Originally posted by: Heisenberg
Taco AND RTH.. your life becomes the tale of 7 Khoon Maaf, explain how you went about killing your seven husbands, who are listed below, and in what order do you kill them, you are given full creative freedom and license to kill. 😆
SB.
Kal El
Billa
2Direct
Heisenberg
Be.A.Rebel 😆
UnsolvedMystery
TexanHolden
... oh what the hell, I've added an 8th in there too... let's see who comes up with more creative and gruesome murders. 😎
I took the task of the eight murders quite literally. I literally had to marry them and murder them all. So my interpretation is dark (and movie length). I can't help it, when I have an idea to write about, I just type away. Or maybe I am just a cruel and sadistic killer. I apologize if any of you are upset or offended, it is just a task for fun. 😛 I hope it is gruesome enough for some. With the forum in consideration, I did try to keep it milder though. Reader discretion is advised for the following. 😆
(PS: Attitude Ash, can this count towards your love story? It does not have five guys and gals, but it does have 8 guys and me, and it is not a happily ever after)
They call me the Black Widow. Men don't last longer than a few months with me. It is somewhat incredulous. The plants in my gardens, the dogs in my estate, the horses in the stable, they all thrive under my care. They are loyal, they love and I take good care of them. But men, my men, they all die cruel and unusual deaths. Handsome young souls with their youth stolen well before their time in the most gruesome manners. I've been through eight husbands this way. These men, they weren't like my animals, loyal, caring or loving. They are all selfish and self centered. Each of them was beautiful in their own right, the perfect sculpture of beauty and manhood, but at the same time so distorted and inhumanly ugly. I needed to rid the world of them. Each of them I disposed personally, with my own hands, with meticulous care. Each and every one of them deserved their fate. I'm sure you will agree.
The first was the Rebel. I was but a nave young girl when I fell for him. It was because he laughed. He laughed all the time. No matter how grim or bleak the situation, he would simply laugh. I liked that about him. Laughter appeals to foolish young women I think. It seems so light and carefree. You think that laughter can heal the world. But then that was all he did, laugh. I couldn't even have a conversation with him without him breaking out into fits of laughter. Even when my precious pooch Tommy died, all he could do was roll on the floor, clutching his belly, while he laughed his guts out. Laughter ringing in my ears I could not take it any longer. The cacophony of his hoots and guffaws had to be silenced. If he loved laughing so much, he would die laughing. So that is exactly what I did. It was easy to get him seated in the dentist's chair. The promise of the magical gas that offered the gift of laughter appealed to him. And so I put the mask of nitrous oxide to his face. Within a few minutes his eyes lolled and his face broke into a trippy smile as the laughing gas took him into a delightful fit of fantasy. He didn't even realize me binding him into the chair with solid straps of leather fitted with sturdy brass buckles. He simply giggled like a little girl. Then the Roman torture began. I tickled him all over, as his body jerked and writhed constrained by the straps. Nitrous oxide pumping into his lungs, peals of laughter knocking the wind out of him. His oxygen was cut off, he would suffocate to death soon. The realization of his fate brought a shocked look of terror in his eyes, he wanted to break free and escape, but his body wouldn't let him. It merely writhed, and giggled and writhed and giggled some more, his consciousness half in terror half in a hallucinated La La land. Then the writhing and giggling stopped suddenly. He was gone, but that stupid sloppy grin would be plastered on his face for eternity. He died doing what he loved – laughing.
