darknation's Doomworld Forums Blog

darknation's Doomworld Forums Blog

zippers are the work of satan. April 12, 2014, 6:22 pm
yeah, so I was drunk the other night and I think I caught my foreskin in my zipper.

It's fucking sore. It looks gross, lightly skinned, still weeping white blood cells. The scab that is forming... well, it's less of a scab, more of a geological formation made of pus, blood and copious pants fluff.

I wish I had worn better coloured pants so the scab would look less like a gangrenous bubo.



Also related;

26 Comments

hypothetical March 26, 2014, 12:19 am
You walk into the toilet. Your ass is full of shit. You are desperate. The seat is down. The porcelain beckons. You unbuckle your belt and drop your pants. The metal buckle clatters on the cold, unforgiving bathroom floor.

Something is wrong. Very wrong. Sudden dread infuses you on an instinctive level. Your fingers quest across your butt cheeks and into your crack. Your blood curdles in your veins as your index finger reveals the terrible, gut-wrenching truth;

Your asshole has vanished overnight. There is now nothing but a flat piece of inviolate skin in between your quivering buttocks. There will be no release from this torture.

WHAT DO YOU DO NOW?
12 Comments

tonight I mostly made textures. February 25, 2014, 11:26 pm
because MY BALLS, that's why.

16 Comments

and everything turns to shit February 18, 2014, 10:36 pm
So.

Fucking hard post to write, but I guess I better get it out of my system. Went to work a few weeks ago leaving girlfriend in house, prior to her going to her own work. Lah de dah, everything is nice nice. I assume my GF brushed her teeth at some point.

And forgot to switch the tap off.

Now I don't fucking know how a human being can just walk out of a building and leave a tap on. She's diabetic; I assume she was in some sort of walking coma. Regardless, the overflow is fucked and the downstairs flat gets pissed all over.

Not good.

They phone their landlord, who is on holiday in some third world shithole spending all that hard earned rentz moneys on blow and hookers and shit. He is displeased with the fact that his house is sinking like fucking atlantis. He phones my landlady, who tries to phone me.

I is at work. I is not answering phone.

So, she takes her key and enters my flat. And my flat is a shithole. There is a bountiful mountain of pizza boxes. The carpet is a swamp of split beer and fag ends. The roof, which has been leaking for a month now, has let an interesting genre of fungus colonize one of the walls. Speaking of walls, I have spray-painted the word FRAD on the living room wall for some reason that sounded really hilarious at the time.

She has not been up to visit the flat in five years. And the tap is still pishing water downstairs.

She is displeased.

So I get a rage-phonecall after the event. The plumbing is all fucked anyway, has been for years, but maybe I should have squirted some shit down the pipes occasionally. Whatever, problem solved, phone the plumber when I get off nightshift, just don't use the sink in the bathroom.

Aaaaaand the overflow pipe is also apparently connected to the bathtub. Because I don't know, what sort of retarded plumber does that shit?

I shouldn't be surprised. The flat used to be an attic and the plumbing is the most retarded thing I have ever seen. Big holes cut through floorboard to make the bathtub actually fit in, meaning there is less than 50% floor beneath the bath and any spillage flies directly through my neighbor's ceiling and into their coffee. Oh, and the seal on the toilet burst last year and bored a shit-piss hole straight through their roof into the walk-in cupboard. Fuck your clothes, bitches, I defecate on them with impunity for a week until you notice.

Anyway, latest and greatest travesty against the downstairs neighbors has been decreed to be the Last Straw. I am out of there in T-minus two weeks.

Went to council, who will not help me because I have neither a heroin habit, fifteen kids or a prison record. Also they decree that my notice to quit the property is illegal, so won't help me with a council house until landlady provides a N3545435X form or some shit to say yes, I have kicked this fuckwad's lame ass into the street and he is now living in a bin outside of Tesco.

