at the entrance to the forest by the big sign at about 6:30.”

The thing is, Belanglo State Forest is the site of a number of grisly serial murders committed by Australia’s most prolific serial killer: Ivan Milat.

Ivan Milat was the inspiration for the frankly terrible film ''Wolf Creek''. In real life he was the killer of seven backpackers between the years between 1989 and 1993. He would pick them up, kill them, and bury their mutilated corpses in Belanglo State Forest. It is theorized that he hunted a number of his victims through the forest as if they were animals. Many also speculate that there were more victims, but there is no evidence to prove that.

Ivan may not have killed as many people as some of the more prolific killers of the USA, such as Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy; but he was definitely as sick and deranged as them. In prison he cut off his own little finger with a plastic knife with the intent of mailing it to the high court. He has also swallowed razors and other metal objects during his time in prison. For some reason, there are specific people who admire this man. They believe he is admirable, iconic, relatable. Granted, he went on a hunger strike and lost roughly 25 kilograms in an attempt to gain access to a Playstation for his cell. I guess I can admire his determination in that scenario, but that's a different story.

Ivan Milat is in prison, but it's no doubt that his legacy still remains here. They can lock away the killer, but they can't protect the world from what he has already done.

So yes, I felt a little uncomfortable with going to the place in which seven or more people were murdered, and ‘murdering some bunnies and kangaroos’. But I suppose it’s just the fact that I am a little superstitious coupled with the fact that I enjoy researching serial killers. Not because I am one myself (because I’m not), but because I find the psychology behind them intriguing.

Nevertheless, come Saturday evening, I cleaned my rifle, sighted it in and took off to Belanglo State Forest.

I pulled my car off the road, keeping it tight against the trees and well away from the road. Soon after, Max turned up, and followed suit, parking his car directly behind mine.

“Let’s go and kill something!” he yelled excitedly from the window of his blue Ford F250. The spotlights shone brightly in the darkness, illuminating the sign as clearly as daylight.

It read: ‘''WELCOME TO BELANGLO STATE FOREST''’. In a smaller additional sign underneath the official welcome, the words read: ‘''PLEASE BE CAREFUL''’. Each time the bright glare of Max’s high beams flickered into my pupils, I closed my eyes, and I could still see the words.

''PLEASE BE CAREFUL...''

Ironic.

A loud bang on the car widow quickly forced my attention to the hulking figure outside my vehicle.

It was Max.

“Well what are you waiting for mate? The sunrise?” He laughed to himself. “Get your weapon out and we will make our way in to find some game!”

“Wait,” I said. “Isn’t hunting in the state forest illegal?”

“Sure is!” Max said, gladly. “But worse things have happened in here! Let’s go!”

I was a little uneasy about breaking the law, but Belanglo was a massive forest, and the chances of a ranger or the authorities finding us were slim to none, unless they were tipped off about us.

“Where are your mates?” I asked.

“Not coming,” Max said, bluntly.

“Why not?” I persisted, now feeling more uneasy that I originally was.

“They came out last weekend.”

“Don’t they come out every weekend?”

“Not anymore.”

“Don’t you find it a little strange?”

“What I find strange is that I am out here to hunt and you want to play twenty-fuckin'-questions!” he barked. “Hunting is about being quiet, so I’ll kindly ask you to do so.”

I was unnerved by Max's hostility, but I tried not to think too much about it. My creative mind tends to wander, and I would just incessantly get myself worked up over it. Just because he was grumpy and a little bizarre did not mean he was a serial killer.

We marched on for longer in the woods, probably for about a full kilometer. Not one living creature did we find.

“It’s nights like this,” Max began, “The full moon usually means that finding anything will be rare.”

“That’s no good. But you’d think that the full moon wouldn’t affect the conditions much in here, especially when the canopy blocks out most of the moonlight.”

Max grunted, “Maybe they sense there is a superior predator in the woods, and they want to steer clear of it.”

I laughed, “Maybe they’re afraid of you, but I’m afraid I’m not much of a threat to anything out here.”

“Of that, you can be sure of,” he growled sadistically.

Again, Max's hostility and abnormal behavior got me thinking again. Why has he become so aggressive? I didn't know why, but his attitude was sinister, and I knew there was something wrong.

''BANG!''

Max fired his gun into the woods. I couldn't see his intended target, but I knew he had hit something.

"Finally!" Max laughed. "This is the moment we have been waiting for mate! Come on!"

Mood swings again? Max had immediately switched back to his calm and collected self. The man I was hunting with was definitely not the person I thought he was, his actions were a little too strange for me to willingly continue this outing with him.

"Tyrell!" Max called. "We got ourselves a live one!"

I trudged quietly over to the corpse that sat at Max's feet: a kangaroo. My country's national emblem lay dead at my feet in the rotting leaf litter of which it would soon be a part of. I had shot kangaroos before, but this time it was different. Amidst the red mess, a pink organism was writhing. Slowly it crawled from the pouch and made itself visible on the cold ground. A baby kangaroo, so young it was absent of fur. I held back tears as I saw it sniff and scratch at its mother's fur, trying to gain the attention it would now never receive.

''BANG!''

Again Max pulled the trigger on his massive weapon, and the joey seemed to disappear. Only skin and bone remained.

"Fuck!" I turned my head away at the sight.

"Isn't that lovely?" He laughed. I heard the gun cock and fire again.

''BANG!''

Max repeated this action three more times on the kangaroo's corpse. I couldn't describe what it looked like, as I didn't even look at it myself.

Max sighed. "They chose the wrong night to be out here."

"This man is fucked in the head," I whispered to myself.

"Well, we better find another poor soul to mutilate."

Max could go on by himself, I was giving up the hunt with this sadistic prick. I was going home. “Max?” I asked trying to get his attention. He stared at me for a second and kept trudging onwards, without a word. “Excuse me Max?” I asked again, this time a little louder. No response. “Max!” I yelled. That caught his attention.

He stopped in his tracks, and stood motionless for a few seconds, before he slowly turned around to face me. His face was blank of all expression, like a corpse. He breathed heavily, and the corners of his mouth moved ever so slightly upwards, forming a smile. The same fake smile he had shown me at the Parent-Teacher Interviews. Then he spoke.

“Who the fuck is Max?” he said, coldly.

Startled, my mind started to race. Surely this was a joke? “You are Michael’s father,” I said calmly, acting as if it was all a prank, some sick joke to scare me or teach me some sort of lesson for giving his son a hard time in school.

His crooked smile contorted in disgust, barely visible through his thick beard. “And who the fuck is Michael?” He asked.

“Alright, I don’t know what game you are playing, but I think it’s high time I went home,” I was now scared, there was something wrong, the temperature, the atmosphere, the unknown man standing in front of me. It was all off, as if it was unnatural, as if there was something out of place. I turned and made my way back the way we came, secretly flipping the safety switch off on my weapon.

“Please be careful,” the man said. I turned my head to get a glimpse of him. He stood in the exact same position in the shrub, unmoving, staring at me as I made my way out of sight.

“What the fuck?” I whispered to myself as I made my way through the forest. I whispered it over and over again, unnerved by whoever had just brought me out into the forest. I don’t understand how I was fooled, how I didn’t notice something was inhuman from the beginning; the way his personality was the exact opposite of what all the teachers described him as; the way he showed complete and utter disregard for his son, describing him as if he was a weight on his shoulders and nothing more; the way how father and son looked so impossibly different from one another; the late booking to the interviews, as if to maintain his ruse as the boy’s father, knowing most teachers who could identify him would have left; his strength, as if there was no holding back; and his fucking personality, the skill to manipulate me so well into leading me out here.

This guy wasn’t a parent.

He was a sociopath.

Suddenly, the cracking of leaf litter could be heard ahead of me, followed by a loud puffing sound. Similar to the panting of a dog. I aimed my gun into the brush, my flashlight illuminating what was only an empty space.

Again, the crunch was heard behind me, and the breathing was louder, closer and warmer. I could feel the warm, dog-like breath steaming down my neck. “Please be careful,” it said, in a husky voice.

