ACRA/MISC: Tales from the Gutterground #2: The Runaway Chaotic, Sporadic, Traumatic, Make-it-Up-As-You-Go-Along-Story Game (Part III)
Arthur Spitzer
arspitzer at earthlink.net
Tue Mar 6 17:19:09 PST 2007
<<WARNING: Sick Disturbing stuff ahead. Naked Bodies. Sex. Black
Magic. If you have ever been offended by anything, you probably
shouldn't read this. And personally not that I'm for censorship, but I
believe the writer should probably be thrown in jail for this sick
disturbing piece of filth. But that's just my opinion. But, hey, I'm
just a WARNING tag. No one ever listens to me. The world would be
better if people did. But go ahead and ignore me. Wait! Don't. Don't
Do it! Okay. Fine. Be that way. But you'll be sorry! You shouldn't
read this unless you're over the age of 122.>>
T A L E S
F R O M
T H E
G U T T E R G R O U N D
N U M B E R TWO
[Last Time: A girl chasing a white grasshopper fell into its dream.
And later, a school bus was hijacked by one of its students who was shot
down by the bus driver who then decided to drive the bus to Disneyland
so he could nuke it. But before it could reach Disneyland it took a
detour into Hell. And now...]
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The Runaway Chaotic, Sporadic, Traumatic,
Make-it-Up-As-You-Go-Along-Story Game PART THREE
=================================================
III: The Caterpillar
A hand grabs hold of a heel.
"Who. Are. You?"
The hand slowly slides up the ankle until it reaches the knee.
"My Name -- is Barry Ulysses Suttle."
The hand goes up towards the thigh area of the leg, but then decides to
slide back down to the knee and then back down to the ankle. And then
it goes up again. And then down. And then up again.
"This is my personal narrative."
The hand having touched and grabbed every single part of the leg decides
to go up beyond the thigh and find out what lands are left to explore.
"I had a terrier named Mr. T."
=================================================
Rose opened her eyes.
Someone was chanting something.
She had been sleeping. But. Her head wasn't on a pillow and she wasn't
on her bed. It was on some leg. Some guys leg. And she could feel
another hand stroking her leg. She quickly pushed herself off the guy
and sat up.
Her eyes were slightly blurry. And her head hurt. And there was drool
all over her mouth. She wiped the drool off with her hand. She looked
for some piece of cloth to wipe her hand with, but she started to
realize that she was naked. And so was the guy. And apparently so was
the girl who was stroking her leg. And Rose became aware that she was
part of a circle made of naked people. She looked to the center of the
circle and saw a man cloaked and chanting. God. Where was she? Why
couldn't she remember anything? The bus? Going to hell? No. That was
some dream. She was a student. A college student. And? Oh, God.
Remembering something. This was her Creative Writing Class!
"What lies beneath the ****? I am climbing a mountain. A mountain made
of bones. Bones of dead writers. And I climb. And I climb. Over the
skulls of Homer and Sophocles I go. I grab hold of the leg bones of
Dante and Chaucer. They are old and brittle. But I keep climbing. So
many bones. How will I ever get to the top? Must keep climbing. There
is only death below me. And what will I find there? I had a terrier
named Mr. T."
It was Mr. Suttle. Her Creative Writing Teacher. He was the one who
was chanting. But how did she get here? How long had she been here?
She looked at her teacher. His cloak had numbers and punctuation marks
scattered all over it. He didn't seem to be aware that she was awake.
He didn't seem to be aware of anything. He was lost in his words.
"The Es grab the Os and squeeze them. The first story I ever wrote was
when I was six. It was about my guinea pigs, Freebee and Spookster, and
how they took over the world using their mind control powers. It wasn't
very good. I'm not sure what happened to that story. Probably decaying
in some dump somewhere. Like Freebee and Spookster. I had a terrier
named Mr. T."
She looked at the circle she was in. A circle made of squirming flesh.
Her fellow classmates. They weren't aware of anything. They were
mindless animals. Just rubbing and stroking and nibbling... and... She
had to get out of here. She had to put on some clothes and get out of
here. Run and run. And keep running. Where were her clothes? There
must be some room that had her clothes in it. She started to look
closely at the room she was in. It was large. It was dark, but there
was circle of candles giving off light. She saw three doors, but she
wasn't sure where they went. If they were even capable of being opened.
And in one of corners, she saw a camera running. And another camera
in another corner. They were being filmed.
