Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
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Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Horror/Scary · #1728953
If you were locked away in an Asylum all day - you'd need a hobby to keep you busy...
By Stephen A Abell.

Number of words: 2541

“Hey! Re-Tar-Doe,” the artificial high-pitched feminine voice echoed over the shop floor, with each syllable accentuated by a click of the fingers in an “Air ‘Z’”, “loose the fucking chainsaw… DOH!”

The seven-foot giant holding the whirring saw, stared shamefaced at the guy dressed in black cotton and lace. “Huh!”

“I keep telling you… that ain’t no way to handle material.” The giant watched, with an awkward feeling in the pit of his stomach as the man sashayed over to his worktable. “Silk is a delicate item and needs to be treated with extreme loving care and tenderness.” His red finger-nailed hands stroked the fabric laid out across the table, smoothing down its creases. “You have to touch it, caress it, get to know it, and how the fabric lies in the weave, before you even decide how to start cutting it… NOT go at it with a fuckin’ chainsaw.” The man’s voice changed from the lilting girly tones to his normal gruff baritone, his anger unable to hold the pretence any longer.

From around the room, the two men heard snickers of laughter break out of the anticipation thick silence.

“Sorry Luke,” the big man snuffled as he looked at the floor, with a feeling of admonition, “I just keep forgettin’, is all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the annoying falsetto was back, “I know. You ain’t got much in the way of brain power, though you’re a pretty good seamstress I hear. But you have to try and remember that we’re not working with skin here. God knows, I’ve tried to get them to let me have leather to work with, but no, oh no, it’s too expensive. I could make this into a thriving business for them if they’d only let me do my “creative genius” thing.” His fingers carved deep and annoyed punctuation marks in the air. “I ask you, is that too much to ask?”

“Well, I…”

“Don’t answer that. I know it isn’t. It’s just that they’re bound by their rules and regulations… though it didn’t stop them from letting you have that bloody thing did it?”

“It’s kinda my…”

“I know. It’s your security blanket. Some kids actually have a blanky or a teddy bear to cling to in bad and nasty times. But your psycho-sicko parents thought it’d be cool to give you a chainsaw. So the shrink says you’re not a danger to anyone anymore, because you’re away from the disturbing affects of your parents. But why do you always bring it with you? That’s what I want to know. Well?”

“Dunno.” If he could have the giant would have gladly made like the ostrich and buried his head in the ground, even if it meant smashing through the concrete floor below him. He was woefully lacking in the art of communication. The cause of this had been his home life, where his kin only ever barked orders at him. Not once had they enquired about his health or his feelings. They hadn’t even given the poor boy a name. He was a nobody; unworthy of a name and unworthy of love. Only living to do others bidding. They did not even give a good God damn if he was happy doing it, or not.

It was this abhorrent mistreatment that made the twelve good people of the jury judge he had not been fully in control of his senses. Stating, he was nothing more than a “human robotic killing machine” so his parents could for fill their debauched carnivorous appetites.

So many times, he had tried to open up at the sessions with Doctor Loomis. Only to find himself incapable of finding the right words to express his self loathing and lack of worth.

When somebody suggested they opening a “Fashion Business” as a way of therapy for the inmates, within the confines of the Asylum, Loomis had loved the idea. Right from the beginning, Loomis suggested that he should give it a try. After all he was good with a needle and thread, as well as being very creative in design – talk about playing up to your strong points.

So here he stood, head down, feeling smaller than the strange small man in front of him. Why could he not leave the saw behind in his room?

Because it felt so good in his hands. It felt right. It was real.

He looked up as he heard the heavy footfall of an approaching guard.

“Why don’t you leave the big guy alone(?)” Paul command, rather than asked, as he came up behind Luke, “Go get a pedicure or something and let him do his work, okay.”

“But the doofus’ll ruin my masterpieces with that fuckin’ thing,” Luke sobbed, close to crocodile tears.

“Listen, Mary…” Paul hunkered in closer to Luke’s ears so he could whisper, “You ain’t no Gucci, or Louis Vuitton, you’re just a sick fuck who killed his mother and step father because they didn’t like your clothes…”

“Well, it’s not my fault I don’t handle criticism well.”