I ran like a zebra from a hyena, too cowardly to defend myself, too scared to break my passive nature and harm another human being. I dropped my weapon into the foliage and sprinted my hardest through the trees, trying to retrace my steps as accurately as I could.

The man chased me, as if I was an animal - hunting me throughout the forest as if I was his prey. He had enough clearance to stop and shoot me if he wanted to; but he was toying with me. Playing mind games, like most serial killers do. I almost got the feeling he was leading me somewhere, trying to round me up into an area where he could live out his sick fantasy, execute his MO. Soon enough my fears were confirmed as I crashed through the trees and into a clearing.

At that point, the pursuer stopped. The light of the moon flooded the open clearing, shining so brightly that it would have swallowed any artificial light. The man stayed out of the moonlight, catching his breath, almost afraid to enter the clearing.

The horror that sat adjacent to me stopped me in my tracks. I froze in both fear and disgust. Unable to move, I was forced to look upon the monstrous crime scene.

Strewn around the clearing was a red, graphic mess of flesh and bone, limbs separated from the body and sitting half-eaten and contorted into unnatural shapes. Intestines were splayed over the single tree that stood in the center of the clearing. A mangled torso consisting of merely a ribcage and skin sat upright against the trunk of the tree, with the head strangely intact and untouched.

It was Michael.

An immense pain jolted through my knee as a loud bang erupted from the gun behind me. My kneecap exploded from the front of my leg, and blood sprayed across the grass in front of me. The hollow-point round came fresh from a 30.06, and the bottom half of my leg held on to my thigh by nothing but skin and tendons. I fell to the ground, screaming in pain. I had never felt fear and pain so strongly before. I couldn’t even hear my own screams, as if my ears were ringing so loudly from the incredible pain and shock that it drowned out all my surroundings. Just my severed leg and I sitting in a red mess.
[[File:Please be Careful 2.jpg|thumb|235x235px]]
Eventually the ringing subsided and the bottom half of my body went numb. I turned my head slightly to confront my attacker as I lost control of my bladder. ‘Max’ stepped into the opening and dropped to his knees in pain as soon as the moonlight hit him. A scream left his mouth, piercing my ears and becoming more distorted and inhuman the longer it dragged on for. His body seemed to twist and grow as the clothes tore from his body, leaving him naked. His body hair grew in a matter of seconds, covering all his skin as his jaw dislocated from his skull and rolled outwards to form an animalistic feature that could only be described as the snout of a dog. Canines sprouted from his gums and his eyes faded into a white abyss before exhibiting green, reptile-like irises. The hands snapped and stretched into massive, clawed features and the legs cracked and popped as the knees and ankles simultaneously bent in the wrong directions and adopted a canine-like digitrade stance.

As the figure made its way towards me, I only wished that I hadn’t been so daft. If only I hadn’t come out here.

If only I had been more careful.

{{by-user|Anarchic Operations}}
[[Category:Nature]]
[[Category:Places]]
[[Category:Animals]]
[[Category:Cryptids]]
[[Category:Dismemberment]]

[[Image:Venomous.jpg|thumb|302x302px]]
The morning sun gleamed in the welcome sign, and I found myself grinning with a sudden feeling of excitement.

''Welcome to Kedalup; please drive slowly.''

The letters ''R'' and ''V'' on the word 'drive' had been removed, altering the message in a somewhat fitting way.

You see, I had a very specific reason to visit this small town. It wasn’t the scenery, and it wasn’t even the lovely local meat-pies. It was something more personal.

I was here to take a life.

Well, two lives, to be exact; two adolescent sons from the Clift family.

I had been planning the kill for a while now: stalking my victims, learning their routines, devising my method. How, when, where, I had decided it all. I think I knew more about them than their own family and friends did. The hardest part of a kill was the planning and preparation that came with it - but tonight was where all the hard work paid off, and my plans were executed.

The Clift family owned a block of land about fifteen minutes out of town. They lived there, and they would soon die there. It was convenient for them to live so far away from civilization, and the isolated locale gave me a lot of creativity in regards to how I’d tackle the task.

It was 3:30pm, and the family wasn’t going to be home for another half-an-hour, giving me ample time to prepare. I drove my car down, past the house and into the back paddock. There was an empty creek I could park my car in, out of sight. The dry, cracked earth ensured that my tyres left no tracks, and it was walking distance from my predetermined kill-sites.

I was a very organised monster. My crimes had to be executed perfectly, and I had mentally created a time-schedule to follow. I had revised this particular schedule so many times that I knew it by heart, and I found myself recalling it for what would be the final time.



''3:30pm – Arrive at location & prepare''

''4:00pm – Clift Family arrives home''

''4:25pm – Son #1, Tyson, begins long distance running practice''

''5:00pm – Tyson arrives at Kill-Site #1 (creek)''

''6:00pm – Son #2, Jack, arrives at Kill-Site #2 (motocross track) to train for Motocross Enduro''

''7:00pm – Leave Clift farm''



In the thirty minutes I had to myself, I ensured my weapons were ready, my kill-sites were ready, and most important of all, I was ready. The physical aspect was already done - with my treadless sneakers and leather gloves equipped prior to my arrival – but I had to mentally prepare myself for what I was about to do. Yes, I am a killer, but taking a life is not something I enjoy, rather than it is something I have to do. It’s like a stray dog that you feed once out of sympathy, and it keeps coming back for more.

My watch beeped as the clock ticked over to 4:00pm. Time for action.

In the back of my SUV were two glass boxes; my murder weapons stashed in each. The first box was small, and dark. It was hard to see through the tangled mass of webs, but inside that box was a number of Sydney Funnel-Web Spiders. The massive arachnids crawled around, peacefully, elegantly. The second box was much larger, with power cords attached to it and a large UV light illuminating the slender brown scales of the Inland Taipan. It coiled and hissed as I tapped against the tempered wall that housed it.

I know it might be a bit confusing. Other killers use knives, poison, ropes, guns. I use venomous creatures. Other than the fact that it leaves little to no trace that my victims were murdered, I find it exhilarating to see the slow, painful death of somebody from the hand of nature. It’s a bit ironic really, mankind shits all over nature, and I am allowing nature to bite back.

Kedalup was located just west of the Great Dividing Range, where Funnel-Web spiders are common; and nearing towards inland Australia, where Taipans are common. Whilst Kedalup wasn't necessarily in the ''prime'' place to find either of those two species, it is not uncommon for a Taipan or couple of Funnel-Webs to find a home in this temperate region - meaning my murders wouldn't be treated as much more than accidents.

I spied from the long grass with my binoculars, just waiting for everybody to go about their daily routine. Tyson was a long distance runner, state champion for Cross-Country, and he would run a few kilometres every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Luckily for me, he ran the same trail every time, so I had the perfect kill-site just for him, only a few minutes’ walk up the creek.

At exactly 4:25pm, Tyson began his run. It would take roughly 45 minutes for him to loop around into the creek, where the kill-site was. It was a relatively long time to wait, but killing efficiently requires a lot of patience. Eventually, Tyson began his loop around towards the creek. I had watched him until now to ensure there were no deviations in his routine. Sometimes, I get unlucky and have to improvise, or in some cases, leave and re-plan the whole kill. Luckily there wasn't any deviations, as suspected, and he now made his way directly towards the kill-site, giving me ample time to ready my weapon before his arrival.

I am a brilliant zoologist, and had studied animals of all kinds throughout my schooling and adult life. I have a soft spot for animals, unlike other serial killers who get a kick out of murdering the neighbours’ puppy. Handling venomous creatures was now second nature to me. I opened the box that housed the Taipan, and in one quick movement I grabbed it behind the head, and gently stuffed it into my cloth sack for easy transport.

Crouched in the grass at the first kill-site, I waited, much like a predator stalking his prey. My watch ticked over to 5:00pm, and shortly afterwards Tyson came jogging down into the creek bed. In my tan and khaki camos, there was no way Tyson could have spotted me. I was the perfect killing machine; but so was my weapon.