"The B swallows the J. I remember my first Creative Writing Class in
college. The instructor's name was Buzz Abner. He had only one arm --
lost the other in Korea. I remember him telling us one time about how
to write the perfect story. A story should be like a car accident, he
said. Not an ordinary accident though, but an extraordinary one. There
should be two vans. One van is carrying reptiles, snakes, spiders,
scorpions, and other vile creatures. And the other van? The other van
is filled with naked people having sex and doing drugs. The perfect
story is when these two vans collide with each other. That is the
perfect story. Well there should be some character development
somewhere in there. And maybe there should be some guns and helicopters
in the story too. And a raccoon. Put all of those elements together
and you have the perfect story. A couple of years later Buzz Abner quit
his job and committed suicide by boring a power drill into his head.
Actually I made that last part up. I don't know what happened to Mr.
Abner. I had a terrier named Mr. T."
What was the power that was keeping her here? Video tapes? Drugs?
Black Magic? Rose struggled to remember things. Anything. Assuming
she did manage to find something to wear and she did manage to get
outside, what then? Who would she go to for help? The police? How
many tapes were there? What depraved acts had she performed in those
tapes? Would her life be destroyed by this? And there were also her
fellow students. Would she destroy their lives too? How did she get here?
"The A spreads itself as the T stabs into it. The first story I ever
sold was called 'Cannibal Wedding'. It was about these two wedding
crashers who crash this rather snazzy wedding held by these high society
types. And some where in the story they find out that all these high
society types are in fact cannibals (except the ones who are
vegetarians). It was sort of a commentary about the class structure of
modern civilization and our dog-eat-dog capitalistic world. I only
received $15 for it. I think it would have made an interesting movie.
I had a terrier named Mr. T."
Why did she wake up? She should just give up and go back to sleep and
become a mindless animal again lost in the flesh. Lost in the dream.
No. She had to fight this. She had to stop Mr. Suttle somehow. What
was he doing? A spell of some kind. What was the purpose? Rose looked
at her arms. There was something on her. Smeared on her. A
reddish-brownish paint? No. It wasn't paint. Blood. Dried Blood.
Letters. There were alphabet letters all over her. And they were all
over her naked classmates. It was rabbit blood. They had killed
rabbits and smeared the blood all over their bodies. Painting letters.
Every letter of the alphabet.
"The R, P, and E hold down the A and take their turns. I lost my
virginity when I was 26. It was at some party. I was stoned and drunk.
It was with this fat Mexican chick. We were alone is some room with a
bed. I couldn't seem to orgasm as much as I tried. Perhaps because I
was drunk maybe. I don't think I wore a condom. She had this pink bra
and very big breasts. Her breath smelled like chip dip and rum punch.
I passed out. That was the last time I ever saw her. I didn't even
bother to ask what her name was. Sometimes though I see her in my
dreams. I had a terrier named Mr. T."
Was she on drugs? Was that why she couldn't remember anything? She
wouldn't kill a rabbit. She just couldn't do something like that.
Everything was becoming too disorienting. She was part of this spell
though. Some girl with oriental type features was still grabbing her
foot. As long as a part of her body was touching another body the
circle still functioned. And if she broke free everyone would wake up.
She had to break free. She couldn't let this spell reach its
conclusion. Or maybe she could. She didn't know what the spell did.
Why was she awake?
"The M, U, and C become earthquakes as their embrace becomes tighter.
Back when I was in college my favorite show was the A-Team. I would
occasionally write A-Team fan fiction. I always dreamed of writing a TV
movie about the end of the A-Team. It would have been the Ragnarok
finale. The A-Team decides that the only way to save America is to
overthrow its own government. But there are a few members unsure about
whether this is the right thing to do. In the end the A-Team battles
the A-Team and it all ends in a blood bath with everyone dieing except
for Capt. H.M. "Howling Mad" Murdock who it turns out has been
hallucinating the entire A-Team all this time in a mental hospital. I
could never get anyone in Hollywood to look at it though. I had a
terrier named Mr. T."
Rose was frozen. She couldn't break free. It was easier just to let
this happen -- whatever was happening. She would just watch. There was
pattern. Two boys and then two girls. She looked at the different
hairstyles on her classmates. Fat and thin. Black and White. Hairy
and Shaved. Legs and arms entwined with each other. Some had tattoos.
Some had piercings. The various sounds they made. The grunting. The
moans. The breathing. The squooshing noises. Some looked like they
might be crying, but she couldn't tell since it was dark.
