I throw a question like a plummet in your soul, to discover how deep it is There are many heavy things for the spirit
          Nietzsche

 

THE CHAINSAW BATTLES

By TR Deeks

1. The Grinder
2. Bum Trip
3. The Bollocks
4. Chainsaw Battle
5. Head Fuck
6. Death Kiss
7. The Bottomless Pit

 

1. The Grinder
In my sick dreams when I sleep, when I'm asleep if I dream I am a chainsaw, a mighty fucking chainsaw with lethal fucking bite the only fucking sound I make over the bloody helpless screaming, is the chainsaw's ferocious almighty fucking buzz and roar. When I wake up, whatever time of night or day, first thing I grip my piece, my favourite fucking piece of action, my most awesome fucking chainsaw, custom made, the one with toughened razor teeth that eat through metal, eat through anything. Embellished with screaming skulls and demons, it's the chainsaw I call, the Grinder, or the devils fucking plaything, and it's the one I'll go to fucking hell with. The Grinder hangs from a butchers hook in a row of eight chainsaws on eight hooks all clinking and clanking, one for each day of the week, hanging above a dark stained mattress where I crash, in a dingy-looking room, centre of my fucking universe, wherever my fucking chainsaws are, and fucking centre of my world. Eight fucking chainsaws, and every one with battle scars and each one with a name, like Gory, the Slayer, and Gate of Death, Groovy, Fuck Face and the Monster, and they are embellished in metal with figures of skeletons, skulls, and thunderbolts, wreaths and grappling severed body parts, and all have bloodstains and bits of mashed brain, and each one with a real bloody history. Getting a hold of the Grinder, I rev the chainsaw growls and gritting my teeth, make it roar into action. This alerts a combat robot, crouching inert in a stack of metal and plastic and shock absorbers in a corner of the dingy room, three small electronic eyes light up in a dented battered chromed metal head two eyes winking red and one steady blue in between. In an instant, a deadly robot fighter springs up, bleeping and whirring, lurching before me over 8ft tall, fierce looking, clattering sharply in attack mode, and armed with an axe of huge size, the cutting edge of which crackle with highly charged electricity. The robot's hissing metal joints and body move with swaggering gait as it approaches, filled with destruction, swinging its electrified axe, making deadly sparks fly off the sharp edge of the hot blade flashing like thunderbolts and lightning. I put most of the robot together myself from junk and ex-military and other pilfered parts, a homicidal 8ft tall three eyed metal death machine, clutching a big fuck off axe of skull splitting brain frying electrocution, brandishing it tenaciously, and looking down regarding me with an involuntary malevolence. And I stand there, the robot's chainsaw wielding adversary, in my dirty boots, ripped jeans and t-shirt, waiting, tentatively, at first, who fucking wouldn't be, for the thing to fucking attack, so I can go berserk on its metal fucking arse. A sort of electronic cackling, clicking, and rattling sound comes from out of the slimy black and silver grill that's like a mouth in the lower front half of its dented chromed head that reflects a distorted image of me and my chainsaws in the room; and I still don't know what's causing that sound. The buzzing of a chainsaw drives the robot mad, it fucking hates it, makes it enraged, the noise gets inside its battered metal head like a rusty hive of angry metal bees banging about and making an almighty fucking buzz, and all the robot wants is to make it stop, it'll do anything to make it fucking stop. So, bracing myself, I rev my chainsaw so it's really buzzing loud, driving the axe wielding homicidal robot, I put together, programmed, even fucking crazier, prompting it to attack me, its kind of creator. Striking fiercely, with the huge axe of electrified doom thunderbolts and lightning flash and electrifying the room. Blocking the violent blow with my chainsaw, I stagger from the impact, as our weapons clash, grinding metal and hot sparks fly. The insane robot shrieks its piercing battle cry deflecting my chainsaw, and swinging its axe at me again; I drop quickly to avoid the lethal thunderbolts and lightning flash from the sharp blade swinging above my head. A lightning storm flashes between us, bewildering the robot's electronic senses, and seeing my chance, enough time for me to rock up fast, in a killer move, to slay the metal beast, and in an instant slice right through the hissing metal joints of one of its elbows, severing the forearm that's swinging the axe at me. My powerful chainsaw easily grind its tough metal parts in no time, and so many sparks fly. And the axe it was swinging flies off into the wall, trailing thunderbolts and lightning, with the severed forearm and its big three metal fingered hand still attached. Embedded in the wall the electrified axe sparks and starts a small fire. Something is screaming, the injured robot stamps and rages. Damaged metal and plastic tendons still attached to its injured arm twisting and turning pipes and tubes spill hot and cold black oils and coloured chemicals. And a shrill metallic scream from out the grill in its bleeping head. But the injured robot feels no pain, feels nothing, no defeat nor fucking victory. So, I go berserk with my chainsaw rip out its metal junkyard guts spill out with upward stroke disembowelling its oily metal military parts, with the sound of electronic gurgling from it. And sinking down on its knees, I let it have the death stroke cutting off its battered chromed metal head, in which I see a warped reflection of myself in the dented chrome surface, in frenzy with my chainsaw buzzing, and the fire burning from the axe in the wall behind me, unyielding to this fucked up machine that attacked me, and I decapitated with my favourite fucking chainsaw, the one I call, the Grinder, or the devils fucking plaything, embellished with screaming skulls and demons. The one I've never been defeated with. Not even in fucking hell. Finally, the combat robot's lights go out, it goes silent stops bleeping and whirring, and I leave it where its headless gutless metal body fall steaming in an oily puddle of its own hot and cold oils leaking many colours, and I piss on its broken metal body, adding some colour of my own, for good fucking measure. I'll fix it up again later fuck it up again later, for more of the fucking same machine violence and robot destruction.