“Paul,” the giant stammered as he looked towards the guard, “it’s okay. Luke’s right. I should use the scissors. I’ll just turn this off an’ put it on the floor, o…”

As he brought the saw up it slid effortlessly through Luke’s wrist as started to gesture, “See, I was righ…” His voice rose into a scream as the blood started to pump from the ruined remains at the end of his sleeve. The hand dropped onto the pink silk and twitched a couple of times in the growing pool of blood.

Paul’s head snapped towards the man holding the chainsaw, just as his head snapped towards Paul’s. Both the men gawped, open mouthed, in shock at each other.

Luke’s screams stopped and they snapped their attention onto him to see him staring forlornly at the bloody stump. Real tears cascaded in rivers from his eyes. Once again, their heads snapped back to stare at each other.

The room was silent except for the mechanical whir emanating from the saw’s motor.

The giant started to mouth the words “Sorry” but was silenced by Paul’s hand moving toward his belt and the revolver holstered there. Instinctively he brought the saw around in one smooth movement. Just as effortlessly, it gnawed its way through Paul’s flesh, muscle, and bone of his neck. The look of horror that suddenly appeared on Paul’s face was mirrored on the giants, as he watched the head tilt and fall to the right, bounce off his shoulder, and thud onto the worktop next to the hand. Paul’s eyes blinked a couple of times. His eye’s moved around in confusion until the found his killer, where they came to rest in a cold hate-filled stare. His lips move in silent words, “you bastard.”

Luke’s scream erupted through the silence once again, as the blood jetted from the sliced jugular vein in the decapitated man’s neck.

Baser instinct and nature, learned from years of training at his parents’ beck and call, came into play and the chainsaw flashed through the air, leaving a red mist behind, as it spat blood from its revolving teeth. Luke was silenced forever as the saw took another fashion victim.

The mountain of a man, who wielded a chainsaw like a broadsword, was vaguely aware of the clapping and cheering coming from around the room, though his mind and attention were elsewhere…

There was an insistent voice calling to him, barking orders.

He was just a nobody, only alive to carryout its bidding…

The chainsaw spoke to him.

It was hungry. It was thirsty. Only blood and flesh could calm its evil appetite.

Once it had been satiated, it wanted to talk to Doctor Loomis… it was time to really open up.

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“Come right this way, please.” The squirrelly looking man, dressed like a maitre d’, ushered the small crowd from the asylums foyer, through the quiet and spotless corridors, and into the main auditorium.

At the far end a runway had been constructed out from the stage, which in turn was fully draped in red velvet cloth. Where the entrance onto the walkway opened up, strange red globs of light pulsated and rotated on the white wall. Hanging on the wall was a ragged and dirty looking banner, sporting an indistinct logo. Chairs ran up both sides of the runway and the man gestured towards them, “Please make yourselves comfortable.”

His hands moved towards one of the side walls, indicating the tables laden with rich looking food. “Feel free to try some of our delicacies. They have been cooked especially for the occasion. Please believe me when I say, they are truly delicious.” He patted his stomach and gave it a vigorous rub, “I was one of the taste testers,” he said with a smile. “There are roasts marinated with herbs, honey, mustard, peppers, and assorted vegetables. Should you feel like a light bite instead - for those of you watching your figures - then we also have cold cuts of meat, delicately laid out on various slices of specialised breads.”

His hand moved towards the rear of the room, where on either side of the entrance doors, stood two drinks bars. Behind each bar stood two immaculately dressed tenders. “On your left we have the wines and spirits, while on the right we have the specialist beers.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me we’re expecting more guests… and a couple of TV stations too.” He smiled cordially, spun on his heals and marched towards the door and the awaiting corridors. “Enjoy.”

Soft smooth jazz flowed from the speakers around the room and the growing crowd partook of the fare and beverages on offer. There was a buzz of anticipation in the air as they chatted about the forthcoming show. There were people from newspapers, fashion magazines, a local television channel, a satellite fashion channel, as well as the entire board of governors. Who, being so overwhelmed by the entire spectacle, had failed to notice the missing doctors and staff.