"The X becomes the O and the O becomes the X. You're wondering where I
got the idea for all this? It was a story. Posted on the Internet. It
was on the newsgroup alt.sex.alphabetic-letters.creative mixed in with
all of the spam. It was posted by some anonymous person. A magic
ritual that would help a writer reach the perfect story. And I knew as
I read it that the ritual would work. The only tricky part was finding
the people who would become the circle. It couldn't just be ordinary
perverts, which would have been a lot easier. No. They had to be
people who were filled with a creative energy. Filled with dreams. 26
people. 13 males. 13 females. That was the tricky part. Of course
being a creative writing teacher I certainly had access to creative
types. But how to convince them to be a part of something like this?
That was the tricky part. But everyone has a price. Everyone has a
weakness. It was hard though. Very hard. I had a terrier named Mr. T."
The Perfect Story? Rose wanted to laugh. But there was nothing funny
here. She wondered how Suttle had managed to "convince" everyone. Were
some of the students paid? Was she paid? No. She wouldn't do this for
money. Drugs? Maybe. Or some kind of blackmail. Maybe it had been a
drug slipped into a drink and he brought her unconscious body back here.
Why couldn't she remember anything? Maybe she didn't want to
remember. Maybe she did do this for money. Rose wanted to cry. She
wanted to crawl into a ball and cry.
"The P and b merge into a B. Why are people serial killers, rapists,
school shooters, suicide bombers? Aretha Franklin knew. Respect.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me. We are a world of losers
and winners. Everyone is competing every day. We must be better than
the average person at something. But that is not enough. We must be
the best at something. We must be the king of something. The God of
something. Winning is the only way to respect. And you must win every
single damn day. Every damn word must be perfect. That is the way. We
might hate the monsters of the world, but at the same time we respect
them. We have to respect them. Better to be the caterpillar than the
leaf. I had a terrier named Mr. T."
God, please. Please stop this, Rose prayed. And she prayed. And she
prayed. But it kept going. And going.
"The L is gripped by the E and the E touches the D. I can feel the
ideas bleeding from the circle. Ideas floating like butterflies. And
they enter my mind like moths to a flame. What if Mother Goose was a
vampire who got all her ideas from sucking the blood of her victims?
Two kids trap the spirit of God in a trap made out of crayons and sell
him to Satan. A painting that paints reality. What if Jackson Pollack
faked his death because he was part of a conspiracy to scam the art
world? A world where carpet is illegal. A world where toothbrushes
exist only when the Cubs win the World Series. What if the Knights of
the Round Table were gay werewolves? Ideas. Ideas. Ideas. Rubbing
letters. Bones. A mountain of bones. Raining. Heaven raining.
Soaking. Soaking. I had a terrier named Mr. T."
Rose wanted to be out of this place. She wanted to take a shower and
wash herself. Wash it all away. All the blood that was on her and
everything else. Just scrub it all off. Scrub and scrub. She could
feel a shooting pain in parts of her that she didn't want to think
about. She felt sick. She wanted throw up. She had to stop this. She
just had to stand up and free herself from the circle. Just stand up.
So simple. Why couldn't she do it?
"The D and E stroke the A and the T and H watch. I remember my
girlfriend broke up with me. That's why I bought the dog. I needed
someone. Something. Someone who cared. It was a terrier. A Jack
Russell type terrier. It had this little tuff of hair on the top. It
kind of looked like a Mohawk. I guess that's why I named him Mr. T.
When I would come home he would always be there to greet me. Licking my
face. He didn't judge me. He loved me even though I was a failure in
life. I remember trying to train him, but it never seemed to work. But
it wasn't because he was stupid -- he was just willful. He was clever
dog though. He knew how to knock the trash down so he could get the
goodies inside it. When I wasn't at work we'd spend a lot of time
together. Strolling through the park and observing life. And one day.
And one day we were walking along the sidewalk of the city like we'd
do. And he just sort of got out of his collar and leash. And he just
ran out into the street. And I tried calling him. I screamed his name
out. Mr. T! Mr. T! And this truck. And this truck just -- And the
truck didn't stop. No. It just kept going. And going. And -- And I
just ran out into the street. I picked up his bloodied body. And I ran
and ran. To my car. I put his body in the car seat and drove to the
Animal Hospital. The truck just kept going. And I ran through various
red lights. And -- And I realized I wasn't going to get there in time.