My next was the Rebel's older brother, Billa the village idiot. He was a simple and trusting fellow. So gullible that he believed that his little brother died laughing. I bedded him the night of the funeral itself. You might find that distasteful and appalling, but my husband was dead and I didn't want to be lonely anymore. It is just one of those things. Once you have a man in your life, you need that companionship to be satisfied. I played the heartbroken, distressed damsel perfectly and Billa, he was just a hot blooded young man starved for attention who willingly obliged. He thought he was a hero, a knight in shining armor, consoling a woman in dire need. My little toy tin soldier could think whatever he wanted for all I could care. At first he didn't want to get married, after all he was one of those men who wanted the widespread buffet of village belles to satisfy himself. But he wasn't the village idiot for nothing, my hapless woman act was more than sufficient to have him ensorcelled. The novelty of him wore away quickly though. It is always fun at first, but then they get to you. He was boorish, unpolished, uncouth and annoyingly chauvinistic. To add to that he was an incorrigible flirt who had to make a pass at every woman irrespective if she was just a child or a wrinkled old woman. At first I tolerated it, not as if he wasn't cuckolded. But as each day passed it grew more and more grating. But the straw that broke the camel's back was the "Vrrrooom". That annoying vroom over everything. A vroom to start the day, a vroom to have a meal and a vroom in the bed as well. That was the most annoying indeed. So it was decided he would vroom his way to death. One evening we went out to sunset point on the cliff. There as he hurriedly undressed himself in the hopes of an exciting evening, I started his Enfield bullet and rode towards him like a maniac. The look of terror in his eyes like a deer in the headlights was priceless. His face paled to a trembling white and he was the epitome of fear. With pants around the ankles he struggled to move, and fell on the ground with a thud. Vroom, I rode over his back as he let out a gasp. Vroom I rode over his face, gleefully watching his septum deviate and crunch. Vroom I rode over his groin as he let out the a scream of utmost pain and agony. Vroom, Vroom, Vroom, Vroom, I rode the bike over him again and again twisting, breaking, crushing different parts of him as I maneuvered the bike. Vroom, Vroom, Vroom, when I had the satisfaction of running over his battered, lifeless body over and over again, I threw him and his bike over the cliff.
After the second murder, I had decided to lay low for a while and stay away from the men. But then Texan had other ideas. He was Billa's arch rival and nemesis. The two of them had a blood feud going in the village for ages. Texan didn't think Billa deserved me. In that he was absolutely right. I was a foolish to marry that chauvinistic bas***d. Texan had tried wooing me on several occasions, but I'd always tried to ignore him because the last thing I wanted was an ugly fight. It is always an ugly fight when men pick their battles. Now that Billa was gone, his path of conquest was all clear. Unlike Billa, he wasn't a head strong, rush of blood, boorish flirt and chaser. He was a master of the game, he held his hand closely, put on a poker face and tried to tantalize me with his calculated moves. It was a game of Hold'em poker we played, back and forth, teasing and tormenting each other with our plays. He maybe a seasoned professional, but I was born to win. Eventually he had to fold, fold into my charms and he was mine. But then, I should have known. Games, games was his weakness. He loved to drink and gambled, the more he drank, the more he gambled, the more he gambled, the more he drank. I just could not let him leech of my savings any more. So in the coldest cold of winter, with the blizzard dropping over two feet of snow on the ground and the wind chill whipping down to inhuman degrees below, I lured him to a game of poker, a game of strip poker. He was blind stinking drunk after wasting away more of his daily allowance. Out of his senses he didn't think much of the inhospitable conditions when we sat down to play in the haystacks in the barn. The more he drank, the more he gambled, the more he stripped, and in his excitement, the more he drank, the more he gambled, the more he stripped, till he was buck naked like a fool. I had to win, I was born to win. The pitiful bas***d thought stripping him naked was an invitation for something more, but how mistaken was he. As he stumbled around drunk, I lassoed him with the horses reins, bound him in ropes and tossed him into the bitter cold. The furious white wind whipped his body, thin red welts began to form as blasts of sleet lashed his exposed skin. His hair was matted wet with snow, his eyelashes, lips encrusted with snow. The color of his body started changing first he turned red with a rush of blood and fury, then yellow as he paled, white in cold fear as the winter slowly drained the life out of his body and finally blue as life ebbed out of him. By morning he was almost buried in snow and frozen like a popsicle. I dressed him and disposed him in the mountains. People thought he wandered of drunk and was buried in an avalanche.