2. Bum Trip
I am the leader of a chainsaw gang; there are chainsaw gangs all over the city and we fight them all the time. We rule, we rule all their sorry bleeding arses. That's what my favourite chainsaw, the Grinder, likes a taste of, likes a bit of the ole fucking hell as they say or scream more like when the Grinder is roaring up 'em. Second in command in the gang is called Cock Out because he's handy with a chainsaw and he's always got his cock out especially in a fight its like sex to him he says everything is sex to him its his religion he says fucking liar ain't religious. I drive over to see him. There's a cloud of flies over Cock Out's place, he lives in a toilet literally a latrine with a cracked and shitty toilet bowl crawling full of flies, and a piss stained urinal full of wet fag-ends, and a dirty wash basin under a grubby mirror that reflects the discoloured wall tiles and a bloody filthy shower unit behind a ripped mildewed shower curtain half hanging down where there's a naked body slumped, completely hairless and covered in scars, head titled to one side, mouth open a little, eyes open staring pupils like pinholes but no movement. Cock Out's place used to be a gents public washroom but Cock Out who was without a place of his own to live at the time, took advantage of the easy access and moved in and after a short while of his being there in residence, people the public gents stopped using it. Cock Out says he was born in a washroom. Cock Out says he'll die in one. Cock Out says heaven if there is one, is like a clean washroom and lavatory with paper that never runs out if that's what you want. But here on earth everything's a mess everything's shit. Here on earth Cock Out lives how he pleases, it's his religion he says, to live in shit how he pleases. There's no furniture no mattress but on all sides bits of dismantled chainsaws in various states of repair scattered about the grimy tiled floor. And there's a big fuck off chainsaw, called the Reaper, Cock Out's favourite, he's never been defeated with, it is embellished with the hooded skull faced figure of the scythe wielding Grim Reaper. Cock Out is also converting a chainsaw he's calling the Grim Reaper II, customised to look like a real scythe but with long curved chainsaw blade, like a chainsaw scythe wielding Grim Reaper. It'll be ready for the next fight, he tells me. And there are thousands of flies all over the window. And a haze of cigarette smoke pervades. And the toilet bowl is full of shit, the flies love it crazy buzzing bastards. So does Cock Out he's a shit eater he's eaten all kinds of shit human shit animal shit he even ate alien shit one time bum trip he says. Eating shit is his religion Cock Out tells us but I know it's not he just likes to eat shit and he throws up on it first or gets someone else to that's his religion as well he says with sick mouth tucking in. And he's fucked everyone he knows even all his family the in-laws and pets even the in-laws' pets. And everyone he knows has fucked him, and with strap-on dildos, even the pets. With some of the dogs he'd paint his arsehole with the scent of a bitch and they'd fuck him willingly. He's even fucked fish he says with bristling beards and skate like Vestal Virgins, before pissing on the sacred flame it's his religion he says. Cock Out says he can't think of anyone or anything he hasn't fucked and who hasn't fucked him. Cock Out and I fuck each other all the time, all the fucking time there is. We fuck each other out.