During the preparation stage I had moved a large log from the top of the creek to the bottom, right on to the path of Tyson’s cross-country. I had only recently concealed my weapon in the long grass around the log, and no matter whether Tyson ran around it, moved it, or jumped over it, he would cross paths with the snake. Taipans are a naturally aggressive species, and have been known to chase humans even when no threat was presented. I could only imagine the reptile's reaction to a human's presence mere minutes after being trapped in a bag by one.

“What the fuck?” Tyson panted to himself as he went to inspect the conveniently placed obstruction. My heartbeat picked up each step Tyson took towards his impending demise. I could almost see the scene unfolding moments before it happened. As soon as the boy trudged into the overgrown shrub, the long and slender creature sprung up from the ground, and latched its fangs onto the inside of Tyson’s thigh, mere centimeters from the femoral artery. Tyson screamed, and stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet as he tumbled into the dirt. The snake struck at its fallen foe's legs again and again at an unrivaled pace; its fangs penetrating easily through the soft skin of its prey.

An Inland Taipan, also known as the Fierce Snake, is the most dangerous snake in the world, and its venom consists of a deadly 110mL concoction of neurotoxins, myotoxins and hemotoxins. In short: the venom spreads quickly; thinning out the blood and causing muscle paralysis before inducing heart failure. Tyson was a slender boy, and he was already physically exerted from the long run. The venom would pulsate through his system and render him unconscious in less than ten minutes. After that; well it’s pretty damn obvious.

“Shit!” he cried to himself, tears streaming down his face as he stumbled back to his feet. The Taipan recoiled into the grass. The effects could already be seen on Tyson, as he eyed his surroundings in confusion and shock for a few moments. After a few seconds, his natural response took over, and he scrambled up the long eroded sides of the creek, using one hand to try find a cell-phone signal to call for help. His efforts were futile. I had chosen the perfect area; no cell-phone reception, and nobody around to hear his cries for help. He brought himself to his own death, I only orchestrated the scenario, and he alone played it out. I followed behind him for a while, unbeknownst to him, watching the venom take hold. He walked uneasily through the dirt, his body shaking and convulsing. It wasn't long before the limping began; no doubt a result of the muscle paralysis beginning to set in. When he was about forty-five meters from the creek, he dropped to the ground, and closed his eyes forever.

“Be free my friend, you’ve done me proud,” I said to the snake as it recoiled back into the grass whilst I made my way back to the car. It showed no aggression towards me whatsoever, as if we were two killers who held a mutual respect for each other - each of us defying our nature for the greater good.

It was almost time for my second kill, and I planned to use the Sydney Funnel-Web spiders for that one. I carefully tipped up the box and lured two of the wiry, hairy arachnids into a small container. I had forty minutes until Jack arrived at his crude motorbike course to practice for the upcoming endurance competition. He was an amazing biker, but his talents were about to go to waste.

It was a little before 6:00pm when Jack’s engine rang through the paddock as he entered the first corner of his track. He was skilled, really efficient at high-speed hairpins and shifting his weight as he ran over the rough logs, stone and shale. But there was always one flaw he had, and that was the fact that he was a creature of habit. Much like me, he had a routine that he would follow. After three small laps, and the sun was setting, he would take off his gloves and helmet, and piss onto the log on the last corner. He hated it, as his father added it to the track for extra practice, and Jack always crashed on it. Recently, he had been doing quite well, thus not having to urinate on the log. However, being a creature of habit, he would always hit the log on a certain angle. In my preparation, I had dragged a similar sized log onto the track, and placed it only two meters behind the original. That would mean Jack would clear the first log as usual, but he would hit the second log at an awkward angle. I had been watching this guy for long enough to ''know'' that he would stack on the second log, and that after three laps he would piss on it.

I was right.

At the end of his three laps, he parked the motorbike at the entrance to the track. Taking off his gloves and helmet, the young man retreated into the forest to piss on the newly placed log, just as anticipated.

However, the helmet, bike and gloves were out of view from the second log, which was deep into the thick forestry. All I needed were roughly thirty seconds to place the spiders into his helmet and right hand glove, then pull the fuel line out of the tap, causing it to empty what little was left of the tank.

I sank away into the trees, out of sight, just as Jack returned to his motorbike. Suspecting nothing was afoot, he placed the helmet onto his head, and the gloves onto his hands. Almost immediately, Jack tore his hand from the glove as he screamed in fear. He dropped the glove onto the ground and stomped it into the dirt. But during the violent and erratic stomping, the second spider fell loose from the helmet and landed on Jack's face. Trapped behind the goggles, the spider delivered a number of vicious bites to the eyes and nose of the screaming boy. Eventually, Jack was able to tear the helmet from his head. He tried to stomp the spider into the ground, but the accuracy of his kicks only showed the effects of getting bitten in the eyes by a spider. Jack blindly felt around with his hands, trying to feel for something to grab a hold of.

The Funnel-Web spider is one of the most venomous spiders in the world, but its venom is not as fast-acting as that of the inland Taipan. Jack would suffer a lot more than his brother, but luckily the bites to the face and his evident physical exertion would mean that the venom would take about fifteen to twenty minutes to start taking effect. I estimate the same amount of time until death occurs. I had not accounted for blindness, but that was a welcome factor to the equation. I walked right up to the dithering fool as he leant against his bike for support, and kicked the vehicle over so it fell on top of him. The boy fell back, and the back of his head smashed into his helmet with a deafening crunch.

Okay, now my luck was way too good.

I didn’t even have to wait around to make sure he would die. Their father was not returning home until about midnight, and motorbike pants don’t have pocket holes. Not to mention the house was out of sight, for him, at least. The poor kid wasn’t going to get help before he succumbed to his injuries.

But at least my work here was done.

As I drove out of the property, the only thing I felt was disappointment that my time-schedule was half-an-hour inaccurate.

- - -

I just so happened to be out that night, working late, when I witnessed these two boys drag a pet dog from a house in my suburb. It was a large dog, female, Labrador cross. They threw the defenseless animal into the trunk of their car, and drove away. Intrigued, I followed them here.

Now I watched from a distance, with my night-vision binoculars, disgusted, as they proceeded to beat the dog with a pair of branches that appeared to be wrapped in barbed wire. They laughed and cursed as the dog struggled to escape. The first shot to the animal's lower back crippled it, forcing it to the ground as it fell awkwardly. It shook as if it was having a seizure, but I think it was just fear pulsating through the creature, meaning it was fully aware and able to feel the devastating pain being inflicted upon it. Defeated, bleeding and yelping, the two boys refused to let up. Subsequent blows left massive gashes in the skin as small tufts of flesh and fur fell to the ground as the animal attempted to crawl away on its front legs. After a few minutes, the animal's fur had gone from a beautiful golden-brown, to a sticky, red mess.

They didn’t stop there; pulling out a knife, they further mutilated the dog in its last moments of life. The boys began by slicing off the ears and nose, before trying to force the flesh into the dying animal's mouth. Finally, they ran the blade down the belly of the animal and flayed it like a piece of meat at a third-world abattoir. I couldn’t even tell at which point the creature died.

The mutilated corpse was pissed on by the boys, and dumped into a hole before they returned to their nearby house. I wanted to leave, but I was compelled to visit the scene of the crime.

I crossed the fence and walked through the darkness, inspecting my surroundings. There was a dried creek bed close to the hole, and in the distance my eyes could make out the shapes of a motorbike track. Finally, I arrived at the hole the Labrador was dumped into. It stunk of death, but when I turned on my torch, my worst fears were confirmed. Dumped in the hole were no less than twenty corpses consisting of cats and dogs, brutally mutilated in ways that my own sick mind had not even thought possible.

I don’t know why they had done it. I don’t know how they brought themselves to enjoy such a cruel act.

All I knew was that I had just found my next victims.

{{By-user|Anarchic Operations}}
[[Category:Animals]]
[[Category:Contests]]
[[Category:Nature]]

[[Image:Exhausted.jpg|thumb|243x243px]]
'''The following journal entries were seized by the Australian Police Force as evidence for the 'Martlet Case' in late 2015. These journal entries were anonymously released to the public sometime after the evidence was deemed unreliable in a court of law. The entries were penned by Keith Martlet; and their accuracy has neither been confirmed nor denied by any party other than the author himself.'''