So I just -- I just pulled over along the street. I just looked at --
at... I think he was already dead. I gently stroked the fur on top of
his head. Dead. Blood all over the car seat. I think I cried. I just
cried. I couldn't do anything else. I hated that bastard that killed
my dog. Who didn't even stop! Just kept driving. Hated the world.
Hated humanity. Hated God. Hated it all. Hated. Hated. I had to do
something. Something to make it meaningful. Had to write a story. The
perfect story. And everyone would know about it. Everyone would feel
my pain. Feel my hate. That's what I would do. Yes. I had a terrier
named Mr. T. I had a terrier named Mr. T. I had a..."
Shut up. Shut up about your stupid dog. Rose cuffed her ears. You're
the monster here you bastard. I hate you, Rose thought to herself. I
hate you and your stupid dog. Why? Why are you doing this? No, that
wasn't completely true. Some part of her did feel a little sympathy for
the little dog. It was sad that the dog had died. But it didn't
justify this. No way in hell. She could feel though that this whole
spell was reaching its conclusion. The circle of flesh was growing
louder in its noises. The girl's fingernails were starting to dig into
Rose's flesh and the red headed guy she was near grabbed one of her
wrists. They were dragging her back.
"The B slows and opens the O and the N and E enter. I can feel the
bones coming to life. Twain and Kafka are grabbing my ankles. They
know I'm close to the top. They want to stop me. The mountain wants to
stop me. But it can't stop me. I rise and rise. I feel rain falling
on me. God is trying to drown me. But. Not even God can stop me. I
am so close. I crush the bones of Borges and Burroughs as I get close
to the peak. Not even Shakespeare got this far. I can see it. I can
see something. Something White. It looks like -- it looks like a -- A
Grasshopper. A grasshopper? It's eating the mountain. It's too big.
Can't be -- I had -- I had a terrier -- I had a..."
Rose knew this was her last chance. She ripped herself free from the
circle and ran towards one of the doors. She tried to open it but it
wouldn't turn. Open! God, open, Rose screamed in her mind. It
wouldn't turn.
"XY into XX? ESP? PCP? RESPECP? Heaven drowns! Falling! No!
Dreams devouring!! Swallowing!! Skeletons!! Drowning!! Personal
Narrative!! Barry Ulysses Suttle!! Had -- Had -- Had!!! Terrier!!
Terrier!! Falling!! The Circle!! The Circle!! T!! T!!
TEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! Stop!! Stop!! No!!! Truck!! Truck!! Broken!!!
Circle Broken!!! No!!! No. I am awake. No. I am awake. I am awake."
And Barry Suttles eyes opened. And he looked at Rose who was still
trying desperately to open the door. "You! You broke it!" Barry
Suttle's face was filled with rage. "You broke the circle! Get back!
Damn it! Get back to the circle! Get back! Now!!"
And Rose started to do exactly that. What choice did she have? She
couldn't fight him. She couldn't fight this. She didn't even know if
there was a world still out there. Perhaps this was the entire world.
It would be easier this way. Accept it. Accept that this is the way
life is. But before Rose reached the circle of naked bodies who were
starting to awaken a light filled the darkness of the room. Barry
Suttle turned his head around wondering what was causing it. It was a
window.
"What...? What the hell? That -- That shouldn't -- I have no..." But
before Barry Suttle could complete that sentence a big boot crashed
through the window's glass. A red boot attached to a rather large
muscular man wearing a tight black spandex costume with a red belt
around his waist and a red hood covering his head and a red cape that
flowed around him. A strange symbol was inscribed on his chest and he
carried a very big black book. Four more men that were dressed exactly
like him crashed through the window. Glass flew through the room as the
various unclothed students who had just awakened became aware of all
this and started to scream and panic. The men looked a bit like
professional wrestlers.
"Who the --? Who are you, people?" Barry Suttle managed to sputter out
as he slightly backed away from these strange costumed men.
"We are the new Managers of this Universe, Barry Suttle --Black Magic
Creative Writing Instructor. We hold the keys to Heaven and Hell now.
We are The Real Deal. That is all you need to know."
"Look. I know what this looks like, but..." Barry Suttle started to say
as he surveyed the room full of naked creative writing students. "But
it was all totally consensual. I mean just ask them -- my students -- I
promise that..."
"Lies. But we know the truth, Barry Suttle. For it is written here in
this book." The hooded man then opened up the big black book he was
carrying and turned to a specific page. "All the sins and evil you have
committed is printed right here. All your lies are here too. You never
had a dog named Mr. T. It was your truck that ran over the dog. It was
you who didn't stop. Who kept on driving."