The next came the mysterious stranger who called himself Unsolved Mystery. I was just keeping to myself, when he mysteriously appeared at my doorstep one evening. He was a traveler, traveling the lands and was passing through the village. He needed a place to rest for the night and wondered if I would show him some hospitability. He would sleep in the barn and tend to the horses, bale the hay and do any work I needed he said. I licked my lips, he was a fine specimen of a man. I'd been alone for a while and made up my mind to put him to any work as I needed. That night when he had baled the hay and chopped some wood, I offered him some work over dinner. At first he was taken aback by the kind of work I had in mind, but he was happy to oblige. He stayed the night. Then he stayed some more wanting me to show him around the beautiful valleys of our village. And he stayed some more, he had grown weary of travel and working for me invigorated him. He wanted to work for me forever. So he stayed. He was a fine young man, but for one obsession of his, his obsession with Salmon. Every day things came down to Salmon. Salmon sucks! Salmon needs to die! Salmon is a loser! Salmon beats women! Salmon kills animals! Salmon strips boys! Salmon is a filthy wild beast! Salmon! Salmon! Salmon! I had enough. If he likes Salmon, let Salmon be the end of him. So one fine day we went fishing. I said we would catch some river salmon and then he can pretend it was his Salmon and enjoy killing it, beheading it, smoking it and devouring it. He found the idea amusing. Little did he know what was coming. As he waded into the water to cast his bait, I cast mine. I flicked the line of my fishing rod and my special hook flew in air with a whistle and caught itself in his jowls. Cheek ripped, blood splattering and dripping down his chin he looked at me aghast. Before he could register what was happening I shot him with my stun gun. He fell limp in the water, blood running read in the stream. I dragged him to shore with my hook and line, they were specially made for heavy prey. His stunned body bounced on the river rock all the way. His eyes begging for mercy, but it was too late for him. I tied him up to a tree. Then I went to my backpack and pulled out the Salmon, I bought earlier and tied it all over him. Then I climbed the tree and waited. Sniffing the blood and Salmon a big black bear came soon enough. The effects of the stun were wearing and he was twitching to break free and flee. But it was too late, the bear reared up and slashed at him with a might paw. Blood splattered across the forest. After the bear had consumed one salmon, it slashed again to grab another. The line binding him was cut and he tried to crawl to escape, but blood was gushing and he was too weak. The bear simply walked over clamped his under his body and started shredding him to bits. It was such an unfortunate accident with the bear. I was lucky to stun the bear and escape for my life.
My next man was another stranger in town. He was the strangest of them all, with the strangest fixations. No one knows where he came from, he didn't live in our village. Maybe he came from another village, but he would sit by the watering stream next to the village and play his flute. 2D they called him. The village girls would giggle and whisper about him. He was quite popular. He loved to look at their feet. He admired their dainty little feet, and the music the anklets made as they walked around. When the river rock cut their feet, he offered to apply salve and soothe them. And if they dared to allow him, he would offer to kiss their feet and heal their wounds with his lips, his tongue would could work miracles he promised. Those who let him told tales of trembles and ecstasy they had never known before. All that from just a kiss on the feet, this I had to see. I walked down to stream one day and watched him. When everyone was gone, and the sun was setting, I ventured alone, my anklets tinkling and sat alone on a rocky ledge. His eyes fell on me with bemused interest. I splashed my feet in the water and his eyes fixated on my feet. The drops of water trickled on them, shining golden in the setting sun. My feet were not even hurt or bleeding and he waded in the water, dropped to his knees and kissed them. Thusly, I found him. It was exciting at first, but that too bored me after a while. I was not a giggling village girl and the foot thing didn't hold my fascination for too long. But he promised it would get better, he promised he would make up for it later, and he did, but he never let go of the feet. Sadly he would have to go too. So one day, I drugged him and set to work on his feet. I took the heaviest and sharpest of my meat cleavers and hacked of his big toe. Bone splintered and blood oozed. Unfettered I went on to the next toe. The cracking of the bone was music to my ears as I rhythmically hacked his toes of one by one, then his fingers after that. Soon I hacked him to pieces and fed him to my dogs. Poor 2D, I wonder what happened to him. He disappeared as mysteriously as he appeared. The poor village girls still sigh and wait for him at the stream.