- - -

<u>'''''Monday : 24-08-2015'''''</u>

It has been quite a day today at Martlet Mechanics! I know we have had a rough couple of months financially, but it seems somebody has caught wind of our struggles and sent us a helping hand.

When I arrived at work today, there was a Bentley Continental GT parked in front of the workshop garage; a '14 model. It was a custom build - matte black with carbon-fibre trims, mirrors and hood. There was even a set of expensive Pirelli Road-Racing tyres on it. Everything was street legal, and being a custom build I was confused as to why it was parked at my dingy little workshop when it could have easily been taken to a more 'professional' mechanic.

But that was before I looked inside the car.

On the dashboard was a large cardboard sign reading; "Look Inside."

Normally I wouldn't, even with the sign asking me, but I felt compelled to. I was mesmerized by the car, and in some way it was just influencing me to obey its command.

Oddly enough, the vehicle was unlocked. But it wasn't the luxury leather seats or polished timber dashboard and steering wheel that caught my attention - it was the copper box on the driver's seat. I know that I shouldn't go rummaging around through the items of others, but I was intrigued. I twisted the latch, and the lid sprang up. On the inside of the lid was a sticky-note, with a message neatly penned onto it.

''"Hello friend. May good fortune and luck follow your kind heart. Keep this gift, and how you discovered it a secret. In this box you will find the keys to your new car, and a generous amount of money to contribute to the upkeep of this fine establishment."''

Sure enough, inside the box was a key to the car, and a stack of cash.

To be more specific: A key to the car, and $5,000.

I don't know who gave this gift to me. The car had no evidence of registration; no number plates; no registration sticker or stamp; no way I could look into this matter without the help of the police.

Who just delivers a car and cash? It could be a prank, or a hidden camera TV show, or just some rich prick deciding to be generous. I don't really know - but it's definitely worth looking into.

The rest of the day was average. After parking the car in the workshop, I finished servicing Ben's SVX. Had to finish early though, to pick up the kids from school; Cath had to work late… again.

I know I'm a bit down on myself at times, but I doubt that this gift was meant for me. I know my family needs the money more than anything right now, but I just don't feel like it's the right thing to do. I'm sure Cath would agree with me, not that I will tell her.

I'll sleep on it, and try to make up my mind tomorrow morning. I might not know who the real owner is, but I'm certain the police can find that out for me.

<br>
<u>'''''Tuesday : 25-08-2015'''''</u>

I'm having a few concerns today. Don't get me wrong, we've had a number of customers come in today, and I told my wife she could finish early for once! But, it's just - something a little strange happened.

I was planning to notify the police about the car. I mean, it could be stolen, or the money could be stolen, and that would just fall back on me in so many ways that I'd be in a worse position than I already am. So I turned up to work, ready to put the money back into the car and call the police. But when I opened that copper box to put the money back, there was another note, and another pile of cash.

''"A kind heart is good. A true heart is just. Keith, this money, and car, are yours. Do not tell the police, do not tell anybody - for my heart is not as kind as yours.''

''In the box is $2,500… There is plenty more to come, provided you heed my wish."''

Yeah, tell me how fucked up that is? A passive-aggressive threat like that under any other circumstances and I wouldn't think twice about notifying the police. But I had to factor in the money. $7,500 in two days was just too good to pass up. Calling the police would probably result in the cash being taken, and that poses a problem for me because I'm one payment away from losing my house. I just don't have the money, or rather, didn't have the money.

Plus, who's to say this guy won't fuck up my house or workshop for not playing along? I'm not insured, and I just can't afford to pay for any damages. Calling the cops would just make more trouble than I am already in.

But how did the money get into the car? How could somebody possibly get into the workshop when it was locked? I checked everywhere, and there were no forced locks or broken windows. Fuck, even the air vents were closed, so they couldn't have come in through the roof.

So, I've been checkmated. I can't call the police, and I can't just allow somebody to waltz through my workshop after closing hours, especially if they have the nerve to threaten me. But, I called Alan, and using the money, I installed a brand new security system. It was a bit rough working around installing the security and doing repairs for the influx of new customers, but I kept it under control.

Anyway, I'm worrying about the car too much…

I was able to buy the ingredients to cook my family a decent meal tonight. Venison Pies! It's been a while since I've cooked, but my average pies were still a nice change compared to rice and pasta, which we have been eating way too much of. Also took my boys to football training, which was really fun. I haven't gotten a chance to see them play for over a year, and they have improved so much. Hopefully I get enough time off to watch them play their grand final.

Anyway, in writing this I realize how much of a difference that money is making. I still have so many questions - hopefully they will be answered tomorrow.

<br>
<u>'''''Wednesday : 26-08-2015'''''</u>

Talk about a stressful day! Let me start from the beginning…

I got to work early, to check on the security tapes. There was absolutely no activity whatsoever, not even the outside floodlights or silent alarms were triggered. I was both happy, and disappointed. But now I just feel uncomfortable, maybe even a certain degree of dread. Upon inspection of the car, there was another note, and no cash.

''"You don't trust me Keith? These cameras aren't nearly enough to deter me. Naughty boys receive no gifts. Naughty boys get punished."''

Right then and there, the power cut off. There were windows in the workshop so it wasn't exactly dark. But the light itself was enough to make me uncomfortable; the way it glanced over the tables and dusty old cars, illuminating the dirty air and oil stains. It just had an unnatural, uncomfortable feel about it.

Then, out of nowhere, the radio turned on. The news station usually has exceptional reception but for the first time in forever it fizzed and crackled as if there were none. A message then came through the speakers, distorted, but audible enough for me to make out what it was saying.

''"Police are now searching for … sports car … perhaps a Rolls … or a Bentley … car has been seen escaping … robberies in the southern rural areas…"''

Then, the lights and power came back on. I was mortified, shocked, I couldn't even move for at least a full five minutes. I just sat on the bench with my head in my hands, contemplating what I could possibly do next.

No way I can tell the police, the money has already been put to use. I don't know how these things work, but I'm guessing that the police wont let me keep the cash. I know it sounds greedy but I have to keep the money. We are better off with it in our possession, and it's helping us get out of a rut. I know that it's a dangerous decision to make, especially considering the probable legality issues it would cause - but as they say; you don't win a fight by following rules.

Not one customer came in today, just to pour the salt in my fucking wounds. To the dismay of my family I was shitty at home, even yelled at Ed and made him cry. I've never done that before. My wife didn't even want to sleep with me. I have to sleep on this fucking couch, where I'll get no sleep. I don't know what to do. I'll think about it tomorrow.

<br>
<u>'''''Thursday : 27-08-2015'''''</u>

More of the same. Bad luck, bad day. No notes, no cash, no customers, just nothing.

At least I could spend some time with the wife and kids. That would have to be the highlight of my day. At least that didn't go wrong. We went to the park and played some football - had a sunset picnic on the lake. The weather had been pretty cold lately - standard outskirts-of-Melbourne temperature - but today was quite warm and lovely.

The bad luck at work seems to be showing how much I've been taking my family life for granted. It might seem crazy, but I cut the power to the cameras off when I left work today. Maybe this car will converse with me again.

<br>
<u>'''''Friday : 28-08-2015'''''</u>

''"Trust is very important, Keith. In fact - it's a vital part of human nature. It is good to see you have placed some trust in me, and in return, I will place some trust in you. Inside you will find $10,000. Not only will this pay off the last of your loan on the workshop, but it is also enough to cover your tracks on owning this car.''

''See; the police are looking for this car. You just need to make sure that 'this' car isn't the car they are looking for.''

''Do what you do best Keith. All will be well soon."''

So, that's what the car said to me this morning.

Yes I know, I'm referring to it as 'the car' because that is easier than saying 'the strange human who fucks with my mind and leaves notes inside a custom built car for me to read'.

All joking aside, I think I understand the meaning behind this cryptic message. I'm going to have to give the car a massive do-over. At least alter the paint and body mods, maybe even the tyres. At least then, the car won't be as plain as day to the police, if they ever see it.

