This story is all true, but a few details have been altered to fit the narrative.
Kar woke up.
There was a weight on his chest. He struggled to breath.
He realized his little brother was crouching on top of him in a cheerleader’s uniform.
“What the fuck?”
More a point of concern, the little bastard was right in the middle of squeezing out a fat turd directly onto his chest, grinning like a gargoyle.
“What the fuck!? Get off me!” he exclaimed in disgust, shoving the boy off of him and onto the living room floor. Immediately his brother loosed an unearthly wail, drawing more children into the room. They gibbered and hooted excitedly, pulling at his hair and ears and pinching and biting him, ripping away bloody strips of flesh. One of them dug its fingers into his stomach and started unwinding his entrails across the floor and down the hall.
“Hawt,” said Ford, from a shadowy corner of the room.
Kar woke up.
Seeing he was alone in the living room, he took out his phone and typed into the Discord he had paid money to be in: “I just had a really weird dream.”
The first responses flashed on the screen:
“Shut up, Kar.”
“Lol, fag.”
Putting the phone away, he walked into the kitchen. His mother was there, cradling a supermarket turkey and cooing at it.
“Meet your new baby brother!” she told him, with manic glee.
“Bitch, no. That’s a turkey. Also I hate you.”
She pouted. “It is so your brother. But, we’re having him for Thanksgiving dinner, because he’s the Antichrist.”
Humming to herself with a vacant smile, she pulled out a giant turkey basted and injected its contents into herself before sliding the bird in the oven. “Also, Kar honey, while you were asleep I carved out one of your kidneys to sell to buy...um, groceries. Tee hee.”
He looked down, noticing a scar on his abdomen, then glanced over at the bags of white powder on the table.
“You know...sugar, salt, baking soda...that kind of thing. I needed them for the mashed potatoes.”
He said nothing, taking out his phone and typing, “I hate my mom almost as much as I hate Rian Johnson.”
“Do we even do Thanksgiving?” he asked. “We’re Scottish.”
“Oh well, you know, we had to make this fit the theme for the thread somehow.”
There was a rumbling sound and pieces of bits of powdery plaster trickled down a newly formed crack in the wall (the fourth one, specifically) before it all burst and collapsed inward, burying her beneath it.
With a sigh of relief, Kar walked past the rubble and outside.
He walked through the grimy, crumbling city, long given over to rioters, drunks, and shambling, glassy eyed zombies. It stank of mildew, rotting sheep stomachs, stale piss and stale Scottish beer (as if there was an observable difference).
Kar spotted some of his friends talking and whispering about something in an alleyway. They looked amused about something, and when they called to him he went right over.
They proceeded to beat him up, strip him down, squeeze him into a slinky dress and forcibly apply whorish amounts of makeup. Then they whipped him with long, flesh-colored garden hoses and sprayed him in the face with the foamy water.
Finally after what seemed like hours of this sadistic and uncomfortably suggestive torment, Kar managed to break away from them and began to run. He was only two blocks from home when one of the many junkies sprawled on the sidewalk suddenly hissed as he stumbled by, grabbing his leg and sinking its teeth into his pantyhose clad ankle. Kar let out a hoarse cry, kicked the junkie away his stiletto heels, and continued to run. Already he could feel the bite itching and festering.
He slipped on a pile of unidentifiable slime and fell into the gutter, and a rat squeaked indignantly at him as it scampered away. He couldn’t help but notice it had a pair of tiny Ford heads where its balls should be. “Hawt!” they said in unison.
Kar woke up.
His uncle stood beside the couch, glaring at him. “About time, you lazy piece of shit. Hey, I want you to see something.”
Kar winced at the sharp pain in his probably infected ankle as he was dragged over to the computer. His uncle hit play on a video, and there was Kar, in makeup and a slinky dress, being forced to suck on his friends garden hoses while they pointed and laughed. It was at 80,085 likes and counting.
“What is this sick filth?” demanded his uncle. “What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s so nasty, so wrong. So...hawt!” At that admission, he unzipped his pants and spent the next couple hours raping Kar while the video played on repeat. (It wasn’t so bad since he just used our protagonist’s tears for lube, instead of the usual handful of rock salt.)
Afterwards he dragged Kar outside and locked him in a shed, feeding him nothing but dry store brand dogfood and crusty old socks for weeks and administering daily rapings/beatings. Both the police and CPS put him on hold for hours and then hung up on him every time he tried to call, and so he mostly just watched Netflix and hung out in the Discord, rambling about politics while no one paid attention.
Finally, with the help of some friendly maggots, Kar’s bitten and infected foot rotted off, leaving a long shaft of bare bone sticking out of the stub that he managed to scrape into a point against the concrete floor. After using it to pick the lock to the shed, he hobbled off, thinking it was kind of cool at first that he could pretend to be a pirate with a pegleg, or maybe Wolverine with just one shitty bone claw, on his foot.. But after awhile he decided it was best just to kill himself.
Unfortunately, that was easier said than done; the plan had been to stab himself in the heart with the sharpened leg bone, but he failed at that, as he did at most things the rare times he bothered to attempt them at all. The best he could manage to do was put some gouges in the calf of his other leg. And while doing that, he lost his balance and fell backwards onto the sidewalk.
A small dog, a corgi, ran up and peed on him. He caught a glimpse of the words ‘lol fag’ embossed in fancy letters on the dog’s collar.
“Hawt,” boomed an appreciative voice from above, and he stared up in horror to see Ford’s gigantic face smiling down from the sun.
No, it was the sun.
Kar woke up.
There was a weight on his chest, and he looked and saw a tiny cricket sitting there.
“Wakey wakey!” she chirped in a cheery voice. “You’ve been having a bad dream!”
Oh good lord. He remembered everything now.
Cricket hopped away to perch on the roof of the cage, and Kar sat up. He was in a cage that hung suspended from a cliff over a lake of boiling lava. He had been here for 4232 years, ever since Cricket unexpectedly underwent apotheosis and was reborn as the god of hellfire, on Thanksgiving Day, 2019. She had burned the world to ashes and remade it into this hellscape, sparing only those she wished to keep beside her and eternally torment.
“That dream, it felt so real,” he muttered. “But it was all you, wasn’t it?”
“Most of it. But not that part with the garden hoses. Uff da nei. That was allll you. You're a weird kid.”
Kar sighed and slumped back against the bars of his cage. “Whatever, I’m just glad it’s over.”
“Haaaaawwwwwwwwt!” cried a distressed voice in the distance. Ford was being lowered by chains into the lava bath again.
Kar yawned and gazed contentedly into the towering flames crackling on the horizon, the details of the nightmare happily beginning to fade. “You know, it’s nice here. I like it.”
@lordcarpark
