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Engel's picture
Submission type:


(Murder and sex with just a pinch of violence)


"I provide the girl. You are to fuck her brains out and then, when you're almost done, you're gonna strangle her. Not a little bit, but all the way. The girl... won't be a clone. You're gonna kill her. You got that?" He is looking at me, checking for a sign of weakness on my face.

I attempt a smile: "What if she shits herself? With all the fucking and dying, something like that is bound to happen?"

His lips stretch into an eerie smile. He likes what I'm saying: "Oh that would be something, stud. I'll pay you extra. Just make sure you catch it all on camera. My clients will love it."


It's a neat setup he has here. A hard working, nightmarish-gonzo-snuff-porno industry in the middle of Blaine. And when the day is done this is what you end up with:

- One dead girl. A witness to her own murder. The thing.

- One dumb fucker filming a video evidence of his own crime. The actor. 

- One twisted director, the guy who sets everything up and profits. The boss.


I am the dumb fucker in this story, nothing new there. And the last guy on the list... is the one I'm after. He is a secretive cat, a real post-apo entrepreneur, giving the audience what they crave to see. One would think that with the bleak landscape we live in a heart-warming story of hope, love and reconciliation is what people would want. But no. It's just sweaty dicks, tits and blood. Primal and raw.

I've never met the Director in person. He is a cautious video geek - setting up underground meetings where you talk to him through a video call. But once I've made his snuff tape there has to be some sort of handover. And that's when I'm going to get him by the throat. And I'm gonna film it too.


I'm sitting on the bed in Credit Bend hotel apartment 37, drinking and desperately trying to calm my nerves. There is a hand held camera at the nightstand, armed and ready. There is a knock on the door. That must be the dead girl. I open the door and fall in love.

She is looking at me, confused: "Aren't you gonna let me in? What's the matter with you? You're not some kind of a freak, aren't you?"

She is wearing blonde and pink extensions in her hair and her eyeliner is carefully applied. I would be at trouble to guess her age. She is wearing a riveted custom leather jacket with a "Slayer" logo. Almost flat-chested, tanned and wild, she is the girl I always dreamed of. She's a plot twist.

"Hi." I say, stupidly. "My name is Engel."

"Jesus," she replies. "You're a strange one. Where is the toilet?"

"Umm... there." I keep staring at her, mesmerized. I didn't really plan for this.

"Lock the door," she says and heads into the toilet, carrying her bag.

I am left there, dumbfounded. The girl is right, I am some sort of a freak, but what she doesn't know is that I am just a guy pretending to be a freak - hunting the real madmen out there. My plan was to convince some girl that I've never met before to fake her own death on camera. Yeah. Now I can see how that might not work out as planned. But there is something else bugging me right now. I can't really place my finger on it but something is not right. I can hear her whistling merrily from the toilet. 

That bag of hers, she is carrying something big inside. Bigger than just some skimpy costume. And she's told me to lock the door. Something is in the air... and I don't like it.

I walk carefully to the toilet door and press my ear to the cold wood. A whole set of rustling sounds on the other side. Nothing strange. But then - an unmistakable sound of metal touching the ceramic. I burst through the toilet door to find her hunched over a dozen firearms, a cattle prod, handcuffs and a bunch of surgical and mutilation instruments all laid down in front of the mirror. She doesn't look scared or surprised. There is a short hatchet in her hand. My mind doesn't even have the time to think what a whole lot of mess I've gotten myself into when she launches her attack, screaming and flailing that hatchet. I think she wants to kill me, but she also wants to see me scared. 

I duck under her wild swing, but I slip and fall down on the cheap hotelroom carpet. As I claw away from her, pieces of broken mirror and splinters of wood and ceramic tiles fall over me. She is mad, I am unarmed and soon to be dead.

"You sick bastard!" she screams at me. "You'll pay for what you've done!"

"Waaaaait!!!" I roll around, trying to evade her. "It's not how it looks like."

She stops and tilts her head. I think the sheer stupidity of what I've just said made her pause. Stupidity has its virtues. I press with what could be my only way out of this and squeal like a little baby: "I am working undercover, trying to find the guy that organizes these snuff recordings."

She lowers her hatchet: "How?"

"By making a fake video to please him, and then finaly grabing him during handover," I say.

Her face relaxes. "I knew there was something off about you. You look like a killer. A real killer never looks like one."

"Yeah," I stare at her. "I agree."


"So what's your story?" I ask as she pours some more gin into her glass. She is sitting on the bed and I am sitting on the floor.

"Me? I'm an undercover investigative journalist."

We stare at each other in silence. She sips her gin without blinking.

"No you're not," I smirk and look into my glass as if I'm seeing some hidden truth there. "Not with the arsenal in that bag of yours. This is personal for you, isn't it?"

"Maybe. So..." She sighs. "Are we gonna make this sextape of yours or not?"

I choke on my gin.


The air is damp with adrenaline-spiked sweat. My hand is on her naked shoulder now. I've been slowly working my way up from her thighs, over her firm waist and perky breasts. The camera is on but I almost forgot all about it. We have been at it for some time now and we got a little bit carried away. It never occurred to me that maybe there is too much passion going on here. The Director might get suspicious. I bite her neck and she whispers to my ear, out of her breath: "Now, do it!"

I place my hands around her neck and interlock my thumbs. Then I squeeze. She feigns shock and her body starts to shake. But I know it looks fake. I apply more pressure. Her neck is so thin. She grabs a hold of my arms and looks at me, confused and scared now. I bend over, still inside her, and whisper to her ear: "Sometimes, baby... a killer does look like a killer."

Her nails bite into my arms, she tries to scream but she can't find her voice. Her face turns red, her eyes look like they are about to pop out. I squeeze harder. She punches me. A weak, desperate punch. Her body is convulsing. Her legs are kicking wildly. Halfway though, I am even beginning to like this. At least, that is what I convince myself. If I convince myself, I might even fool the Director.

Later, I release my hold of her neck leaving only ugly marks on her skin but the wounds go deeper. She looks like she is sleeping now. She isn't. 

I turn off the camera.

"You, jerk," she says.







Joe Spivey's picture

Very powerful story. The sad part is, though, I don't think it takes an apocolypse for this kind of thing to happen. Just the sick demand.

Stick with me kid and you'll be farting through silk.

Subdane's picture

((Engel difinitely is one of the more interesting characters. Looking forward to more. 

Synn's picture

Such a touching love story.  Got me all choked up..   *rolls on the floor laughing hysterically*

Strelok Neskovich's picture

At the beginning of the post, the chatter between Engel and his boss rather gave me a vibe from the movie known as "A Serbian Film". Twisted. In a good way.


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