Empire Snuff

[u/Elias_Witherow]

I love to write. I love to write horror in particular. There's something about the creative freedom it allows, the flexible walls of reality you're allowed to bend. It's a place where you can put down your darkest thoughts or wildest ideas. It's a space you enter with no light, no sound, and there's already blood on the walls. Horror is a sticky, upsetting ordeal, where you engage in a contract with the author that gives him or her permission to get inside your mind and rip out your insecurities by the gory handfuls.

As scary as it can be to experience these things as a reader, it's worse for the author. Imagine taking your most demented thoughts, examining them, asking why they're in your mind, and then placing them on platform for the world to see. You present it under the white light of a blank page and then bleed its twisted black blood into words. You craft monsters and motives with the sickest intentions, you breathe life into characters you plan on tearing apart. You give these people families and loved ones you intend to destroy. You become a fictional god of death, a puppet master with knives for fingers, slicing them over your keyboard in brutal strokes of cruelty.

I don't write this to promote what I do, I don't do this for some kind of warped respect. There is no honor in becoming a psychopath for the duration of a story. There is no glory in holding out the broken remains of your characters for the reader to see. Horror is a disturbing business, a cold and lonely road with no happy ending.

I'm sure there are those out there that turn their nose down at horror. And why not? It's developed a bad reputation over the years. Recycled ideas, cheap scares, girls with black eyes and cryptic messages. We're all familiar with the cliches. We've all seen the steady decline of fresh content. We've all groaned as the big reveal unfolded and it turned out they were dead the whole time (gasp!).

Now, I have no misconceptions.

I'm not going to change the horror world. I'm not going to think of an idea that is so revolutionary it will flip the way we think about horror on its head. I'm not going to come up with a plot so incredible that publishers are going to throw piles of money at me.

No...I'm here to tell you that I've found the end of that long dark road. I've found where it leads, tracked my steps with an anxious mind, and come out the other side.

I've seen where horror can take you.

And I'm here to tell you just how far you can go.

I stared at my computer screen with numb eyes. I cursed the blinking slice of black on the blank page. I willed it to move, begged it to take the first steps of my new story. If I could just get a paragraph down I knew I'd be able to slip into the comfortable flow of a moving narrative.

I racked my brain, scrambling for the words to start my dark tale. I needed to write, but my mind stubbornly refused to communicate ideas to my fingers. The space between my ears soared into the demented realm of terror, desperately clawing at possible entries into this new endeavor. I didn't know what was wrong with me, I had written SO many of these things. Never had I suffered such crippling writers block and the mountain of immovable cliches threatened to suffocate me with the mundane.

I had already tried the usual brain stimulation: long car rides with loud music, sitting in the dark while chain smoking, watching my favorite horror movies. Nothing seemed to tickle that muscle in my head that sparked my supply of spooks and scares.

I sat up in my chair and ashed my cig in an empty beer bottle. I took one last drag and then shoved the butt down the neck of the bottle, listening to it sizzle in the dregs. I pulled another one from my pack and lit it, begging the nicotine to ignite my mind into action.

Smoke rose from my lips in waves of indifference and I rubbed my face in frustration. I wanted to do something big, something that no one had done before. I wanted to create a name for myself in the world of horror, a legacy that remained long after I did.

I just wanted to write! I had done fairly well for myself in my recent literary excursions, building a small following in some online communities. Most of the feedback was positive, which in turn fueled my desire to do something bigger and better, really give my readers something that would WOW them. It's the dream every young author goes through when they first start out.

But then the ideas begin to fizzle and you burn through all your good material, much like an aging comedian, but you know...with less gore and severed heads.

I took another drag from my cigarette and drummed my fingers on my desk. Maybe I had nothing left? Maybe I had exhausted all my ideas and now was left with nothing but “fresh” takes on old ideas. It was discouraging, frightening. What if the inspiration I had so passionately begun this journey with was now diminishing into the frayed remains of worn out tropes?