The next ones were my favorite. I actually regretted it when I had to dispose of them. I had grown quite fond of them. And Yes, it was them. Two this time you see. Two handsome young twins who just moved into the village. SB & Kal-El. They were two beautiful and gentle souls. Kind, caring, and hardworking. Every girl in the village fell in love with them. They were carpenters, and set up their shop in the village. I hired them to build a whole new bedroom set for me a king bed, a night stand, a dresser, an armoire, a large polished wooden mirror frame, the works. It would take them months working at my place to build it. I was intrigued by them. I enjoyed watching their muscles ripple as they were hard at work. I'd never been with two men before. These two were perfect. Gentle souls they were, they balked at my thoughts and refused. But how long could they refuse me. Watching me every day as they worked from the corner of their eye, they too were intrigued by me. Finally they gave in. We spent many a happy months together. But then it got boring. I wanted them to be jealous, I wanted them to fight, I wanted them to treat me as a prize and war for me. But they were such gentle souls, they always worked everything out amicably. I wanted them to play rough, I wanted them to play dirty. But they were such gentle souls, they could be nothing but tender and loving. Everything was an art for them, and everything was crafted with the slow precision of a master carpenter. That did it. Even if I loved them both, even if it would make me cry, I would have to dispose them. So one night, after spending some lovely time in the bed they crafted, they dozed off into blissful slumber and I carried out my attack. I unleashed my fury with the chainsaw they used to fell wood. Blood splattered across the walls of the room, limbs and digits fell to the floor. I cried, I cried profusely, but I also enjoyed it, licking the salty mixture of tear and blood from my lips, the blood and tears of something so cruelly beautiful. I loved them so much, but too bad that men are jealous and possessive and can never share a woman peacefully. In the end, they had drawn blood.
After they were gone, I cried and cried for days. My lovely gentle souls, I hope they were someplace happy. That is when I found God. He appeared before me, light radiating all around him. I could not believe , God himself had come to console me. He raised his hand in a merciful blessing and said "Accept the Lord in your life, love me and no one else and I shall forgive all your sins and keep you by my side in heaven. Accept the Lord my child, both you and the Lord will be better for it". Mesmerized, I dropped to my knees in a reverent prayer. God looked down at me and smiled, he held my head and blessed me. I felt all the pain of my sins wash away. I was born again. But God is a lie. God doesn't exist. It is all a lie. They whisperers of God, they lie to you and trap you in a world of illusions. They trap you in the turmoil between sin and salvation. God wants your undivided devoted attention, all the while dividing his love into a million little pieces, a little bit for everyone. Such is the deception of God. I wasn't the only ones whose sins he washed away. There was Xeta who shared his throne and bed. There were countless others like Taco, Ajnu, Jaya, Maya, Priya, the magic of God's love was boundless and endless. But I was special, if I worshiped God, he would have to be all mine. That is why one day, I decided that even God has to die. In a fit of fury, I hit him on the head and knocked him unconscious. When he awoke, he was in the bathroom, laying naked in a tub of ice, his hands and feet bound. I made him watch as I did it, his eyes wide in horror. His body was numb with the analgesics but he still screamed and yelled and shouted as I did it. After all I was killing him. I slowly but surely gelded God with surgical precision. He still breathed and lived, but without his family jewels, he was dead, there was no life left to him anymore. They say God is all merciful and all forgiving. I'm sure he will forgive me someday.
71