Basically I am staring into the asshole of oblivion and it has farted in my face. Internets look unlikely. Laugh, by all means, but remember;

I WILL BE BACK.
9 Comments

tossing off February 12, 2014, 4:45 pm
fannying about on the internet instead of doing work on my book. Need some mojoes. Motivate me.
7 Comments

400 words, no fat February 4, 2014, 10:45 pm
think I nailed it pretty hard. Of course, I will wake up tomorrow and find it full of fail and delete it.

For posterity then.

2 Comments

31 years old January 31, 2014, 4:56 am
I am not mellowing with age.
5 Comments

chrischan burned his house down January 11, 2014, 7:36 am
and I cannot stop laughing. Help me.
24 Comments

started so I'll not finish January 9, 2014, 11:19 pm
couldn't really stop tho.


SCENE 1

FADE IN:

INT. NICK'S BAKERY NIGHT


DR. FAGGOT and CUNT are kneeling in a dirty, dirty bakery. A MAN lies on floor, his spine practically snapped in half by his own underwear.


DR. FAGGOT
Looks like foul play.

CUNT twangs the knicker elastic behind the MAN's head.

CUNT
Are you saying this is a sex game gone wrong?

DR. FAGGOT
Perhaps. Do we have an ID on the corpse?

CUNT
Yep. His mother sewed his name into the back of his y-fronts. It's Ni...

DR. FAGGOT
Even assuming those ARE his y-fronts. Could be someone else's.

CUNT nods, twangs knicker elastic once again.

CUNT
You mean a double bluff? A transvestite who wears mens' underpants?

DR. FAGGOT
I wouldn't put anything past sick fucks like these.

CUNT begins to play DUELING BANJOES on knicker elastic (jen, check clearance on music rights)

DR. FAGGOT slaps CUNT away and begins to check the body over. A giant, wet pair of BALLS slap down across the body's forehead.

DR. FAGGOT
My God! His balls are hanging down his back like Superman's cape!

CUNT
Better dust them for prints.

CUNT dusts the balls. Fingerprint dust and flour flies everywhere.

DR. FAGGOT
Anything?

CUNT
Everything. A thousand different sets of prints. It looks like everyone in the world was touching his balls at some point.

CUNT takes out a bit of sellotape and removes a single print, feeding it into his CSI FINGERPRINT MACHINE.

DR. FAGGOT
Boy that's realistic.

FINGERPRINT MACHINE BLEEPS.

CUNT
And we have a match! Let's see... fingerprint belongs to... I don't beleive this. According to CSI FINGERPRINT MACHINE, this print belongs to a perp who has been dead for twenty years!

DR. FAGGOT
My God! Again! What sort of demented pervert doesn't wash his balls for twenty years?

CUNT
That's assuming....

DR. FAGGOT nods sagely.

DR. FAGGOT
...that they even ARE his balls...

CAMERA PANS BACK THROUGH WINDOW. SIGN READS "NICK'S BAKERY"

OFF SCREEN NOISES OF EPIC FAPPING THAT LASTS FOR 2 HOURS OR THEREABOUTS


FADE TO BLACK




SCENE 2

INT. DR. FAGGOT’S APPARTMENT NIGHT

DR. FAGGOT and CUNT enter the kitchen, probably via. a door. A KITTY CAT by the window eyes them suspiciously.

CUNT
…and then they made me their chef.

DR. FAGGOT stops rock still and stares at the cat. He gestures for his companion to be silent.

DR. FAGGOT
Kitty cat.

DR. FAGGOT moves to the kitchen cabinet and retrieves a can of RAVIOLI.

DR. FAGGOT
Kitty. Kitty cat.

DR. FAGGOT opens and empties can of RAVIOLI onto a tea plate before placing it on the floor in front of KITTY CAT.

KITTY CAT
Meow.

KITTY CAT moves to plate and begins to eat.

CUNT
Cute.

DR. FAGGOT kicks KITTY CAT clean across the room with his size 12 Doc Martins. There is a sickening crack of ribs. KITTY CAT smashes right through DR. FAGGOT’S KITCHEN WINDOW.

CUNT
What the fuck! What the fuck did you… Your fucking cat, man!