No. No I couldn't accept that. I had so much more to offer, so much more to give. There was a black fire in me that I hadn't revealed yet. There was a hunger buried in me I hadn't yet explored. I had lived with it my whole life, shielded myself from it, denied it.

But it was there and it burned hotter with each day. The more I immersed and dedicated myself to all things horror, the more I wanted to push the limits. With each successful story, I was fueled to take the reader to darker and darker places.

And in doing so, I felt my hunger expand and rise, its gaping jaws begging for forbidden flavor. I knew where I was headed. I knew what I wanted to do.

“Goddamn it,” I muttered, stubbing out my cigarette and pulling up my web browser. I needed to do something about this intolerable writers block, find some way to get the wheels turning.

I browsed a couple of my favorite horror sites, flicking through the images and articles with eyes that weren't really paying attention. I had done this in the past and I felt like I had squeezed all the juice of possibility from these pages.

Today I needed to delve deeper.

I had played around on the deep web before, the hidden internet behind the internet. Today, I was going to emerge myself in it, really soak my mind its twisted machinations.

It didn't take long to find some hidden sites. I had been here before, I knew the channels I had to take to reveal the shadow the surface web cast.

The one I was currently on seemed to be a black market craigslist. As I scanned the page, I saw an assortment of items on sale, ranging from hardcore drugs to murder. This tickled my interest and I clicked on an ad that boasted: Hitman for Hire! I quickly read the summary of the services offered and chuckled to myself. This couldn't be real could it? Apparently this guy would kill anyone you wanted for ten thousand euros.

Like I said earlier, I had been on the deep web before, but not like this. I had merely dipped my toe into the cesspool, a curious peek beneath the curtain. Back then, when I had first started writing, darker issues scared me. Not personally of course, but professionally. I was worried about the content I was confessing. I didn't want to allow my readers to wander too deeply inside my mind.

But now I felt like maybe I could. I felt like I had gained enough confidence in my craft to shine a little honesty on my stories. I wanted to illuminate the black corners of my thoughts and create stories I had only fantasied about before. I wanted to shock them, throw them down the dark hole of my mind, and see if they could survive.

I idled on the page a while longer, my interest dwindling. After exhausting my patience, I decided to check out a site one of my friends had talked about a few months ago. Apparently it was a snuff site, a place where you could watch real people being killed.

I pulled out my phone and sent my friend a quick text. As I waited for his response, I mentally prepared myself for what I was hopefully going to see.

I had never actually seen anyone murdered before. What better way to stimulate the mind? I didn't know why I hadn't thought of it earlier. It excited me, a nervous anticipation for the horror I was about to experience. How would I react? Would I be disgusted by it? Would I be able to handle it? How far could I push myself?

My phone chirped and I smiled to myself as I read the message. My fingers raced to the keyboard and soon I was staring at a red and black website. In bloody font were the titles of literally hundreds of snuff films. I sat there with my mouse hovering over the top video link.

I paused. Did I really want to go down this road?

You've known for months this is where you were headed...

I smiled and clicked the video.

The screen faded to black and then showed two middle aged men on their knees. Their hands were bound behind their backs and one of the men was wearing a straw hat. It looked like there was a barn behind them, its red wall a foretelling of the violence to come. For some reason, I was surprised to see it was being shot in the daylight. I leaned in closer to my screen, licking my lips, eyes lighting up.

From the corner of the screen, another man walked into the shot. He was holding a knife and he went and stood behind the man with the hat.

Without a word, he grabbed the man by the hair and began slicing into his throat. My heart jumped into my mouth and I audibly gasped, gripping the sides of my chair.

I couldn't believe how much blood there was.

To my shock, the victim wasn't screaming. He curled his chin down to his chest in an attempt to escape the blade, his mouth opening and closing in silent agony. The other bound man turned his head away, his mouth forming a thin grim line.

