BOOGER ANNHILATED! (WAS Re: BOOGER SIGHTING!)

Author: Bit Decay
Email: Bit.Decay@bigfoot.com
Date: 1998/12/02
Forums: alt.tasteless 


Tim Brown wrote:
[Boring booger story snipped]
> --
[Sig-Snippity]
> Using SLRN? Want to block out abusive posts from 'Net censors? Add the
> following lines to your scorefile...
[ByeBye 208-line "scorefile" addendum!
Sig-Snip-Snip-Snip-Damn,GottaSharpenTheseScissorsNow]

Using alt.tasteless?  Want to bore the living fuck out of some of the
nastiest persons on the face of this Earth?  Add 210 useless .sig lines
to every post you make here!  Even better, make sure the actual post is
LIKEWISE useless, or nearly so.  Here, maybe this'll let you know
EXACTLY how I feel about it.

~~~~~

As Tim finishes a late-night USENET session in his den, he congratulates
himself for once again helping to preserve the freedom of 'Netters and
nutters everywhere, he hears a sharp rapping at his front door.  "Now,
who could that be?" he asks himself as he peers through the fisheye lens
set in the door.  He sees nobody outside and prepares to return to the
den.  As he turns to make his way back, another salvo of raps erupts
from the other side of the door.  Bemused, Tim steps back to the door
and gazes through the viewport.  As before, he sees nothing.  He
mutters, "Must be that little bastard kid from down the str..." before
more raps interrupt his thought.  

Tim has had enough of this bullshit.  He opens the door, leaving all
three chains in their runways.  He peers carefully around the edge of
the door, expecting to see the little brat hiding against the door...
oh, what a kick in the pants HE'S gonna get!  However, there is still
nothing to see.  Throughly confused now -- especially since he didn't
hear any footsteps in the gravel outside his porch, Tim prepares to
close the door.  He's going to call the cops if this SOB bothers him
again.  

As his hand presses against the door, he sees a metallic flash as
something shoots through the gap between door and jamb.  Tim screams as
the object curls around and buries itself in the back of his hand. 
Blood drizzles out to stain the door, rivulets running down towards the
plush shag carpet, as bolts of pain course up Tim's arm to galvanize his
reeling brain.  Tim tries desperately to yank his hand away from the
pain, but manages only to tear the hand wound open further and shatter
two bones in his palm.  As the bone-shards work their way into the
surrounding flesh, a white-hot shout of agony causes Tim's knees to
buckle, then to give way, causing even more injury to his mangled palm
as all his weight becomes suspended from the large and very sharp hook
that has been thrust through his hand.  The last things Tim sees before
he loses consciousness are his right hand, now split nearly in half as
the hook tears away the last strap of flesh between his middle and index
fingers, followed by the
removal of the hook and the arrival of a large set of bolt-cutters,
which begins to munch on his door-chains as he heads into the black. . .
.

Some time later, Tim awakens to find himself lying on his living-room
floor.  His right hand throbs sickly.  He groans and tries to sit up. He
gags as something slick and cool clenches tightly around his neck, then
relaxes as he quickly lets his head return to the floor.  He sees that
his wrists and ankles are also bound by more thick straps of black
rubber attached to the floor with large nails.  His ankles have been
secured so that his knees are bent at a 90-degree angle and his legs are
spread apart.  Tim struggles halfheartedly, then subsides as he hears a
grunt, followed by the sound of a chair scraping on his kitchen floor. 
Tim and the floor both shake as heavy footfalls approach.  A moment
later, Tim's assailant emerges into the living room.  

"Hello there, Mr. Brown!  You can call me Bit.  I'll call you Tim.  Hope
you don't have any problems with that," chuckles the gigantic man
looming over Tim.  Bit smiles crookedly at his new buddy as he makes his
way to the couch, dragging a well-used EASTON aluminum baseball bat
behind him.  The couch protests loudly as Bit sits on it, but holds up. 
Bit lays the bat against the arm of the couch, then gazes fixedly at
Tim.  

"Tim, we have a little problem here.  My problem is that I don't care to
download over 200 lines of useless SHIT when I read someone's message. 
I'd wager others feel the same way, especially all those poor sods in
the OTHER newsgroups that have been receiving your 'The Last Word' posts
(each one complete with the 'scorefile' .sig).  That ain't all, bud.  If
your original post had been worth reading, I might have just lipped off
at ya, but it wasn't.  I ain't gonna say it was TOTALLY useless, but it
was mighty close.  It sure wasn't nearly good enough to offset that big
turd of a .sig you forgot to wipe off.  I have a problem, Tim... and
that means YOU have a problem.  Let's find out just how BIG a problem it
is, shall we?"

Tim gasps in alarm as Bit heaves his bulk off the couch and picks up the
bat.  He stammers, "B-but all I did was try to keep the bastards from
bothering me... don't I have a right to protect myself from the
censors?"