3. The Bollocks
It's midnight. I'm outside somewhere. My eyes are shut. And the sun is shining. But it's at night. And it's dark out. There is no sunlight. It's the inner light switched on of some drug I took. It's too fucking dark to see otherwise. I open my eyes, a dim street light flickers. There am me with my favourite fucking chainsaw, the Grinder, embellished with screaming skulls and demons, and four loyal members of my chainsaw gang, in attendance, Cock Out, Lucy, Bollocks and Twat, Twat being a real twat, and Bollocks cos he ain't got any. Lucy's full name is Lucy Violenta and she sleeps in a big black coffin with her beloved chainsaw, that's named after a dead lover of Lucy's, called Sidney. We all have our chainsaws with us, starting them up, all buzzing, and getting them ready. Cock Out has his chainsaw scythe he's made especially for tonight's fight, called Grim Reaper II. And to complete the look he wears a black cowl with the hood up. And he's made a hole in it below at front for his cock to hang out, he always goes into battle with his cock out it turns him on its good luck it's his religion he says. His cocks always out anyway, whatever. At night, there's little street lighting and what there is flickers constantly. Even the moon flickers nowadays, or what's left of it with big chunks taken out from some cosmic war or lunar calamity that knocked it off orbit so one day in the future it'll hit the planet. Even the sun flickers, ghostly, when it's out but hardly ever. Even the mad clouds flicker steely grey speeding by overhead. Even the stars are going out. And black holes are dying. And none of the clocks are working properly; even the atomic clocks aren't working properly. Time cast adrift somehow, maybe the affect of some grand scientific experiment gone wrong, again. We wait hanging round in an empty wind-blown weed infested car park on the charred edge of a great abyss, a massive deep hole in the ground hundreds of miles wide, no one knows how deep, some say it's a bottomless pit made by the devil years ago blasted out of hell and let all the devils loose. A strong smell of sulphur hangs in the air. Half the car park is gone down the hole. There used to be buildings here once, tower blocks, skyscrapers, a whole city, they say, it was an important financial centre, all gone now, to hell. There's a chainsaw gang we wait for, who we've only just heard of and not yet fought with, called 'We'll fuck you so hard up your arseholes with our chainsaws that when the people you know next see you they will grow diseased and disfiguring cysts all over their bodies.' This is also the battle cry they use. Each chainsaw gang has its battle cry and that's how the gang becomes known. Lately, the city is become gang infested. Some nights you hear a dim roaring all over. The police never bother us much. If they try to they get cut up, although there has been talk of employing chainsaw divisions throughout the police force but they know actions like that would result in a blood bath. I welcomed the day the gangs would unite and wipe out all control and then fight amongst ourselves for leadership. Last man standing, I would kill everyone I would even kill Cock Out. He was a good ally but in a situation like that I doubt if he would remain one. Before we see them, the other chainsaw gang, we hear them, their inhuman cries and the roar of their chainsaws reach our ears from the distance and the screaming and groans of their victims they carve up for our benefit as if to say this is what to expect if you fucking fuck with us you fucks you're fucked. So we sound up an almighty fucking buzz and roaring of our own, giving it some bollocks, with our entire fucking chainsaws going, saying fuck you back. And then we see one of them approaching us, an emissary holding his chainsaw down switched off but dripping with blood. He glows green. He looks us over hollow faced and staring eyed, and his mouth flashes jagged metal teeth, like a chainsaws, when he speaks, and each time he opens his mouth, his jagged metal teeth vibrate, buzzing around his bloody purple gums. "Strangers," he addresses us rasping speaking slowly with his hoarse jagged voice vibrating, "my message to you all is, no fucking with us. Listen to the screams of pain of those that have already tried to fuck with us, listen to their cries of agony from the pain we inflict skinning them alive with our laser razor chainsaws." They are still screaming out there but who knows might be others of his gang pretending, putting on a show for us. We'll put on a fucking show. But it's probably for real, sounds for real all that screaming and howling, and the night air carries aroma of burnt flesh and the emissary is splashed with blood. Cock Out, hooded in his cowl, revs his chainsaw scythe buzzing loudly. He's not interested in talk none of us are. All we want is to slaughter this filth and slice off their bollocks and whatever else for trophies. The bollocks, that's what they call us, our gang, and our battle cry, the bollocks the Bollocks! It's what we chant going into war, the bollocks! The bollocks! The bollocks! It's what we'll take before it's over, the bollocks. Bollocks in our gang he loves it when we start up the battle cry, he thinks we're saying his name over and over he thinks he's fucking great and wonders why he can't be leader. Well, like I said, it's because he ain't got any bollocks, that's why, literally, no fucking bollocks at all, and so that's why he's called Bollocks, Silly Bollocks, to be exact. Anyway I'm fucking leader, because I've got the fucking bollocks. But he's got bollocks for combat he's got balls for a fight but none for fucking; it doesn't stop him trying though, the fucking dog. And when we get going with our battle cry he chants along good and loud with the rest of us, the bollocks! The bollocks! The bollocks! The Bollocks! So we slice their emissary into tiny pieces and catapult his decapitated head and bollocks stuffed in his mouth back at them to the screaming body-filled fires coiling skyward in their camp the other side of a burnt-out hulk of a building that was a busy shopping mall in the times of the last economy.