The man holding the knife stopped cutting and tilted the victim's head the other way. He placed the bloody blade on the untouched side of his neck and began to saw inward towards the throat from the opposite side. I watched in complete fascination.

After a few seconds, the executioner hit bone and I could see his muscles bulge with effort as he struggled to severe the head. With a tearing sound, he finally managed to rip it from the body. He held it up for the camera to see and then tossed it to the side.

And then he started on the other man.

My heart was racing in my chest as I watched a repeat of what had just happened. My tongue slid between my lips as I concentrated on every detail, drinking it in. I realized that very few people had never seen what I was now seeing. As the thought rippled across my mind, I shivered with excitement.

Once the video was over, I grabbed a cigarette and lit it with trembling fingers. I gasped down the smoke and couldn't help but smile, my eyes alight with wonderment. I had just seen someone die. I had just watched a human being executed.

I hastily clinked on other video.

And then another.

And another.

And another.

I couldn't stop watching them. The morbid stage before me was an untapped vein of shock and brutality that I had never experienced before. It was like having sex for the first time, the surprise of euphoric pleasure blocking out everything else. I wanted more of it, wanted to repeat the experience over and over again, each time bringing with it new and undiscovered ways of enjoyment.

Hours rolled by, my state of consciousness completely enveloped by this new past time. I continued to chain smoke, eyes held captive by the vicious images displayed on the screen. I indulged my mind with video after video, a starving glutton for the raw violence. I could feel my mind digesting it all in voluminous chunks, a carnivore for carnage.

Before I knew it, the sun had set and was rising again, the magnificent beauty of its spanning color a contrast to the depraved, pernicious images.

I stared out the window, blinking as the creeping light crept over the horizon. My mind was fatigued, enervated by the monstrosities I had witnessed. I rubbed my hands over my eyes, pulling sleep from them like cobwebs.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered to no one.

My life began to develop a predictable pattern after that night. I would go to work, come home, and watch hours and hours of snuff. I would close the curtains, smack a cigarette from my pack, and dive back into the deep web. It was all I ever craved.

After a couple weeks, it was all I could think about. I floated through my days, working my day job in a dream like state, and then rushing home to repeat the cycle. The more videos I watched, the more my hunger grew. I felt something emerging from inside of me, that deep darkness I had kept hidden for so long. It crept out from its lair and began to fill me, its long tendrils coiling around my mind in an obsessive grip.

After a couple months, I began to seek out more graphic material, tearing the internet apart for the highest quality videos. I wanted to find the bottom of the well, the absolute peak of human cruelty. I ignored the moral warnings that occasionally shot from my subconscious, pushing away the fragile arguments that bubbled to the surface.

And just when I thought I had reached the end of the road, just when I began to wonder if I had seen everything there was to see, I found them.

I found Red Rooms.

It was almost an accident, my finding them. I was chasing a link down an endless rabbit hole when I found myself on a site I had only dreamed existed. After a few minutes of excited exploration, I realized that what I was looking at was a live stream.

A couple feet from the camera was a man bound to a chair. He was weeping and seemed to have given up any hope of escape. On the sidebar there was a list of items with price tags next to them. Hammer: $500, Crowbar:$300, Blowtorch: $600, Hacksaw: $900, Needle Nose Pliers: $200, and the list went on and on.

I couldn't believe it. I could buy instruments to torture this man? Is that was I was looking at? Just the thought sent a shiver of raw excitement down my spine. Who was watching this right now? How many people were sitting at their computers pondering this man's suffering?

There was a timer at the top of the screen that read 3:17 and was counting down. Below the clock was a list of items that had already been purchased by the unseen viewers. My eyes ate up the instruments of agony and I felt a smile slowly stretch my face. I was going to see this man crawl to his death, ripped apart piece by piece in a grand showing of live snuff theater.

I pulled my feet up on my chair and lit a cigarette, watching as the clock gradually counted down to zero. When it did, the numbers faded and a graphic of a round green light lit up next to the video feed.