Anyway, just thought I'd write this down during my lunch break. I'm in a good mood; already paid off the loan on the workshop, and already ordered in some new parts for the car. Got some good quality Dunlop Tyres on the way, as well as a new wing and front bumper. The car is going to be a nightmare, but hopefully it's worth it. I might even keep it for myself!

<br>
<u>'''''UPDATE - 28-08-2015'''''</u>

There is something seriously wrong.

I tried to service the car but - far out - I've never seen anything like this before in my life.

I started by painting the car, pretty basic stuff. But as soon as the first coat was on, the paint disappeared. Right in front of my eyes, the bright red paint faded away to the original black matte that was there before. I don't know, like that's not even possible, right?

And the oil… I thought it might be worthwhile to give the car an oil-change, as is custom when servicing a motor vehicle. I half expected the tank to be empty, but what came out was even worse.

Hair.

Like the thick, grimy, shower-plughole hair. Just that, and some oil. Lots of it. It was almost solid, as if it had the texture of a pulled-pork roast, just falling apart into a sloppy mess. And the stench… like a festering corpse.

Look, I don't even want to write about it. I'm just confused.

What is going on? I'm beginning to question whether this car is really a car at all? Maybe it's some high-tech science shit and I'm the test subject. I need to get rid of this thing. I swear, every time I'm around it I just feel wrong. My hair stands up. The air gets really cold even though the heaters in the workshop are set to 28 degrees.

The car seems to be in a slightly different position every time I look at it. The doors lock and unlock at whim. Even tools and other shit around the workshop are in different positions to where I left them.

Sometimes, I even feel like it's watching me…

God, I feel proper mental even thinking that. How about I leave it at that for today, before I start thinking of more insane things to write.

Thank God nobody reads my journal.

<br>
<u>'''''Saturday : 29-08-15'''''</u>

I'm a fucking fool, I know.

I tried to work more on the car today, on account of the previous happenings just being co-incidences.

I picked up the new tyres this morning. The morning was just, normal, for a change. No notes or cash in the car, and everything was where I left it last night.

But then I undone the bolts on the tyres. After the first bolt slid out, a thick brown substance followed after it.

Fuck me dead, I think literal litres of it poured out. It was chunky, and the stench was acidic and wretched, like the torn stomach and intestines of a gutshot animal.

It was vomit.

How it got there, I don't know. By the state of it I think it must have accumulated over time, heating up under the car engine and churning into a thick slippery puree. It took me half the day to hose it out of the shed, and that was only after one bolt...


<u>'''''Sunday : 30-08-15'''''</u>

I've been saved!

I woke up this morning to see that a schizophrenic elderly man was arrested after attempting to rob a bank. The getaway vehicle was a stolen Rolls Royce.

This is the same news report I heard on the radio the other day!

This means that my Custom Built Nightmare is not hot, and I can sell the fucking thing. I still don't know what the deal behind the cash and the notes is, but I'd rather not think about it. I've got a dealer from Allen's Automotives to come and pick it up tomorrow morning. He'll be able to sell it no worries.

Anyway, it's my twin boys grand final today. It'll be an awesome day; win or lose. I might even take the family on a cruise next week.

<br>
<u>'''''Wednesday : 2-09-15'''''</u>

This entry is not for myself; it is for anybody who finds this journal. I need to get away for a while, hide, because I can't deal with the death of my sons in a prison. So this is probably the last time anybody will hear from me until I can recuperate from the accident. Tell my wife, Catherine Martlet, I love her, and let it be known that the status of her life support is wholly up to her sister.

So here is my account of the events that took place at the Crows Football Grand Final on Sunday 2-08-15.

We had just turned up for the game. We were at the football fields a little early so my sons could get in some extra training before the game. We were some of the only people on the grounds at the time. Cath asked me if I had brought the camera, to which I realized it was still in the car. I walked back into the parking lot to get it, when I heard a car toot at me.

I turned out of instinct, and seen a car in the fog. It was hard to recognize, and I could only make out the lights. I kept walking, but again, the car honked its horn at me.

It rolled out of the fog and into my view. It was the Bentley Continental GT.

"Finally," I thought to myself, marching over to the vehicle, ready to beat the driver to kingdom come. But as I reached the door, my heart sank, and I began to sweat, despite the almost freezing temperature.

The door opened on its own, and on the seat sat the copper box. I reached in and took the box, too intimidated to sit inside the car and read it like I normally would.

The note was simple this time, not cryptic, not mysterious. It read:

''"Race you to your family, Keith..."''

The Bentley began to rev, and my heart sank. I feared the worst, and with all that had happened recently, I knew to expect it.

My car was twenty meters way, and even though my efforts were in futility, I ran to it. Hastily scrambling with the key to unlock the door and start the engine. The Bentley took off as soon as the ignition to my car turned over, but my Prado had no chance to catch my opponent.

By the time I made it to the football field, the Bentley had already mowed down my family, sending them tumbling through the frosty grass around the field. My wife lay on her back, her legs facing towards the ground and her right arm almost severed from her body. She was still alive, but it would have been kinder for her to have died on the spot.

My sons, their broken and twisted bodies hadn't rolled over the hood like my wife. They instead were sucked underneath and crushed by the wheels. A trail of blood and torn up lawn led to where their unrecognizable corpses lay. Bones protruded from their scalded and torn skin. One of their heads, it wasn't even there anymore - like it had gone under the wheel.

If they weren't wearing their sports Guernseys, I wouldn't have been able to identify them any more than highway roadkill.

In a rage, I kept driving. Past my wife. Past my sons. At a speed of roughly 80km/h I hit the now parked Bentley, T-Boning it in spectacular fashion.

My car flipped onto its roof, and slid along the grass. Glass shattered all around me and the cab filled with the intoxicating smell of burning engine chemicals and fuel.

The Bentley caved in on itself, the force from the impact alone almost tearing it in two. It rolled beside my Prado, its pliable materials tearing and crumpling until it came to a stop.

For a few moments I sat there, waiting for something to happen. I wanted the crash to kill me, and whatever the fucking Bentley was.

Then, in an instant, a loud screech came from the other wreck. Like the sound of chalk on a chalkboard, but deafening. In the space of five seconds, it twisted and morphed back into shape - undoing every last bit of damage the accident had caused to it.

I stared in horror as the car tooted its horn at me, and drove away.

- - -

'''That was the entirety of what was leaked. These entries were quickly removed from many internet websites and seized from the media shortly after their release; however the efforts were futile. Many believe the accounts to be a work of fiction; the ramblings of an unstable madman mechanic - but there are those who believe there was a certain degree of truth behind these accounts.'''

'''Unfortunately, the case and the publicity behind the leaked journal entries quickly withered away after Keith Martlet was found deceased in a Bentley Continental GT on the 24/10/2015, as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning. To this date, the Martlet case remains unsolved - the police unable to gather any further evidence after the Bentley Continental GT disappeared from evidence less than 48 hours after it was impounded.'''

{{By-user|Anarchic Operations}}
[[Category:Vehicles]]
[[Category:Diary/Journal]]
[[Category:Beings]]

[[File:Air.jpg|thumb|229x229px]]
Beep. Beep. Beep.

You lie on the gurney, weak and stale like everything else in the hospital. The horrid stench of medicine and sickly people make their way through your nostrils, and for a moment you become a little paranoid about inhaling this air through your mouth. But you do anyway.

Your dry mouth froths up as you run your tongue against a pair of dry cracked lips. Even in doing this simple task you are unsure of your success because your body is so numb and weak that it is almost impossible to feel anything on the surface of your body. You can't even tell what the temperature is. The only thing you can feel is a deep, lingering pain in your lower abdomen; a trophy from your operation. You try to reach for the 'pain-pump', hoping to ease that intense throbbing, but your body is much too weak. In your frustration you try to call out for a doctor. Pointless; in your current state the only thing you can push from your voice box is a quiet grumble.