4. Chainsaw Battle
The sounds of their chainsaws are closer now and the cruel shrieks of their battle cry about diseased and disfiguring cysts blah, blah. And we all chant, the bollocks, and rev our own chainsaws to greet them, till there's an almighty din and buzz and roar in the hellish air, like I told you there fucking would be. And Cock Out hooded in his black cowl, waves his chainsaw scythe, the long curved blade buzzing in the air, while he hollers to chainsaw heaven chainsaw hell, for victory over these slugs, these turds. Half a dozen or so of them arrive, the other end of the car park, some nightmarish looking gang a motley bunch of strung-out twitching grotesques, with their blood spattered and dripping chainsaws buzzing weirdly. They stand opposite in the flickering street light, dressed in mouldy tattered spacer uniforms. A sort of green haze surrounds them. Corpselike, soulless, vacant looking with syringes in blood clotted lank hair, bad skin, thin lips, and black-nailed fingers. They look like they clawed out of a UFO crash in a graveyard. Some are mangled, badly deformed and disfigured. And they emit a strange greenish glow, maybe radioactive. One of them wears a blood-flecked space helmet with badly cracked visor covered inside with cobwebs, clutching a chainsaw elaborately embellished like a mausoleum with skulls and angels, buzzing like a long drawn out otherworldly moan. And lab rats, some with circuit boards and transistors sticking out their heads, run around the gangs' mud and dirt caked feet A chainsaw gang of the living dead brought back to life by incorporeal alien entities who posses their decaying reanimated bodies for some grisly and metaphysical revenge. One of them is leering at us with wide staring bloodshot eyes has skull-like pupils, and no nose or ears, clutching his chainsaw buzzing. His green skin is torn in places, with grave-worms writhing and patches of moss, fungi, fly-traps snapping, and weeds growing out. Next to him, brooding, another nightmare creature, with snarling monstrous face, that squirms thickly with slavering tentacles. And flanking them, there's a big-boned fat-necked burly battle hardened veteran, foaming at the mouth and gibbering, covered in scars and festering wounds and instead of arms he has two massive chainsaws attached wired to stumps at his shoulders, and one is a laser chainsaw red laser blade with high-pitched buzz. And he has lidless spacey eyes, unearthly like black holes spiralling, gazing ever inward, to some heavier than deep nothing swallowing everything up inside. Deep scars streak his face and body, this fuckers seen some action, been in the chainsaw wars there's not much of him left. He's more chainsaw than man. He's probably the leader. His laser chainsaw is embossed with battle scenes of blood and explosions, clustered with rubies, crystals and bloodstones. Laser chainsaw military issue lethal fucking piece, I fucking wants it, even if it is his fucking arm, I fucking want it bad. Maybe I'll even do the whole prosthetic arm thing with it; it'll be awesome, laser fucking chainsaw arm of my own. We stand against these weird, a sorry looking lot of fucking shit arses, I say and we all buzz our chainsaws, size each other up. Want to fuck each other up. Slice each other up. Then we quieten down a moment if someone wants a word, we don't we just wanna dice these alien possessed living dead mockery of a chainsaw gang. The slavering tentacle faced creature points a long slobbering green feeler out its thickly squirming purple face and says something yelling at us across the car park but none of us understand. "I want to eat their shit," Cock Out growls under the hood of his cowl, "I want to eat all their fucking living dead alien UFO graveyard shit." He revs his chainsaw scythe, Grim Reaper II, its long curved blade buzzing loudly, and he says, "Its killing time. This is it. Lets fucking do it." And like a true soldier, he is totally fucking up for it. "Give it some bollocks," Cock Out yells as he charges forward, with his chainsaw scythe roaring, first time its been used in a proper fight, and his knob swinging out the hole in his cowl and his bollocks flying under him. And we spur him on our chainsaw champion, all chanting the bollocks, the bollocks, and he hastens his charge at the other gang, like an angel of death, with genitals exposed, clutching Grim Reaper II, ready to strike down dead, whichever one of the chainsaw wielding alien possessed living dead nightmares has rotten reanimated bollocks enough to face him. And we all wave our chainsaws buzzing, chanting our battle cry the bollocks! The bollocks! The bollocks! The one with leering look and skull-like pupils in wide staring bloodshot eyes, and no nose or ears takes up the challenge. He salutes with his chainsaw and waves it about, its hellish buzz like a loud angry swarm. His gang of the living dead start a low chant and after making a hallowed sign to their strange gods of the positron abyss, he lurches forward on rotten reanimated legs, trailing scintillating strands of radioactive ectoplasm, charging into chainsaw battle, against Cock Out hooded in a black cowl clasping his chainsaw scythe, the Grim Reaper II, that is embossed with skulls and etched with intricate spider web pattern. .