DR. FAGGOT
(shouting like a death metal vocalist) THAT’S NOT MY CAT!

DR. FAGGOT runs back through kitchen door. CUNT follows at his heels.




SCENE 3

EXT. DR. FAGGOT’S HOUSE NIGHT

DR. FAGGOT and CUNT kneel over the corpse of KITTY CAT in exactly the same pose as before.

CUNT
I still don’t see…

DR. FAGGOT
Dust it for prints.

CUNT
You want me to dust the fucking cat?

DR. FAGGOT
(seemingly possessed by Satan) DUST IT FOR PRINTS.

CUNT does as he is told. But, despite using all the fingerprint dust in his fingerprint dust bucket, he cannot find a print.

CUNT
There are no usable prints on this dead cat.

DR. FAGGOT
Did you dust the cat’s balls?

CUNT
No, I couldn’t see the cat’s balls.

DR. FAGGOT
(enraged) DUST THE CAT’S BALLS!

CUNT gingerly opens KITTY CAT’S back legs. There is a sickening Velcro noise as they peel apart. CUNT grosses out for a second, then steels himself and returns to the investigation.

CUNT
I… I don’t know how to tell you this.

DR. FAGGOT stands up and turns to stare into the streetlights. He is once again composed, but says nothing.

CUNT
Someone… Someone…

DR. FAGGOT nods sagely.

DR. FAGGOT
Someone has stolen the cat’s balls.




SCENE 4

INT. DR. FAGGOT’S KITCHEN NIGHT

CUNT and DR. FAGGOT stand in a makeshift autopsy room set up in the middle of DR. FAGGOT’S kitchen. KITTY CAT has been chopped to pieces with a steak knife. DR. FAGGOT is up to his elbows in blood.

DR. FAGGOT
(hisses from between his teeth) Give them to me. Give up your secrets to me.

CUNT
What can you tell from the autopsy results?

DR. FAGGOT
The victim was a common household tabby, between approximately two and twenty years old. Cause of death was a size 12 Doc Martin Boot that ruptured every single vital organ in its body. Wounds to the head and side were post-mortem, most likely sustained when it smashed through a large plate of glass, possibly a window.

CUNT
You can tell all that from an autopsy?

DR. FAGGOT raises a finger to forestall CUNT.

DR. FAGGOT
However! The balls, my friend, look at the balls. Or, rather, the lack of them. Look at this sad, empty sack. I can say with 100% certitude that the removal of this cat’s balls was done PRE-MORTEM.

CUNT
(aghast) You mean…

DR. FAGGOT
Yes. Some sick, deviant scum removed the cat’s balls whilst it was STILL ALIVE.

CUNT
My God man! Why? Why would someone do such a thing?

DR. FAGGOT
They were obviously evidence. Perhaps the cat could be identified by its balls. So, before whoever sent it sent it, they removed the cat’s balls so the cat couldn’t be traced back to them.

CUNT
You mean…

DR. FAGGOT
Yes. The cat was a spy. Sent here, I’d wager, to spy on us and, if necessary, remove us from the game…

DR. FAGGOT is interrupted by a loud ping.

DR. FAGGOT
Ah, excuse me.

DR. FAGGOT picks up fork and moves to microwave. He opens the door, pulls out RAVIOLI and begins to eat it.

CUNT
We are in way over our heads here. This is big. Bigger than all of us, maybe. We need to call for backup.

DR. FAGGOT
How can we? The entire force might be compromised. Hell, the backup’s backup might be the very people that are conspiring against us.

CUNT
We have to tell the chief.

DR. FAGGOT waves fork with impaled RAVIOLI beneath CUNT’s nose.

DR. FAGGOT
No. No chief. Not until I’m sure.

CUNT
You’re insane! You’re a maverick! You’re a rogue!

DR. FAGGOT
And that’s why…

DR. FAGGOT gestures savagely to the ruined pile of meat that used to be KITTY CAT with his fork. RAVIOLI flies off and slaps against the wall.

DR. FAGGOT
(continued)
…I get results.