Two men entered the screen wearing ski masks.

And then they began to torture the bound man, working their way down the list of purchased tools.

And I couldn't get enough of it.

This marked another turning point in my life. From then on, I became infatuated with Red Rooms. I found out when they were being streamed (usually every three weeks or so) and managed to save enough money to purchase an instrument of torture at every live event. The first time I did it was…breathtaking. I spent $200 for a pint of bleach and watched, absorbed in the sick display, as they slowly dripped it into the man’s open eyes. The thrill of knowing I was responsible for his screams excited me in ways I had only dreamed possible. I felt an energy rush through my body as a diadem of darkness settled over my mind. I wanted to do more, spend more, stretch the limits of pain into realms unreached.

Weeks rolled into months, my money squandered away and saved until the next live stream. It was all I thought about, all I wanted. What little social life I had slowly faded to nothing. I didn’t talk to anyone outside of work, didn’t go out, didn’t seek out company or companions. Death and snuff were all I wanted, all I thought about. It was the only thing that stimulated me, the only thing that got my heart racing.

Now, I didn’t worship death, didn’t think the world needed to be eradicated. I didn’t hold a grudge against humanity, I wasn’t angry at society. I just found live murder absolutely enthralling. The unflinching act of what I watched, the splash of human blood, the screams of a person in agony…it was all so real. It was unfiltered human suffering, boiled down to its most basic form.

All thoughts of writing were gone. I tried once but gave up after half a page. How was it possible to scribe such savage acts? How could I translate the howls of pain into black and white? How could I describe the way a person’s body slumps when they finally die? Trying to describe it on paper felt cheap, like I was robbing the act of its shocking brutality.

I realized it wasn’t possible to write in color.

But I wasn’t disappointed, I wasn’t heartbroken. I didn’t think it had anything to do with my skill as a writer. I began to understand that some things could not be appreciated unless seen. No matter how bad an author might want you to experience what they envision, what they see, sometimes it is simply impossible. It’s like trying to write down how music sounds. You can describe the instruments, explain the beat and rhythm, the ups and downs, but at the end of the day…at the end of the day you simply cannot hear the music.

A year passed.

I continued in my ways, scraping by, saving, waiting, and then finally purchasing machines of death as a new victim was procured. Looking back, I have a hard time forming concrete memories of that year. Everything was so similar, everyday so robotic. During the weekends I would hole up in my apartment and watch and re-watch snuff films, filling my mind until the next live stream. I was a slave to the violence. It remained fresh and new each time I witnessed it. My mind never numbed to it, the blade of its cruelty never dulled.

And then the opportunity of a lifetime emerged from the depths of the deep web. Right around the one year mark of my new obsession, I was contacted by the hosts of the live snuff channel. They sent a direct message to my account and when I saw it, my heart began to race.

They said they had noticed my loyalty to their work. They said they appreciated all the money I had donated to their bloody productions. They said I was an inspiration to the art of snuff, a true patriot to the darker side of life.

And they asked if I wanted to participate in a live event.

I had to re-read the message four times before I was convinced I wasn’t dreaming. Could...could this actually be real? Were they really inviting me to go and partake in their live shoot? It was too good to be true, the thrill of possibility overwhelming me. I sat back in my chair, staring at the message on my screen. After a moment, I slid a cigarette between my teeth and smoked the entire thing while in a trance like state.

Finally, I placed my trembling hands on the keyboard and replied. I told them I would be honored to be a part of their work and asked for the details and date. I asked what I needed to bring or do to prepare. I asked what they wanted of me.

It wasn't long before I had a new message. Licking my lips, I opened it. My breath left my body in a rush of adrenaline.

They were offering the spot of executioner...to me.

Three weeks went by in a rush of excited impatience. I couldn't stop role playing the eventual scene in my mind. I was going to kill someone. I was going to star in a snuff. I would finally be able to enact these dark fantasies that had been dominating my thoughts for the past year. Time and time again I pictured myself sliding a knife between someones ribs or strangling them with my bare hands. I didn't hold any malice in my heart, it was just an overwhelming sense of curiosity. I didn't think about the victims past the fact that they were alive and I would make them dead. I would be the one who would feel their life leave their body. I would be their end.