5. Head Fuck
Watching them charge towards each other, it's like, for a moment, there's no sound, and I'm not aware of any other noise, even the buzzing of our chainsaws seem far away, just a low drone somewhere. And the two of them seem to me, just before they meet, as if moving in slow-motion, charging dream-like, over the weed infested ground; and suddenly, their chainsaws collide, clashing in combat, they smash together and sparks fly with a grinding buzz and roar, sounding loud in my ears. And the fighting begins proper and we all cheer them to hell. Cock Out deflects a couple of wild blows, and at the same time he throws off his cowl, it falls to the ground, and there's a big bloodthirsty grin on his face, and he's got a stiff cock, and sparks are flying as their weapons clash. And in battle fury, he wastes no time, grasping Grim Reaper II firmly, he parries a couple more wild swings and then with a deadly swift stroke, he severs the neck of his leering opponent, cutting the head clean off. Seeing this, we cheer louder, waving our chainsaws and making a right bloody racket chanting, the bollocks! The bollocks! The bollocks! The bollocks! The headless body falls down, fluorescent green radioactive blood gushing from its severed neck; and the blood-flecked decapitated head rolls on the ground, its wide bloodshot eyes still open, staring to the underworld, its skull-like pupils dilated in awe, seeing what gods what demons there are to greet them beyond, if any, at all. And Cock Out holds his blood spattered chainsaw scythe buzzing victoriously in the air, while puddles of green blood form around the decapitated head and body at his feet. The other chainsaw gang look on unmoving, as they continue their low chant. Cock Out takes up his defeated opponent's chainsaw it is embellished with spaceships and vampire bats and embossed with maps of heaven and hell. He smashes it to pieces. And as he does so, with every blow, bits fly off, and in victory, Cock Out yells, the bollocks! The bollocks! The bollocks! The bollocks! When he's finished smashing up the chainsaw, Cock Out does a great victory shit on the headless body and eats some of the shit after throwing up on it first. It's his religion he says, fair enough. Finally, he picks up the decapitated head and after swinging it about roughly by its lank hair, he gives it firm hold at his crotch and fucks its mouldy brains out with wild orgasmic thrusts, pulping it to a quivering grey-green mush. He tosses what remains of the head in the dead staring faces of the other gang, who continue chanting low. One of them salutes with its chainsaw. Slavering feelers thrash about angrily in the creature's hideous face of thickly squirming tentacles, as it move or sort of sliding forward, with its chainsaw buzzing like a constant piercing howl. The chainsaw is embossed with scales and embellished with painted coral and colourful dragons and serpents with glistening eyes of crystal. Lucy calls to Cock Out, she wants to take on the slavering tentacle faced creature. Cock Out obliges and Lucy moves forward, waving her chainsaw in the air, it is embellished in metal with wreaths and embossed with scenes of sadomasochism and torture, and we all cheer and chant the bollocks! The bollocks! .