SCENE 5

EXT. WELTON ROAD

DR. FAGGOT and CUNT are walking the streets in trenchcoats and fedoras. PROSTITUTES and PUNKS linger beneath streetlights before them.

DR. FAGGOT approaches PROSTITUTE.

DR. FAGGOT
I need info on a pussy.

PROSTITUTE
(speaks like she’s got a mouthful of Tupac) I’ma not fallin’ for dat shit, ya’ll G-Man nigga.

DR. FAGGOT
What.

PROSTITUTE
Y’no run me up on charges, I’ma harassment, police harassment, y’all punk-ass bitch nigga’s betta run ‘fore ma pimp pimps up an’ bring the pimp hand yo.

DR. FAGGOT
(shouting as Scotsmen do when confronted by a foreign language) DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH AT ALL?

CUNT
I’ve got this one, man. I speak the lingo.

CUNT reaches into his pocket and then BACKHANDS PROSTITUTE into the wall, knocking her unconscious and possibly fracturing her skull.

DR. FAGGOT straightens jacket.


DR. FAGGOT
Nigga indeed.

DR. FAGGOT and CUNT move to the next PROSTITUTE in line, who we will call HOEBAG because I am sick of typing PROSTITUTE

DR. FAGGOT
Good evening.

HOEBAG
Pleasure to make your acquaintance.

DR. FAGGOT
Don’t give me your sass! You’ll give me answers and you’ll give them to me now!

CUNT
No sass!

DR. FAGGOT
Lie to me and it will go ill for you my sweet, sweet darling. Now, tell me, do you recognize this cat?

DR. FAGGOT reaches into his trenchcoat and pulls out KITTY CAT’S decapitated head.

HOEBAG looks suspiciously at KITTY CAT’S head.

HOEBAG
Maybe I’ve seen him around, yeah.

DR. FAGGOT
You’d better spill.

HOEBAG
Maybe I will. But it will cost you.

DR. FAGGOT
(screams) SPILL!

DR. FAGGOT pushes the decapitated head of KITTY CAT against HOEBAG’S FACE, rubbing it all over her and pushing her backwards.

HOEBAG
Arrrgh!

DR. FAGGOT
Tell me what I need to know!

CUNT decides to play good cop and kneels down beside HOEBAG

CUNT
You’d best do what he says. Because I don’t want to see you taken down to the cells. You know what the desk jockeys and clerks would do to a sweet little thing like you? It isn’t nice. They’d take you out. They’d turn you upside down and use you as a pencil pot.

DR. FAGGOT
(still shouting) Look at the cat! Look at the fucking cat!

HOEBAG
(crying) Alright, alright! I’ve seen it before! It’s the Jefferson’s cat!

DR. FAGGOT
You sure?

HOEBAG
Yes, yes, it’s the Jefferson’s! John Jefferson! John ‘Peanut Butter’ Jefferson!

CUNT
You’d recognize this John Jefferson?

HOEBAG
I’d recognize his cock.

DR. FAGGOT retreats a little and composes himself, leaving HOEBAG cowering in the dirt. He pulls CUNT aside and they conspire together.

CUNT
We can’t just have everyone whip their cock out at an ID parade.

DR. FAGGOT
We certainly can not. It would let them know that we were on to them.

HOEBAG
Please, sirs! Please! He’s a bad man! He’s evil! The things he makes us do! With cats! And peanut butter! Please sirs, I’m begging you…

DR. FAGGOT
Cunt. I think I have an idea.

HOEBAG
…I’m allergic to cats…

CUNT
An idea?

HOEBAG
(continued)…and I’m allergic to peanut butter, I thought the swelling would never go down, my pussy was black and blue for weeks afterwards, like Mike Tyson’s face with those big, bleeding, blubbery lips…

FADE




Scene Six

EXT. WELTON ROAD.

A large tent had been erected. There is a sign over the door. It reads FREE BLOWJOBS. A line of patrons stretches out as far as the eye can see.


6 Comments

bringing the ruin to the local newsletter January 3, 2014, 11:40 am
5 Comments

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