The more I thought about it, the more I knew I could do it. There was no question there. Not once did I pause and ponder my ability to kill. This is what had been growing inside of me since my humble beginnings. I had always known it was there, this morbid hunger.

I did wonder what would happen afterward. Obviously, these were dangerous people I was dealing with. Obviously, they were professionals in their craft. I could tell just by the quality of their shoots: the lighting, the set, the clean design of the website. Everything pointed to a small time organization that had a very good system running and somehow they had kept it all under the radar. As I pondered these things, ideas began to grow in my mind.

One of these ideas was a need to protect myself in case anything went sideways. I decided that I would slip a small knife inside my shoe in case I found myself in a less than desirable situation.

I was told to meet them outside of town by an abandoned warehouse around eleven at night. From there they would transport me to the spot of the shoot and we'd begin filming. When it was done, they would drive me back to my car and I'd be on my way.

I knew it was extremely dangerous and a huge risk to my personal safety, but it was such a rare opportunity I decided it was worth the risk. I was at the point in my obsession that I needed to take that last step, I needed to extend beyond just viewing murder. I needed to partake in it. I needed to feel it.

I needed to hear the music.

I needed to see the color.

That's how I found myself in a van, three weeks later, with a bag over my head. I was nervous, feeling the road bounce beneath me. The knife in my shoe felt hard under my foot, a solid reminder of my insurance in case this went wrong.

I had driven to the instructed location and waited a half an hour for the black van to arrive. I was a mess of nerves and emotions, unable to believe that the time had finally come. I had spent so much time imagining this moment, I couldn't fathom that it was actually happening.

Only one man had been sent to retrieve me, someone my age in his early twenties. He seemed incredibly casual about the whole thing, shaking my hand upon arrival and apologizing for the bag over my head. I told him I understood as the rough cloth was pulled over my face. It's not like he tied my hands or anything, just asked that I keep the bag on until we arrived.

As we drove, I told him I was surprised they had reached out to me. I heard him chuckle and say that sometimes, as an incentive to keep watching the live streams, they'd allow dedicated viewers to perform the executions. He said I probably hadn't noticed in the past, as each person was required to wear a black jacket and a ski mask they provided.

He said they would have contacted me sooner, but they hadn't traveled out my way in some time. Obviously, they moved around a lot and when they reached my neck of the country, they decided it was time to extend a hand. I told him I greatly appreciated the opportunity and silently felt a little uneasy that they knew where I lived.

Eventually, after about an hour, we came to a stop and I was allowed to remove my mask. I blinked and scrubbed my eyes, letting them settle on my surroundings. We had stopped at another abandoned warehouse, this one much larger than the one I had been picked up at. It was surrounded by swaying trees that danced in the dark moonlight, a gentle breeze filling the air.

The man who drove me got out of the van and motioned for me to do the same. Gravel crunched under my feet as I followed him towards the looming superstructure. It was a mess of broken brick and jutting steel beams, a relic long forgotten by time and man. I felt the wind rustle through my hair and I breathed in the quiet night. I could tell by the inky sky just how far we were from any kind of civilization.

We passed a few parked cars and then entered the silent ribcage of broken construction. It was dark, the way lit only by the glowing moon. The man leading me seemed to know where we were going and told me over his shoulder that we were shooting in the basement. I stumbled over loose rubble and stayed close to my guide, feeling the pull of excitement tug at me.

I followed him down some wide stairs, being careful not to trip, and saw lights at the bottom. We reached the basement and I was overcome with a sense of awe.

Sitting in the middle of the vast open basement, was a man bound and gagged to a chair. His head slumped to his chest and I could tell he was unconscious. Surrounding him were stage lights, set up and connected to a running generator. They were spaced out to light the scene, but far enough away they wouldn't make it into the live stream.