6. Death Kiss
Brandishing their chainsaws buzzing, ready to strike, they circle each other; Lucy and her gruesome slobbering opponent, near where the headless body from the first fight lay in a pool of green blood, with some of Cock Out's shit on it, in the wind-blown weed infested bloodstained car park to hell, at either end of which the two opposing chainsaw gangs stand facing each other, watching the fight unfold between them. Lucy makes a couple of wild swipes but they are deflected. And long thrashing tentacles snap out the creature's face and she leaps back. Then she attacks and swipes again and cuts a gash in her opponent's arm. Long tentacles whip out its screaming face and wrap tightly around Lucy's neck. More tentacles lash out gripping her wrist. Lucy struggles with them to keep control of her chainsaw. One of her hands raised clutches at the tentacles tightening around her throat and drawing her in for a stinging burning death kiss, with poisonous barbs it bares twitching in the drooling centre of its squirming face. It waves its chainsaw buzzing about behind her. Lucy gasps a choking cry, blood drains from her face. Suddenly, her slavering opponent slips in a pool of green blood and falls over, pulling Lucy down with it by her neck. Its chainsaw flies wild and the tentacles at Lucy's wrist lose their grip. She regains control of her chainsaw and in a swift stroke, severs the choking tentacles. The severed tentacles spring back into her opponent's screaming face flaying wildly and spraying jets of green blood. Released from its choking grasp, taking the lifeless tentacles from around her tender neck Lucy Violenta attacks slicing through an arm and then inflicting a mortal wound on its thrashing bloody head, striking deep in its brittle skull. Mouldy brains, maggots and worms spill out and tiny cogwheels, dusty circuit boards and transistors, rusty springs and gears. The bleeding tentacles thrash about wildly one last time before convulsing horribly and groaning in spasms of death throes, finally the whole head dissolves into a lumpy grey-green mush, over the bits of circuitry and machinery that fell out. When it's over, we all howl for Lucy like mad and wave our chainsaws buzzing and roaring, chanting the bollocks the bollocks the bollocks, like fucking mad. Lucy waves her chainsaw about, rejoicing in victory over the body of the thing she's cut down, laughing and chanting the bollocks she taunts the other chainsaw gang. She picks up its chainsaw and uses it to dismember maggoty bits off its rotten corpse. The chainsaw is embellished with scaly serpents and dragons with glistening crystal eyes. One of the hissing serpents coils its tail around Lucy's hand. She smashes the chainsaw on the ground and bits fly off. Cock Out is having so much fun watching the fight he's masturbating wildly. It's his religion he says it's his fucking religion. The other lot look on at the dismembered remains of their two fallen gang members laying in pieces in puddles of green blood, in the weed infested car park where we fight them fucking kill them, though they don't seem to care much. Anyway, some of the dismembered body parts are still living, limbs twitching, a leg flexing, a hand scuttling about, and the headless corpse getting up on its hands and knees crawling around and feeling for its decapitated head that Cock Out victory fucked to a quivering mushy pulp, after the first fight. The great abyss throws up a lot of weird shit. The great abyss throws up every kind of shit. I've heard about these strange gangs of living dead reanimated and possessed by aliens, but never actually encountered them before. Not that Cock Out seems bothered he's more excited than ever at the chance to eat their living dead reanimated possessed by alien shit, the chance to fuck their living dead reanimated possessed by alien arses. .