Bit pauses, stroking the bat gently, considering his response.  "I think
Mr. ClueBat here has your answer," says Bit as he smiles sweetly at
Tim.  A heartbeat later, he swings the bat in an arc that ends atop
Tim's left kneecap.  The hearty crunching of shattering patella mingles
with Tim's shrieks as Tim experiences the sensation of having molten
glass poured into his knee.  As if that weren't answer enough, the big
man asserts, "Ah, no.  No, you don't have a *right* to waste megabytes
of bandwidth transmitting that silly list of yours with EVERY FUCKING
POST YOU MAKE!  That, in and of itself, might be reason enough for
someone to send a killbot (or whatever the hell it's called) to stamp
out every article you write.  It's reason enough for me to be paying you
this visit, isn't it?"

Tim whimpers under the dual assault from his split hand and mangled
kneecap:  "No more, no, no more, I'm sorry, I..."  

"Shut up."  Bit straddles Tim's torso, then gently sits on his chest. 
Tim gasps for air under the crushing weight as Bit hums to himself,
admiring the way the light glints off the dented bat.  Each attempt at
breathing succeeds only in forcing out a little more air.  Tim's limbs
flutter within their restraints as his need to inhale intensifies. 
Tim's staring eyes watch as the color drains out of his vision and grey
fuzz begins to encroach from the edges of his visual field.  The searing
urgency in his lungs drowns out his knee and hand.  The grey begins to
deepen to black as Tim's skin turns a delicate shade of blue.

"Oh no, you don't.  I ain't finished yet."  Bit stands again, allowing
Tim to suck air in great whoops.  Tim gets in about three good lungfuls
before finding that he needs to expel that last lungful, as Bit has just
smashed the other knee with the bat.  Bit regards the howling, writhing
man on the floor, then produces a Bowie knife.  The sight of the blade
causes Tim to become quiet immediately.  He hopes fervently that this
isn't going to be another lesson in shutting up.  Bit gets a good grip
on the knife and starts slicing.  A few moments later, Tim is naked from
the waist down.  Bit kneels near Tim's midsection and moves the point of
the knife to within inches of Tim's scrotum.  Bit gazes deep into Tim's
watery eyes and grins nastily.  "Want some?"  The knife slowly moves
closer... closer... touches the scrotum... starts denting the skin.  Tim
lies as still as a corpse as the stench of fear-sweat rises from his
body.  Bit's grin widens as he suddenly pulls the knife away from Tim's
balls.  "That's no good.  What's the satisfaction in cutting 'em off?" 
Tim, relieved, exhales a shaky breath.  Bit stands again and puts the
knife away.  He walks slowly around Tim, whose relief rapidly
evaporates.  "Hmm, what shall I do with those?  Hmmmm," muses Bit as he
strokes his beard and paces around the man on the floor.  "Aha!"  Bit
stops next to Tim's midsection again, but neither kneels nor produces
the Bowie knife.  Instead, he lightly places the heel of one booted foot
on Tim's scrotum and s-l-o-w-l-y transfers his full weight to that
foot.  Tim first whimpers as he realizes what's about to happen.  The
whimpers turn to cries of pain, then to shrieks as the job is
completed.  As Tim's testicles explode under the pressure, they make a
meaty squirting sound.  Tim's pain transfixes him so that he can neither
scream nor breathe.  Tim's skin begins to turn blue again.  

"Damn you, don't you die on me, asshole!" growls Bit as he picks up his
foot and stomps on Tim's right forearm.  With his attention momentarily
diverted from the snarling agony from his groin by the bright, glassy
pain of fractured radius and ulna, Tim is able to breathe again.  Bit
listens to Tim's cries of pain and smiles.  "Very good.  Your
instruction is nearly complete.  We have one more item on the agenda,
and then I can leave you to the rest of this pleasant evening."  Bit
kneels between Tim's quivering legs, spreads Tim's buttocks with one
meaty hand, and inserts the handle of Mr. ClueBat into Tim's rectum with
the other.  He begins to ram the unlubricated, dented bat as far in as
he can get it, while reciting the point of this evening's instruction:

"NEVER!"  [shove!]  "EVER!"  [shove!]  "POST!  [shove!]  "A TWO-HUNDRED
LINE!"  [shove-shove!]  "FUCKING .SIG"  [shove!]  "IN THIS NEWSGROUP!" 
[shove!]  "AGAIN!"  [shove!shove!shove!]   "BASTARD!"  [SHOVE!]

Horribly enough, the stimulation thus provided has given Mr. Brown an
erection... as the lesson concludes, his choad suddenly distends,
spitting gobs of blood and shreds of testicle-meat mixed with seminal
fluid.  Tim's eyes bulge from their sockets as this ghastly ejaculation
proceeds, then roll up as he begins to fade to black again.

Bit pauses to enjoy the incoherent sounds coming from Tim's mouth, then
revives Tim by ripping the ClueBat out of Tim's ass.  Bit kneels next to
Tim, who has regained enough of his senses to fear what might be coming
next.  Bit leans down, kisses Tim on the forehead, and grins manically. 
"Sweet dreams, buddy.  I'll be seeing you again sometime... if you fuck
up, that is."  The blackness swallows Tim for the last time that evening
as the big man gets up and walks out the door.

DK