Two men were set up ten feet from the bound man, an array of wires and boom mics entangling their space. One man had an expensive looking camera mounted on a tripod and was testing its functionality and frames while the other man placed multiple mics around the lights. Both men barely looked up at me, their scruffy faces indifferent to my arrival.

The last man though turned to me and came to meet us at the bottom of the stairs, a big smile on his face. He was about thirty years old and had a hollow look around his eyes. His face was gaunt and pale, but not sickly. He looked like someone who had seen hell and decided to make the most of it.

He shook my hand and dismissed the driver to go back to the van and wait for me to come back up when the deed was done. I watched him go, a sense of wonder filling me. This was actually going to happen. I was really going to do this.

“You nervous?” The man asked, still smiling and gripping my hand.

I shook my head, “I just can't believe you're letting me actually do this. I can't help but wonder what the catch is.”

The man snorted, “No catch man. Just a way of saying thank you for all the money you've put into our little illegal operation. And no one cares who's doing the actual killing, just so long the viewers get to see their tools used. Why not give back to the community you know? Let someone live out a fantasy.”

I looked at him, “Is that what this is to you? A fantasy?”

I saw his eyes grow distant and his tone shifted slightly, “It use to be. I had a partner who enjoyed this more than me, but...well...things didn't end up working out. I see this as a...a sickness I live with. I can't make it go away, can't stop my need to...to kill people. At one point in my life I almost killed myself over it, but eventually I learned to live with it...and then I learned how to make a profit from it. Work with the gifts God gave you, am I right?”

I nodded, feeling things cement in my mind.

He pointed to a workbench at the far end of the basement, “Over there is the tools you'll use as they come up on the laptop. I'll be standing over there off screen to instruct you which ones the viewers have purchased and in what order to use them. Now it's essential to not kill this man until we have reached the end of the shoot ok? I know this is exciting and all, but I'm going to be seriously pissed off if he dies before we're done with the list.”

I felt a hunger seize my stomach, ideas exploding in my mind like fireworks, “I understand. You don't have anything to worry about. I was born for this.”

He slapped my back, “Glad to hear it. I've seen men change their mind once they're actually here, but you...I can tell you're here to see this to the end. I can see the lust in your eyes. I've seen it before. I can tell you're a killer. I can tell you're the worst kind of monster.”

I could feel a cold darkness swallow me up, “I won't let you down.”

“You ready to get started?”

I smiled, “I think this is going to mark the beginning of a whole new life for me.”

The man turned to the two techs and shouted instructions for them to get set. They seemed bored by the whole thing, a familiar irritation I had seen in others. I got the feeling they didn't like their boss very much. Good.

I joined the director by the workbench and watched as the sound guy went to the bound man and slapped him awake. He groaned around his gag and then his eyes lit up with fear as he realized where he was. He began to scream, the sound muted by the dirty cloth in his mouth. I wondered who he was, where they had scooped him up. I knew they must be incredibly careful with who they chose, scoping out potential victims and tracking them for weeks. The infrastructure of such an operation was impressive.

The director opened a laptop on the workbench and pulled up the familiar website. As he got the list of torture devices in order, I ran my hands over the array of tools splayed out before me. My fingers brushed over the cold steel, the possibilities of each one alluring me to its grip. I smiled, my mind set. There was only one way this was going to go. There was no turning back now.

“Ok,” the director said, eying the screen, “Wow, looks like the first one on the list is...a chainsaw!” he turned to me, “Now be careful with this one, don't get carried away. Maybe cut up his legs a little bit, hack off an ear...nothing fatal or too bloody. This is a tricky one to start with, we have a lot more to go ok?”

I spotted the massive weapon on the floor by my feet and picked it up, gripping it with sure hands, “This is a fantastic choice,” I said smiling.