“Ladies and Gentleman, please take your seats for tonight’s fashion extravaganza.” The squirrelly maitre d’ stood on the stage, his hand beckoning the guests to their seats. “Tonight is the first showing of this man’s fashion genius. From an early age his dear mom and dad were very supportive, allowing his skill and creative art to grow and flourish. Helping him at every step along his journey… giving him his tools of the trade and the materials he required, to bring this, his dream to life.

“I have the great honour to be the first to introduce you to…

“The House of Leather… FACE!”

The lights went out and the music ceased. Blackness overpowered the room. Murmurs of anticipation flowed and moved throughout the crowd, suddenly overpowered and silenced by the guttural growl of a chainsaw revving up into life. From the speakers a heartbeat pounded. Behind the banner a red light blinked in time with the beat. All the guests could now clearly see the jagged edges of the carved out letters. LEATHERFACE. Above the word seemed to be a carved face similar to a jack-o-lantern, though decidedly a little more human.

A scream cut through the air as a red liquid substance was thrown over the banner to run thickly down the white wall. The heartbeat stopped.

The crowd were in a near frenzy at the theatrics, clapping and cheering, standing in ovation. Then the heavy bass reverberated through the sound system and as the Fun Boy Three began to sing “The Lunatics Have Taken Over The Asylum”, the nightmares shambled onto the stage.

At first, the guests thought it was some kind of sick joke by the doctors, nurses and orderlies, allowing the inmates to walk down the runway nude to be laughed at. Some did indeed laugh at the sight, until they got a better look at the models strutting their stuff.

The suits were the best he had ever created. Here at the asylum he had access to the best tools and materials. The seams were straight and precise, not rugged and rough as had been the case back at home. He was proud of his workers and had let them run free in the halls, having full control and responsibility for themselves. Strange how it had worked out, they were such a close and happy community. Each member had their own gift to bring to the mix, either in cooking, butchery, sewing, cleaning, and numerous other things.

Mike, the squirrelly maitre d’, had been an events organiser, who one day poisoned his clients and their guests. This came about because his client berated him for the mess his guests were making of his house and gardens. He had calmly gathered all the medicines in the house, the poisons in the garage, the cleaning products in the kitchen, and spiked all the drinks. Then he called the police and waited for them to arrive as he watched the inconsiderate litter bugs drop one by one.

It had been Mike’s idea and his skills that had brought this event into being.

Now Mike’s latest guests were to succumb to the same fate of his previous ones, only via a nastier route.

One of the more attentive guests having spotted the seams on the skin suits, moved her gaze to the models face As she starred, with a cold dread running through her, she caught sight of the eye-holes and realised they were just that… holes. From the other side of the neatly stitched hole, the cold eye of the maniac inside the suit stared back at her, weighing her up. “They’re body suits,” she screamed as the madman leapt from the stage onto her. His teeth castaneting together, in search of her throat.

The guests ran in panic to the entrance doors, searching for escape, only to find the four bartenders blocking their exit. Light glittered off the metal of the axes each held. A savage smile broadened on their faces as they raised the axes. Their laughter rang out, mixing with the screams, as the axes fell.

The room was alive with madmen and ghouls, flesh-eaters and cutters.

On the stage stood a giant clothed in his “Good Doctors” outfit. The chainsaw, quiet by his side. This was his workers playtime, the reward for their hard work.

“It does a soul good to see people enjoying themselves,” Mike said as he strode onto the stage in his “Hot Young Blonde” number. From the clipboard in his hand he read, “Okay, big guy, tomorrow we’re on the red-eye to Milan. It’s gonna be fashion week there in a month or so. That should be time enough to give your work that Italian feel.”

The giant nodded as Mike handed him the board. “Be a sport and hold this for a while, I can’t miss out on all the fun, can I(?)” With that he ran head long and stage dived onto a redhead, “Geronimo,” he cried. His hands found the material of her dress, just above her cleavage. As they fell heavily to the floor, Leatherface heard the distinctive sound of material ripping apart… Mike’s laughter melted into the maniacal cacophony.

Written for the "Invalid Item"   by A Guest Visitor - come and try your hand *Smile*

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