7. The Bottomless Pit
I and my gang, chanting the bollocks and waving our chainsaws and buzzing like crazy and the Grinder is roaring, eager to feed. The headless green corpse that Cock Out decapitated is up on its feet stumbling about close by, arms outstretched and hands grappling uselessly the air in front of it. So I go up to it and kick it in the nuts, it clutches them in agony stumbling about some more and falls over. Cock Out, Lucy, Bollocks and Twat all howl with laughter. The other chainsaw gang recite their battle cry like a votary chant the burly one, gibbering, with a couple of chainsaws for arms, steps forward to fight. One of his chainsaws is a lethal red laser buzzing high-pitched. I move forward to face him. We salute across the car park and approach each other slowly. His lidless black hole eyes spiralling ever inwards, emitting a strange glittering radiation; skin covered in rotten scars and open wounds glowing purple and green. We stop and face each other a few feet apart. "You filthy dogs," he says to us with hissing, crackling and sizzling voice, like noises of the universe, strange and far away sounding, his pasty dry lips mouthing the words out of sync, and "you can't just kill us, it's not as easy as that you fuck-brains, you can't just fuck smash us to pieces." Cock Out laughs mockingly, revving his piece, "But we can fuck you," he shouts, "I can fuck you with this," he thrusts his chainsaw scythe at them, "and with this," he thrusts his stiff cock. This has to be quick this has to be real fucking fast. So while Cock Out is taunting them, I make a wild dash at their fat-necked burly gibbering laser chainsaw armed leader. He dodges me and swipes with his laser chainsaw which I avoid in time. No one else makes a sound then; no one is chanting or any other chainsaws buzzing, but for three chainsaws roaring in combat, the two of his high-tech military prosthetic chainsaw arms, and one of mine, my favourite, the Grinder, the devils fucking plaything, embellished with screaming skulls and demons, and its never let me down. He stinks too when you get close, fading ashen tissue of rotting star. It's only the glowing strands of radioactive ectoplasm, harvested in extraterrestrial séances in radiation zones, to boost the effect, holding what's left of his rotten flesh together. His scars possessed, spit noxious fluids and yell out swear words with a different voice from each one shrieking, "Fuck you this and fuck you that and fuck them fuckers as well you fuck." And I can feel the heat from that laser chainsaw he swings close. And when he opens his mouth, a deep booming sound comes out with bursts of screeching feedback, as he advances with his chainsaw arms swinging, trying to scissor me and cut me to pieces, or snapping at my neck for decapitation, but no chance of that as long as I hold my chainsaw, the Grinder, buzzing between us, he can't get close enough. Even with that fucking laser chainsaw arm of his, I dodge and thrust keeping him on his toes, he moves sluggishly, a bit lame, being dead, I suppose, his extraterrestrial reanimated corpse mostly ruined in the U-fo crash in the graveyard. His other chainsaw arm, military standard issue weapons prosthesis, embellished with winged eyeballs pupils and irises clustered with crystal, and eyelashes of razor sharp flora and thorny metal vines. I lean back and duck to avoid a couple of close swipes, and taking a chance, lunge at him but he parries with his other chainsaw, and I have to dodge the laser chainsaw as he swings at me again. We circle each other; I make some feint moves, his scars spit and curse. Then I strike and cut a deep gash in his side a wound gapes open and all the scars in his rotten body start screaming at once. He lurches back, his gaping wound oozing foul smelling fluorescent red and green sludge. It doesn't stop him though and he comes at me again, and nearby on the ground I notice the black cowl, with the hole in it at the front that Cock Out took off in the first fight. His scars are yelling insults. The fresh wound gushing red and green sludge is already coughing, spitting and swearing like the others. He waves his chainsaws at me in scissor