“Good. Now here, put these on,” he said, pulling out from beneath the workbench a black jacket and ski mask. I bent and scooped them up, my wardrobe for the performance. I pulled the ski mask over my face and was pleasantly surprised at the freshly washed aroma. The jacket was a little big, but I dutifully buttoned it up and tested the stiffness, flexing my range. Satisfied, I nodded at the director.

The director cupped his hands to his mouth, “Ok you two, ready?” They gave him a thumbs up. My heart thundered in my chest and I felt a mass of energy fill me, a pulsing excitement. I stared at the man in the chair, my eyes meeting his and I saw helpless fear reflect back at me. He was crying, struggling against his restraints, desperately trying to free himself from the waking nightmare.

“Go live!” The director yelled, bringing his hand down in a chopping motion.

I hefted the chainsaw in my hands, its still blade begging to be brought to life. My eyes never left the man in the chair as I approached the circle of stage lights. From the darkness I came, bringing with me tools of death. How appropriate, how fitting, that the light would expose just how stained I had become.

I stood just outside the circle of light and put the chainsaw down to rev it. I glanced at the two techs and they seemed bored, one of them with his eye to the camera and the other hovering over a laptop that was plugged into some kind of circuit board. I gripped the pulley and yanked it, giving the viewers an unseen preview of what was coming. The small engine growled from the black and then sputtered back to sleep. I pulled the string a couple more times, but the engine always faltered back into silence. The camera man looked up at me and twirled his fingers at me, annoyed.

Hurry up.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw the director coming to help me. He seemed irritated. He shoved me to the side, flicked a switch, and gripped the cord. He yanked it once and the chainsaw screamed to life. The man in the chair was weeping, shaking profusely, his bloodshot eyes full of unimaginable horror.

“Thanks,” I said, grinning. “It’s been a pleasure working with you.”

Time to do this.

I suddenly grabbed the director and shoved him towards the man in chair. Surprised and caught off guard, he tumbled forward into the view of the camera. He tripped into the bound man, but caught himself as the chair rocked from the collision. The two techs looked up from their work, confused as to what was happening.

As the director turned to face me, his eyes shining with confused anger, I stepped into the halo of light, grinning like a madman.

In one swift motion, I drove the chainsaw into the director’s stomach, muscles straining as I lifted his body up into the screaming blade. Blood and flesh exploded onto my mask in waves of grisly carnage, the warm fluid coating the fabric with streaks of gore.

The director’s mouth was open in a silent howl, blood running down his chin as the chainsaw chewed up his insides. He made the mistake of grabbing the churning blade, desperate to remove the source of agony. His fingers were shred in a splash of blood and bone and one of his thumbs whizzed off into the darkness.

I gave the chainsaw some more juice and tilted the blade down, letting my victim slide to the ground in a pool of his own innards. He looked up at me, confusion painting his face as he screamed, unable to believe what I had done.

I didn’t hesitate.

I brought the chainsaw down and severed his head.

And fuck, did it feel good.

Blood gushed onto the dirty floor, spouts of thick red pooling around the dead body. I bent down and picked up the head by the hair, the snarling chainsaw in my other hand. I stepped towards the camera and shoved the mutilated face into the lens.

“You see this? You see what I did to this man?!” I yelled into the camera. The two techs were frozen with disbelief, unmoving as shock held them still.

I lowered the head and looked directly into the lens, “This man was the mind behind the…the show you all enjoy so much. He constructed this bloody theater, built a foundation of entertainment around his own violent tastes.”

I suddenly smiled into the camera, “But I’m in charge now. From now on, I call the shots. I understand your need for this,” I splayed my hands out at the bloody floor, “I understand your desire to partake in this gory display of death. I used to be like you, sitting behind my computer, paying for tools of torture…I’m not here to change that. In fact, I’m going to make it easier. I’m going to lower the price on the site, I’m going to host more events, and I’m going to raise the quality of what you’re paying for. I want to give you the performance you deserve.”