You don't even know how long you've been out for. Where are your family and friends? Where are the doctors? After the ordeal that put you here you should have had at least a few people to greet you upon waking up. Your vision is still cloudy - you can't make out much. You can see clearly until about a meter from your gurney, and everything else is just white, faded shadows and figures.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You can hear that sound from a room down the hall. Somebody is dead. The sound of that failing heartbeat monitor is something you know all too well. As a matter of fact, it's the last thing you remember before waking up in your current state.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You hear it again, but this time it's not from the same room. It is closer. Probably the room next to yours, but you don't know for sure.

You can't help but feel a little paranoid at all of this. The beeping has been slowly creeping up the hallway towards your room. That feeling of dread hits you, and you wonder if maybe you are next. Maybe that beeping will be coming from your monitor next?

Suddenly, your fears are lulled when a doctor makes his way into your room. You can only see the shadowy figure from a distance, but as it comes closer, that same feeling of dread engulfs you once more.

Why is the doctor holding a needle?

You try to move, but you are just too weak. You see the doctor grab the IV and insert his needle into it. With one swift movement, he pumps the entire content of the needle into the tube.

It's air.

But instead of the bubbles rising to the top of the top, they pummel down, closer and closer to your skin as you try so hard to pull yourself free.

But you can't.

Eventually the bubbles will enter you veins and pump their way into your heart, killing you instantly.

You could spend these last moments wondering why this man killed you. Wonder what his motive was; what his ultimate goal was. Was it a mercy? Was it pure evil?

But that doesn't matter.

The only questions you ask yourself are the ones that matter. Were you happy with your life? Do your loved ones know how you feel about them? Is there life after death?

But you don't have a lot of time to think before your senses fade away one last time. You feel the bubbles clench inside your heart and absolutely everything you were and ever would have been fades into nothing.

Beep. Beep. Beep.
[[Category:Hospitals]]
[[Category:Reality]]


Have you ever watched a typical horror film and wondered how it would play out if a complete and utter badass came along and absolutely fucked everybody up?

Well, I'm writing this to quell that suspicion, because it just so happens that I am actually a complete and utter badass. I'm also funny. And yes, I'm also an arrogant prick.

So, on that note, I better introduce myself. My name is Krzysztof Volkov. If you are from a bitch country that can't pronounce complex names, Krzysztof is pronounced Chris-Tough, which is also an excellent description of me as a person.

My family come from Russia. As a matter of fact, I was also born there, but moved over here when I was too young to remember. I spent my days as an adolescent looking after my sick mother whilst my father was overseas on some bullshit KGB operation. I didn't know which of my parents would die first. I still don't, considering they haven't managed to die yet.

Father trained me up as his protégé. I had no intention of joining the army, but I had the skills to do so in a heartbeat.  I was trained proficiently in Krav Maga, thanks to my father’s skill set. I was also trained proficiently in firearms, thanks to America’s non-existent gun laws. My father wasn’t particularly happy with my lack of enthusiasm towards joining the forces, and we had a falling out. So, I moved out of Florida and began travelling the country.

The life of a skilled, but jobless foreigner was not an easy one. I still harboured some of my accent from my parents, and outside of the big cities I was nothing but a dumb foreigner to rest of the Americans. I had to make a living somehow.

I guess this is where I’m supposed to tell you how I dug myself into a hole by making a living as a criminal. But I’m a badass, not a bad-arse. I instead decided to join the entertainment industry. It was hard for people to take me seriously, so I decided to make the most of that. I became a comedian. I travelled through towns and performed at local pubs, hotels and comedy clubs. To be fair, I don’t know if people were laughing at my accent or my jokes, but whatever it was, it was earning me money.

Eventually I made it to the stage, and people were sending me invites to perform at their venues across the state, which was Texas at the time. I am a man of opportunity however, and one invite gained my interest more than the rest. It was an invitation to a comedy festival in Vermont – half the country away. Intrigued by the mysterious invite, and keen to see more of the country, I took the group up on their offer.

And this is where our story begins.

Now I probably shouldn’t name the city in which these events took place, but Vergennes was a nice place. It was quiet and quaint, and it kind-of creeped me out. The people were just strange, but I supposed it was because they were a little too close to Canada.

Anyhow, the show was more of a contest. We could come on for ten minutes, joke about whatever we wanted, and in the end the audience and judges would allocate awards to the funniest comedians, which annoyed me a little because now my $5000 cash payment was no longer a guarantee.

I must say that the performances were excellent though. Some of the comedians were hilarious.

There was one guy, Travis, who insisted everyone's jokes were not of good enough quality.

Then there was Dix Jokes, who couldn't seem to stop talking about penis. "Why was Travis trying to put his dick into an ATM machine? Because it said please insert your PIN!"

Some people had to leave the room when Jay came out with his assortment of sick and dirty jokes that captivated the entire audience despite their disgusting nature.

There were other people I can’t remember the names of; some gentleman with a top hat, a man with a werewolf mask, a British guy with a cow fetish, a transvestite obsessed with Tim Curry, a real laid back dude who thinks there are demons in Antarctica, and a Canadian fellow who called himself Silly Spaghetti or something like that…

I was the final performance of the night, and even though I’m fucking good at what I do, I couldn’t help but feel worried for my success. I might have a high opinion of myself, but I can also have high opinions of others too, especially when their performances were going to be challenge to beat.

I thought I’d start my show with what I considered to be my funniest and dirtiest joke.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen! If you are wondering who I am just look on your event sheet at the list of the performers. I’m the one with the fucked-up name.

“I’d like to begin by telling you a story about an old friend of my fathers; his name was John. Well, it wasn’t but for simplicity sake we will call him John.

“When Dad joined the army, John joined the navy. That was the end of their friendship.

“John would spend months at a time out at sea. This means that, unless he was gay, he couldn’t get any sex for months. But one day John returns from half a year at sea, and he decided that it was about time he had some sex, seeing as it had been such a long time.

“So, John hurried off to the closest brothel he could find. He ran up to the Madame and asked if he could have a young, beautiful busty woman that he could go down on, because he really loved that kind of thing. Luckily, there was a girl available for him. So, John hurried to her room, took off her panties and got down to business.

“He was eating her out like a champion until he felt something on the end of his tongue. ''‘What’s that?’'' he wondered to himself. Upon investigation John spat into his hand a little green pea. But you see, John was really enjoying himself way too much to worry about it, and he continued his work.

“Eventually, John felt something else on the end of his tongue. ''‘What could that be?’'' John asked himself. Sure enough, he spat out another item. This time it was corn kernel. A little, fresh piece of corn, slightly chewed.

“But you see, John was enjoying himself too much to care, so he flicked away the corn and continued to do his dirty business. That was, until he felt something on the end of his tongue. ''‘Disgusting!’'' John exclaimed. ''‘What is that?’'' he coughed and spluttered, and spat out a glob of cheese.

“That was enough! John had given her enough chances. ''‘Three strikes and you are out honey!’'' John yelled. ''‘I was just enjoying myself but instead I’m finding peas, corn, cheese and who else knows what lurks in there! What’s going on? Are you sick down here?’''

“The prostitute looked at John innocently. ''‘No,’'' she whispered. ''‘But the last bastard was!’''.”

The audience erupted in laughter at my priceless joke. It wasn’t that clever, it was just dirty. But they seemed to love this kind of thing, the creepy bastards.

“If that’s too dirty for you, I have a more family friendly joke,” I continued. “There was once a man, and this man had a really good friend. As it happens, this man’s friend was actually a giraffe.

“So the man and the giraffe plan to go out one night and get drunk, as everybody should do countless times in their lifetime. So, they turn up at the nearest pub, and get absolutely hammered. I mean, they drank more piss than a public toilet. They were literally blind. As a matter of fact, the giraffe was so drunk that it passed out on the floor.

“The man, having seen that his friend was down and out for the night, decided to go home. But, as he goes to leave, the bartender called out to him. ''‘Hey, you can’t leave that lyin’ there!’'' he said.

“The man looked at the bartender, and with a rather displeased look on his face, he says; ''‘That’s not a lion! It’s a giraffe!’''”

Again, the audience burst out laughing. Again, I wasn’t sure whether they were laughing at my joke or the fact that it was indeed quite horrible.