motion. His scars and wounds start howling. And looking in his spacey spiralling black hole U-fo graveyard eyes drain all will, lost forever over the event horizons of his dead starry gaze. Then he strikes a fierce blow with both his chainsaws, which I block, reeling off balance from the impact, as our three chainsaws clash, the laser one cutting through metal and big sparks fly. Staggering back, I reach down for the cowl and taking it up, fling it over his head, so he's blinded, and his chainsaws fly wildly. And swinging my chainsaw, I strike down on his head with skull splitting force. Though he isn't downed by the blow, still standing gibbering under the bloody cowl, with my chainsaw in top of his head, so I make with the Grinder to cut deeper in his brain, but to my alarm, there's no buzz, it won't budge, the chainsaw has stopped working, there's no power in it, it is broken, shit, my favourite fucking chainsaw, the Grinder, never let me down, damaged, no doubt, in the clash with his laser. Quickly, I remove the chainsaw from his cracked skull, and he staggers about, blinded, gibbering, and trying to shake the cowl off his busted head, his chainsaw arms flailing. Suddenly his laser chainsaw licks me with a wild swipe across my arm. My flesh burning, with searing pain, I jump back though I'm not cut deep, luckily not badly hurt, there's no real injury done, it'll be just another battle scar. He gets rid of the bloody cowl from off his wounded head the fresh gash in his skull is screaming obscenities, and before he can hit back, I strike again a massive blow with my broken chainsaw hitting home splitting his bloody head wide open and smashing his brains out, striking him down, he squeals and gibbers one last time, as his laser loses power, he falls groaning beneath my damaged chainsaw, my favourite fucking chainsaw, the almighty fucking Grinder, the devils fucking plaything, ever fucking victorious, even when it's broken. And if the Grinder was working, I'd cut him completely in half. And then slice off his bollocks, if he's got any, that is, if they ain't already rotted. At his shoulder, I remove the laser chainsaw, leaving a dead stump, laser fucking chainsaw, lethal fucking piece. I handle it, feels awesome but it weighs very little; power it up, high-pitched buzzing of the hot red laser glow, use it to dismember what's left of the fucker. We taunt the remainder of the other chainsaw gang; the dismembered corpses of their fallen gang members litter the car park, and I wave their fallen leader's laser chainsaw in their rotting vacant staring couldn't-care-less faces as they continue chanting. I'll get them with it too, stupid dead alien possessed reanimated rotters and they know it. Slice their mouldy rotten bollocks. The bollocks the bollocks the bollocks we chant, with our chainsaws buzzing and Silly Bollocks and Twat both eager to fight them. Anyway, the living dead don't die they can't even when cut in tiny pieces, and reduced to a pulpy mess, what remains of them in that state just greyish-greenish lumpy mush, slides about of its own volition, joining up with other dismembered bits and reanimating their mouldy limbs and body parts, an ear, an eye, a buttock, a thigh. So we dismember their reanimating parts till its piles of lumpy mush again, but all still sliding about and joining up with other bits of lumpy mush, gradually forming their twitching limbs and body parts.

 

 

Cock Out even humps a quivering pile of their reanimating mushy remains. And when he's done and climbs off, covered in bits of the quivering stuff, it's his religion he says it's his fucking religion. And the pile of trembling mush he humped slides away towards the massive deep hole, vanishing over the edge of the abyss with a despairing cry falling forever maybe, down the bottomless pit. Even the chainsaw that Cock Out smashed to pieces after the first fight, embellished with vampire bats and spaceships, is reassembling itself. And when it is in one piece again, it starts itself up buzzing on the ground, and Cock Out takes it and stands on the edge and hurls the chainsaw roaring, down in the abyss.

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