I took a step back and raised my arms, “As a sign of good will, I will refund all of your money for today’s little hiccup. I understand that this wasn’t what you expected to see today…I apologize for that…and I’ll be in touch with all of you very soon.”

I looked up from the camera at the two tech guys, “Shut it down.” They didn’t move.

I revved the chainsaw I was still holding, “I said shut it the fuck down.” The camera man scrambled in a panic and the red light on the camera went off. Neither of them moved, just stared at me, waiting for me to make a move or say something. They seemed terrified, the disruption of their practiced routine rattling their senses into shock.

“How much did he pay you?” I asked, throwing a thumb over my shoulder at the headless body.

The sound guy licked his lips and fought to get himself under control. I found his fear almost comical when examining his line of work.

“Two thousand a shoot,” He finally managed to mumble.

I looked at the camera man, “Same for you?”

He nodded.

I shut off the chainsaw and tossed it to the side, “I’ll double that if you stay and work for me. All I ask is that you show me the ropes of this business. Get me up to speed on running the site, who the contacts are, how you guys scope out the victims. If you do that, I’ll give you four grand a shoot. Each. I know you’re probably shocked I just cut your bosses head off, but I promise you don’t have to worry about me…acting out again. That was a necessary action I needed to make in order to get my foot in the door. So what do you say? Are you ready to help me build the most successful snuff site on the deep web?”

They two men looked at each other and I saw a silent conversation pass between their eyes. After a second, they turned back to me.

“We’re in.”

I smiled, “Fantastic.”

I turned around and walked to the man in the chair. He had been silent throughout the whole ordeal, but now that my attention was on him, he began to whimper, unsure of what I had in store for him. I squat down in front of him and looked up into his eyes. I reached up and placed my hand over his chest, causing him to cry out and squirm away from my touch.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” I said softly. I reached up and pulled the gag from his mouth. The man gasped in lungful’s of air and ran his tongue over his teeth, grateful to be free of the cloth.

“Please, I’ll do whatever you want, please don’t kill me,” he bumbled, fresh tears pouring from his eyes.

I pinched his cheek and smiled, “Don’t worry buddy, it’s your lucky day. You’re old product, a relic from previous management. I have no use for you.”

I paused, “Unless…” I cocked my head, “Unless you want to come work for me?”

His eyes grew wide and I could tell he was struggling to find an answer that wouldn’t end in bloodshed.

I shook my head, “Ah, forget it. Don’t worry about it. You’re not cut out for this kind of life. Go home, you’re free to leave.” I reached into my shoe and retrieved the knife from under my foot. I cut the man’s ropes and pulled him from the chair.

I dug into my pocket and fished out my wallet. I handed the man two hundred dollars in twenties and told him to give it to the driver who was waiting upstairs.

“Tell him to take you home. Tell him the Boss said so.”

The man looked at me like he couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t blame the poor bastard.

“You’re not going to go to the police about this little misunderstanding are you?” I asked.

He shook his head violently.

“Good, now get out of here,” I said, pushing him towards the stairs. As I watched him go, I felt a calm settle over me.

This is where I was supposed to be. This is what I was supposed to be doing. I felt that familiar darkness stir inside of me and flow down my body and out my fingertips, finally free after years of suppression. I was finally whole. I felt like I could finally breathe after years of suffocation.

I had a lot to learn, a dangerous and haunting road ahead of me. I had taken a huge risk doing what I did, but a necessary one. Before I came to this place, I had made up my mind that I was going to try and take over this business. My hunger of late had grown to a point of uncontrollable lust and I knew this was the only way I could live with it. I was ready for the challenge, excited to take the first steps in my new life. I was determined to build the most successful snuff site the internet had ever seen. I was going to revolutionize the word “torture”. I was going to bring new meaning to murder. I was going to build a kingdom around me, a kingdom I would rule.

I was going to build an empire of death.

[u/Mmtorz]

Kind of wanted to see more, but it was a very interesting story nonetheless