"No -- I -- I didn't mean too -- for that to -- it was an accident! It
was an accident! Please! I wanted to stop! I had to get to this place
-- didn't have the... I wanted to stop. I didn't mean to run over --
over... It was a mistake. It was a mistake. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I
didn't mean to. Didn't mean to. Please! Please?"
"Your apologies are too late. And the evil you have committed is too
much. For your crimes you must go to Hell." The hooded man flipped to
another page in the book.
"Wait! I've got rights! Look. Who the hell do you think you -- I'm
calling the cops!" Barry Suttle was bluffing. He wasn't really going
to call the cops, but maybe it would...
"No. You have no rights. Not anymore. You will be sent to Hell
#88888888. In this Hell you will have nothing. No clothes. No food.
No drink. No human companionship or any type of companionship. You
will have an endless white room with nothing in it except a typewriter
and an endless supply of paper. And you will only have one idea for a
story; try as you might to imagine more. And you will write this story
over and over again. And this story will be about a man who writes the
same story over and over again; try as he tries to write something new.
That will be your Hell, Barry Suttle. Forever and forever."
"No! This is -- this is just crazy... Get out of here! I -- I'm going
to..." But before Barry Suttle could take any kind of action the floor
started to shake. A crack in the floor started to open up beneath
Barry's feet. Before Barry could run to a more stable area he felt
himself being sucked into the crack. With all his strength he grabbed a
piece of the floor and tried to hold on to it. "Please! Don't! I'm
sorry! God!! God!!"
"No. There is no God. There is only The Book of the Real Deal." The
hooded man closed the book. And with that the floor sucked Barry Suttle
completely in. The floor reformed itself and the only evidence left
that a man named Barry Suttle had ever existed were a couple of bloody
torn fingernails embedded into the wood flooring.
Rose huddled close to the floor. What had just happened? She just
wanted to scream. She was naked in a room full of naked people and
strange men wearing hoods and capes. One of the masked men walked over
to her. The man took off his cape. He offered it her. "It's okay," he
said in a calm reassuring voice. He helped put the cape over her body.
She shivered as she huddled inside the cape clutching it closely to
her. "He's gone. And he will never harm another soul.
"Why?" Rose asked as tears streamed from her eyes. "W-Why d-did
h-h-he...?"
"This world is broken, Rose. It is a world ruled by liars and corrupt
souls. People who care more about power than humanity. My friends and
I are going to end that. We are going to pull the weeds that blot the
sun so the garden may rise once again. We are going to drown the lies
in the fire of truth. We are going to save this world. Today is just
the beginning."
"I-I d-d-don't un-un..."
The hooded man nodded. "This will help you understand." He handed Rose
a small book that looked exactly like the big book that the other hooded
man was carrying.
Rose looked at the title. The Book of the Real Deal. "W-What is this?"
The hooded man looked towards the broken window and then he looked back
at Rose. "It is the Answer."
The hooded man rose back up to his feet. "It is the Way."
And then he walked away. "It is the Future."
TO BE CONTINUED...
======================
NEXT: A Pack of Cards...
======================
Notes from the Gutterground...
This is a fine example of a story that you should never turn in for a
creative writing assignment.
*Ahem*
Man. What can I say about this story?
Well, I guess I should point out that Barry Suttle is of course a
completely made up character that bears no resemblance to anyone I know.
I've only ever taken one creative writing class and that one was
instructed by a nice lady who was absolutely nothing like Barry Suttle.
As for why I made him a creative writing teacher -- it just seemed
like an interesting idea for a villain -- nothing more -- and it worked
for the story I was writing. I have nothing against creative writing
teachers. Sounds like a fun job.
As far as I know there is no alt.sex.alphabetic-letters.creative.
And this story... well I wasn't really going for pornography or
erotica... if I had I would have written it differently. It's probably
more horror that verges on black comedy... most likely you'll be more
creeped-out by this story than titillated by it. So, yeah, this story
is sick and disturbing. Too much? I don't know. That's up to you, the
reader. This will probably be the sickest issue... the rest should
perhaps be less sick... although another story might be more
controversial than this one... I don't know. Well, okay it's possible
that there will be sicker stuff ahead...
I think compared to the average Stephen King novel, Vertigo comic it's
no big deal... Neil Gaiman's done sicker stuff.
This was supposed to be out in February.. don't know when the next one
will be out. April.. maybe the end of March... who knows...
Arthur "Awkward Silence..." Spitzer
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