The Life and 101 Deaths of Timber Spruce

Oct 3rd, 2016
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  1. >Bang.
  2. >Your name is Anonymous.
  3. >As in, you literally have no name.
  4. >You gave it up to serve the God of Death.
  5. >The wood splintered and fragmented as you hammered it with your axe.
  6. >Bang.
  7. >Your task is simple: you must eliminate 101 versions of Timber Spruce throughout the multiverse.
  8. >The God of Death shows no mercy to those who transgress his laws, and, somehow, Timber Spruce has transgressed.
  9. >A wide slice appears in the door, brown oak peeking out from the chipped, white paint.
  10. >Bang.
  11. >This was number 101.
  12. >You would finally get your reprieve, if you could just kill him.
  13. >The hole is now large enough for you to stick your head through, and you just can’t resist.
  14. “Here’s Anon!” you cry to the two startled lovemakers in the bedroom.
  15. >Always a penchant for the dramatic.
  16. >Taking them out from range with a sniper rifle got boring after the first 10 times.
  17. >“Hey, man, don’t you have any idea of privacy?” this Timber Spruce says, putting his arm in front of Twilight Sparkle, as if such a feeble move could protect them. “Do not disturb?”
  18. >You loom over him with your large cutting implement, your shadow extending over the bed and up the wall behind it, your eyes burning red with the fires of a nuclear inferno.
  19. >Always more satisfying to feel the rush of the kill, up close and personal.
  20. >Like when you sliced him into pieces with a broadsword.
  21. “Timber Spruce. Your time has come.”
  22. >A bit less like the time Timber was a traitor to the Revolution, and you executed him by guillotine.
  23. >You had to feel the weapon in your hand.
  24. >“Uh, I don’t know what that means but - oh God!”
  25. >You lunge forward, quick as a gymnast springboarding off the floor, and backhand him away from Twilight onto the floor.
  26. >And it definitely was not like the time Timber was an American soldier, hunkered in a trench.
  27. >You gave the precise coordinates to a German artillery brigade, told them it was a command bunker.
  28. >Soon, all that was left of the trench was a crater.
  29. >Setting yourself on Timber’s chest, your fingers curl into a fist, and you hammer his jaw with a brutal right hook, the bone cracking with a satisfying crunch.
  30. >When he instinctively tries to block your next blow, you grab his arm and bend it until the shoulder joint pops.
  31. >“Please, stop! I’ll give you anything you want,” Timber moans.
  32. >Huh.
  33. >Only 15 Timbers you killed had said that.
  34. >Timber the rich English socialite had said that when he was murdered by a mugger in a back alley.
  35. >But what could they ever give you to replace what they had taken away?
  36. “How about your life?” you say as you strike him again, harder this time.
  37. >In your despair, you had sought the God of Death.
  38. >The God demanded 101 souls, and would give you the means to reap them.
  39. >And then you take what was yours.
  40. >Blood oozes into the shag carpet, and black bruises mar Timber’s stupid face.
  41. >Twilight whimpers and hides beneath the covers.
  42. “Do you think you can simply take what is mine? Can you?”
  43. >“What do you mean?”
  44. “She was supposed to be mine, Timber.”
  45. “What?”
  46. >Another fist manages to lodge itself in Timber’s eye socket, a rivulet of crimson flowing down his cheek.
  47. >“Please, God! Stop! She can be yours, I never even touched her -”
  48. “Irrelevant,” you say as you pick up your axe.
  49. >Timber is crying now, hot pink tears flowing down his cheeks.
  50. >“Please. Don’t kill me.”
  51. “It has already been decided.”
  52. >The sharp blade swings down and guillotines his head in half, brains, blood, and bone spewing onto the walls and floor.
  53. >The poor boy didn’t even have time to scream.
  54. >His breath rattles against his sliced, fluid-filled windpipe.
  55. >The axe falls again, then a third time, then a fourth, on and on, until his head is but a formless mush of gore.
  56. >Raising the blood-stained cutting instrument above your head once more, you continue your methodical disassembly of Timber Spruce’s form, cutting his body to chunks, like a butcher dividing up a hog, and piling them up in a neat, squishy mound.
  57. >His arms fracture neatly, muscle and sinew giving way to steel.
  58. >His chest caves in like a deflated bounce house, the ribs snapping like weak twigs against a hurricane.
  59. >Like a Nez Perce tribesman with a buffalo, you make sure no part of him is wasted.
  60. >While Twilight cowers behind her blanket shield, you pull a bottle of lighter fluid from your jacket and dump its liquid contents on top of what couldn’t even be considered a corpse, more a pile of meat.
  61. >You take your cigarette from your mouth and drop the smoldering tip into the pile, which instantly ignites in a towering inferno.
  62. >You hit the tape recorder in your pocket, blaring “Disco Inferno” to all who can hear.
  63. “Timber Spruce. More like Tinder,” you say as the flames rise higher, before turning to the frightened girl in the bed behind you.
  64. >Your task was complete.
  65. >All 101 souls had been reaped.
  66. >And now you could take what was yours.
  67. “Now why don’t you slip those panties off so I can give you the ol’ lickaroo.”
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