After my act the judges casted their votes and proceeded to take the audiences vote so that they could award a judge’s choice and a crowd choice winner. We all waited eagerly whilst the results were tallied, until a tall and slender man walked up to the judges and whispered something into their ears. One of the judged furrowed his brow and rubbed his nose in frustration, before picking up a microphone. “Unfortunately the audience’s choice will be disregarded this year as it has come to our attention that the voting system has been abused. Some of the members of our audience have casted multiple votes, whereas our rules clearly state that we do not allow people to cast multiple votes to boost their favourite acts.”

There was a slight murmur amongst the crowd, and the other comedians sighed and mumbled how typical it was, and how they also abolished the comedy festival’s online chat group because internet trolls were bullying the fans.

“So we have decided to crown Mr. Banning as our winner for the contest this year. Congratulations sir!”

I don’t know how I didn’t win. There must have been some kind of conspiracy against me, because I was Russian. Damn those judges and their incredibly ridiculous standards! I can tell you this, comedy has changed so much over the years, and that is one festival I won’t return to!

Afterwards, the audience were allowed to mingle with the comedians for a short time before we departed. An old couple came up to me, presumably to pour salt in my wounds because I didn’t win.

“Sir, I must say we were quite displeased with your performance. My wife and I, we come here every year to see these shows and we almost had to leave due to your vile and horrendous joke.”

“Ok,” I said, “Please be sure to extend those thoughts with over half of the comedians who couldn’t help but share their thoughts on dicks, cancer, shit, piss, clowns and other edgy topics.”

The old couple stared at me with their eyes and mouths wide open, as if the mere mention of such things had shocked them to the core. I could have punched them both in their throat for their ignorance, but that might have been a little extreme. I’m sure they didn’t deserve to die, even if they were long overdue.

“I can’t remember those jokes,” said the elderly woman, rubbing her head in confusion.

“You might be getting that bad memory disease,” her husband said as he comforted her.

I rolled my eyes, “It’s called Alzheimer’s!”

Again, they both looked at me in shock, “Alzheimer’s? That’s a bad memory disease, why the hell would you mention that for?”

"Ha!” I laughed. I still don’t know if they were serious or not.

We departed into the underground car park to find a large bus. It was a massive, silver coach with tinted windows and curtains pulled across the glass to stop people from seeing inside. Or perhaps it was to stop people from seeing outside?

“It’s the mystery bus tour!” yelled the gentleman with the top hat, pulling a fine steel flask from his jacket pocket and taking a swig from it.

“Mystery Bus Tour?” I asked, confused.

“It’s where we get onto a bus, and it takes us to an undisclosed location where we can get blackout drunk and have a good time,” said Travis, as he pushed his way to front of the line. “This is an annual thing for all participants in the festival!”
[[Image:MBT.jpg|thumb|220x220px]]
“I’m taking the back seat!” yelled the top hat man in an incredibly eager voice that really didn’t suit his classy demeanour.

The dick jokes guy pulled a $400 bottle of scotch from his suitcase and proceeded to drink from the bottle as if it was water. He had obviously come well prepared. How did everybody except me know about this party?

“I didn’t know there was an after-party,” I said to the man as he finally took the bottle away from his mouth.

“Me neither,” he said.

“I wonder why they didn’t tell us earlier,” I wondered. “I could have brought my own alcohol.”

The man paused for a second and looked at me sternly. “That is not the question you should be asking,” he said in an eerie tone. “The real question you should ask is; will I finish this bottle or will this bottle finish me?”

He burst out laughing like it was the only joke he had heard all night. But now was not the time for jokes, it was the time for drinking.

Off we went, on our little adventure. Little did I know that I was heading towards quite a lot of death and despair.

The Bus took us to an old clubhouse on the outskirts of the city. There was a bar inside, a dancefloor, a stage, a garage, and some other rooms that aren’t all that important to the story.

Now, to be honest, that’s all I remember of the night. I’m sure you can relate – and if you can’t, then you are a really boring person and I hate you.

I woke up on the front lawn, wet from the light rain and morning perspiration. The sun was only just coming up, and in the distance, I could hear the traffic and industrial sounds of the nearby city.

Groggy and hungover, I pushed myself to my feet and headed back to the clubhouse so I could see if I could find something to quench my thirst.

Nobody was there.

The bar was completely empty, save for the vomit and rubbish sprawled out across the floor. Even the bar had been emptied of all alcohol. “Perfect,” I muttered to myself and I flicked the beer taps on and off, trying to fix myself something to drink.

I ended up quitting my quest to find myself an alcoholic beverage and instead decided to try and find another person. But that was as futile a task as there ever was.

I searched the bathroom, the dance floor, the stage and change rooms. Not a soul was in sight. The entire complex was abandoned. Even the Mystery Bus had left the garage, presumably with all the people I was drinking with the night before.

Yeah, I know. It must have been a wild night for me.

There was something eerie about the whole situation. Strangely, I couldn’t find a reason why they’d all just leave without me, especially when I was such an entertaining fellow. I wasn’t even that far away from the clubhouse. They outright ghosted me.

I’d have called an Uber, but my phone had been dead since just after the festival. I guess I can thank apple and their inferior battery life for that.

So there I was, stranded in an empty clubhouse, the city a few miles away, and thick forest all around me. Every time the wind blew through the trees, it made an eerie whistle. If you listened carefully, it almost sounded like a distant scream.

But, when the wind suddenly came to a halt, the sound could be heard again. A high-pitch squeal, almost like somebody crying for help.

No. Exactly like somebody crying for help.

In a movie, the key characters would either run, and live with the guilt of letting somebody die, or run into the thick of it and try to save people despite the fact they couldn’t fight their way out of a wet-paper bag.

Luckily, I don’t fit either of those descriptions, and into the forest I ran.

It was dark all around, as if it was still night-time. Even with all my training, and all my arrogance, there was a strange feeling I got as I pushed my way through the thick bush. Dread. Despair. Like when you have been drink-driving, and the police pull you over. You know that feeling you get between the time you pull over and the time the officer knocks on your window? Or even worse, when you are told somebody is terminally ill, or when somebody close to you dies? Those instances where you get that sick, dreadful feeling in your stomach where you know, that no matter what lies you tell, what skills you possess, or what god you pray to – you know it’s going to have the same, dreadful result. There is nothing you can do about it.

I had that feeling, and to be honest, it still hasn’t left me. When I arrived at the source of the screaming, I was too late.

In a small clearing, there were a small team of what seemed to be young adults. I couldn’t tell for sure, as they all wore what seemed to be pantyhose over their faces. There were two cars parked next to each other, doors open, a few coolers placed in between with a picnic blanket and some food. However, in front of the cars were a set of cameras, like the ones they use in shooting movies. They were sat up on tripods, with a man standing behind them, monitoring their status, adjusting them when they needed to be. What they had filmed was in fact horrendous, and for my own sake I am glad I didn’t arrive sooner to see the carnage that had ensued.

Strewn through the grass and dirt were blood and intestines, with crude, dirtied weapons like rusty maces and machetes placed around. Judging by the amount of gore caked on them, I assume they had been recently used. In the center of the clearing stood four men, gathered around a hole with a bloodied heshen bag dumped into it.

“I’ve never seen so much blood!” the smallest, and evidently youngest of the group said.

“Don’t worry, my raven,” the largest of the group said, as he placed his hand on the raven’s shoulder. “We have all been through this ritual before. You have done us all proud, and you finally have something to be proud of. You finally have somewhere to belong.”

“Mithras!” the rest of the group chanted ominously.

Touching as it might have been for those involved, I couldn’t imagine anywhere that young boy would belong other than the ground.

Although… Afghanistan also comes to mind.

“Mithras!” the group chanted again.

“I’ve never seen so much blood!” again, the boy repeated what he had just said.

“Don’t worry, my raven,” they were repeating what they had just said. Why? This group was absolutely fucking mental. Murdering somebody in the seclusion of the woods, and filming for their own amusement.
How many people had they killed? Were they planning on killing more?

Would they kill me? Of course not, but would they try to?

“Tomorrow there will be another,” announced another one of the group. This one had a skeleton necklace and big, fat goth rings on his fingers. He looked like he was trying too hard to be edgy.

“There will be indeed,” agreed the large one. I concluded that he must have been the leader, on account of his authoritative tone and the way everybody seemed to look up to him, both literally and figuratively. “As a matter of fact, I think we could find another victim in this very forest. Who knows? It could be a woman, man or even an immigrant!”

Fat chance of that. If they planned on finding another victim, I’d make damn certain they were left disappointed. In fact, I’d probably leave them in pieces.

“I hope so!” yelled a skinny runt of a man from the back, whose hair was so long it ran down his back like a mangy mullet.

Quickly and quietly, I navigated my way around to the cars through the vegetation. The cultists were too busy chanting their strange chant and burying the heshen bag to even notice me pull out the small flip-knife from the open passenger door of the car. I pulled the blade from its sheath and proceeded to slash the back tires of both cars. They weren’t getting anywhere until I was done with them.

But, in my carelessness, I had forgotten about the cameraman.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing, cunt?” yelled the cameraman. The cultists looked up in confusion and curiosity, wondering what the hell had happened. “You have no idea what’s going on here? Do you?” he proceeded to yell, before grabbing me on the shirt and pushing me back into the car.

Now, the thing is, people seem to think that grabbing somebody on the shirt is a good idea in a fight. Wrong. He had accomplished nothing less than giving me full control of his arm.

In one quick, effortless movement, I held his wrist tight in my hands, and turned it the opposite direction. This twisted the cameraman’s arm so that his elbow was facing upwards. Using my control over his limb, I pulled the man down to his knees. He began to wince in pain, unaware that the worst was yet to come. Still with a firm grip on the man’s wrist, I brought my foot up high, and stomped down on his elbow, snapping his arm back in the wrong direction.

The man screamed, and his voice began to break and gargle as he fell to his back.  Using the knife, I drove it directly into his solar plexus. Almost instantly, he began to cough blood.

The cultists stood in shock for a moment, as if my actions had somehow surpassed their viscous, murderous fantasies.

“Please,” coughed the cameraman in his last moments of life, “Call me an ambulance!”

I laughed at the sorry piece of shit. “You’re an ambulance,” I replied before high-tailing it back into the forest.

From a distance, I could hear the cultists screaming in despair.

“No!”

“Call somebody!”

“We have no service!”

“Take him to the hospital!”

“Fuck! Our tires have been slashed!”

“You two run and get help!”

“Fuck that! Let’s go after the cunt that killed Mike!”

I guess I should have been frightened that they were coming after me. A bunch of psychopaths chasing you through the forest isn’t exactly peaceful, but I had to stop them.

I had to kill them before they killed again.

As I ran deeper into the forest, I found more evidence of their crimes. Decomposing skeletons hang from the branches. The word “Mithras” was carved into almost every tree trunk. I had crossed over into their domain. I was now behind enemy lines, and I didn’t like it.

Eventually I ran into somebody. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, and I lost my balance and fell into a tree. I turned to see the runt boy. He was a pretty wiry fellow, strong enough to knock me off balance.

He stood up and called out to his friends. “Why would you kill Mark?” the boy asked me in confusion. He couldn’t have been more than 19 years old. “Mark was a good man! Why did you kill him you sick fuck! He never did anything to you!” The skinny boy pulled a small shiv from his back pocket and pointed it at me. “Guys! I’ve fucking got him!”

I pointed at the shiv. “What’re you going to do with that?” I asked.

“I’m going to kill you with it!”

“No you aren’t,” I laughed. “I’ve already had my tetanus shot.”

The boy lunged at me. He was quicker than I anticipated and the blade managed to nip the side of my hand as I deflected the blow. Luckily I wasn’t lying about that tetanus shot.

“We were just doing our thing man! Why’d you have to kill him!”

He lunged at me again, this time swinging the blade high, aiming for my face. I moved back just enough to evade the blow, and when the blade passed striking range I brought my fist down like a hammer onto his hand. He recoiled a little and dropped the blade. I followed up by throwing my left fist hard into his throat, and just for equal measure, my right fist into the same place. There was a pop as the boy fell to the ground and began to wheeze heavily, now struggling to breathe after I caved in his trachea.

“W-w-w-why?” the boy asked in confusion.

“Nice stutter champion. I just wish your last words had of been; that’s all folks.”

The boy lost consciousness and seceded to breathe. He would be dead in minutes.

“He got Aaron!” yelled the goth boy as he charged towards me.

I wasn’t ready for the fat chunky emo to tackle me, and so I can admit that I ate some shit when he did. I fell hard into a log. I was winded, by back was jarred, and this sad, stinky mess of a man was on top of me.

I reached up to grab his hair, but only succeeded in pulling the pantyhose from his head. “Was this your mothers?” I asked with a grin on my face. It was a genuine question.

My answer was a right hook to the face, which knocked a tooth loose and split my cheek wide open due to the fact this guy was wearing rings the size of Texas. Luckily for me, it also hurt him a little too.

I tried to push the fat mess off me, but he was a little too large for that. I wasn’t exactly a large guy myself, and this guy was half my age and twice my size. Again, he punched me in the face. This time it rocked me a little, and it was about time I started to defend myself.

I reached up and pushed my thumbs into his eyes. He screamed, and without hesitation stood up and blindly backed away. Now that I could properly breathe, I could inflict some pain.

But something hit me from behind. I fell to the ground and turned my head to see the leader standing behind me with a mace. “Fucking psychopath!” he yelled as he brought the mace down onto my back again. It hurt a lot, but it didn’t draw blood. It must have been blunt. Unlucky for their last victim, but lucky for me.

I fell to the ground and rolled onto my back, facing the leader as he stepped forward to deliver the coup de grace.

But before he could deliver his final blow, I delivered a kick to the front of his kneecap. He lost balance and leant forwards, where I swung my other foot up into his face.

Almost poetically, I rose to my feet as my other two attackers recovered. It was now two against one.

The fat emo tried to grapple me from behind, much like he has probably grappled many other men. I used his weight to my advantage, and rose both of my feet up, kicking the leader in the chest.

“Hold him still Garry!” yelled the leader, as he lined up another shot with his mace.

This time, when he swung, I stepped to the side and moved Garry into the path of the blow. The mace connected flush with the back of his head, and a crunch could be heard. I swung my head back as Garry’s came forward, connecting with his chin perfectly. The oversized menace convulsed a little before falling to the ground.

I turned to face my attacker, who was clearly in shock. We both looked at the goth for a minute, watching him hyperventilate and throw up all over himself, before choking on his own vomit and dying. “You did that,” I said to him.

The leader just stood there, too shocked and frightened to do anything about it. He turned, and groggily walked away before falling to his knees and crying.

“You are fucking pathetic,” I yelled, “Look what you’ve done out here, why is what I’ve done so bad in comparison?”

“We were just having fun,” he cried. “They were my friends. We just wanted to make our dreams come true.”

I wish I could have left him there to live in his own guilt and defeat, but that never works in the movies. He would have continued his craft, and more people would have died.

Let me just say that there was one last body added to the trees that day…

Anyway. I think that about sums up my story. The youngest boy got away, presumably to get help. I escaped, got back to my apartment and made a coffee. I’ve spent the whole night writing this account. Why? Because when I become famous, and the world hails me as a hero for what I have done, I want the story to be told my way. I don’t really want the media to twist it into an emotional hero’s journey when it was simply some killer comedy and a night out drinking, followed by me being a fucking hero of course.


'''UPDATE:'''

Um, it’s the morning after I wrote my account. I know many of my fans have read this and I regret to inform you that my story was not exactly the heroic act of justice I wanted it to be. It's hard to explain, but I just received this newspaper. I'm sure the rest of the news will fill you in on the details.

Dear God, what have I done?

[[Image:Newspaper (1).jpg|centre|thumb|496x496px]]
[[Category:Dismemberment]]
[[Category:Contests]]
[[Category:Mental Illness]]
[[Category:NSFW]]
[[Category:Disappearances]]
[[Category:Places]]