#fact screen

[junkyardkilling-blog]

Population: You

He woke up to the feeling of warm mush between his fingers and an uncomfortable wetness between his legs. Once his eyes adjusted to the unfamiliar light he was able to discern that he was sitting on a pile of freshly mashed chunks of flesh-- and that there was a head between his legs, drooling. 

He tried to scream, but his throat was so sore! He frantically pushed the head off him and jumped to his feet, just to slip on the gore pile and land back on his ass. The head laughed, climbing up his leg by use of its mouth. The opposite of amused, Zed seized the head and pried it off him before hurling it as far as he could. He was shocked to discover that was actually quite far.

He began to huskily chuckle as the head vanished out of his line of sight entirely. The mush around his fingers felt icky, and by all means he should be repulsed, but for some reason when he held some up to inspect it he was hit with a tremendous wave of hunger.

It all felt wrong. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten there, or why his throat hurt so much, or even what his name was. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He couldn't for the life of him figure out why the sky was red, or why there were pieces of dead person everywhere, or why his hands were so unnaturally pale. 

Most unsettling of all, perhaps, was that he was stuffing his hand's contents into his mouth as he tried to jog his memory. Before he knew it, he had swallowed the mush down. Unsure as to whether to retch and gag or lick his lips, he sat there in confusion, eyes darting around. He was just on the verge of cursing aloud when a chorus of voices surrounded him. 

"ZED!" They chanted. He rose to his feet, hand running through his hair. That was him, wasn't it? He was Zed. He was the one the disembodied voices were reaching out to. He was the one they wanted, the one they'd been waiting for.

A small smile appeared on his lips as he hoarsely replied. "Yeah!" 

The voices cheered and hollered, a breeze picking up around him that seemed to push him away from the pile and down a road adorned with barbed wire. Every second that passed seemed to make him more comfortable with his surroundings. He followed the voices rooting for him, his smile growing.

"Welcome home!"

[junkyardkilling-blog]

ID

Zed had been thrilled to go to the movies with his friends, especially since it involved watching a horror movie! The youngsters had been in the front row of the Scream showing, and lord knows how they'd been let in. 

For Zed's friends, the movie had been too much. Way too scary. They spent most of the time with their eyes closed, clutching onto one another. But for Zed, the movie was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in years. It had him at the edge of his seat, gasping and sighing in awe. It was so horrible, yet so... cool!

When the lights came on, he was bouncing around with excitement as his friends shivered and shook their heads. They supposed the 'R' rating was there for a reason. They barely noticed as Zed got up, transfixed by something he'd seen in the back row.

Or rather someone. The man had a vibrant orange mohawk, a tight leather jacket, and a Ghostface t-shirt, and he was undoubtedly the neatest guy Zed had ever seen. He'd flown off his seat and taken off down the hall, hoping to catch up to the mystery man. 

He'd almost shouted 'Wait!' as the other had walked out of the theater and into a car parked directly outside. The boy watched in anguish as the man started his car, but was filled with a sudden ecstasy as the music blaring out of the vehicle's speakers reached his ears. It was chaotic, angry and loud; all Zed had ever wanted in music. Something inside him had clicked as he'd watched the man drive away, and his eyes had slowly wandered up to meet those of the ticket salesman standing beside him.

"What... was that?" He'd asked, nearly breathless. "That whole...Music..."

"Don'tcha know?" The man raised an eyebrow. "That was punk." 

[junkyardkilling-blog]

Rushing Water

He couldn't remember much no matter how hard he tried, even hours after it had happened.

All he could remember was his classmates singing The Wheels On The Bus, alongside a sensation of movement; a fallen log with a creek running beneath it; the sound of his friends laughing one second and screaming the next-- and a very sharp pain.

As he sat on his bed, wrapped in several blankets with his mother kissing his forehead, he tried to relive the day's events again and again. But the more he tried to remember, the less he could bring back- until all that remained was the faint sound of the creek's flow running over the rocks. 

[junkyardkilling-blog]

Mommy, Can I Go Out And Kill Tonight?

It was yet another day his father worked late at the office, and his mother had made him his favorite for dinner. He'd toned down on being a jerk at home now that he was sixteen, yet he'd found several other (much more satisfying) ways of rebelling. Political stances, ideologies and opinions were a few. Music taste and physical appearance were another few. And, of course, there was the refusal to partake in academic brainwashing, which he was doing right now. Instead of doing his history assignment, he was blasting Circle Jerks into his ears, despite his mother's promise to watch any movie he wanted with him if he finished it. He'd just lie to her and refuse to show her 'out of embarrassment'. He didn't want to miss out on a chance to watch an absolute gorefest with his gentle-souled mother- the nights his father worked late were the nights he got to bond with her, absurd as it may have sounded to anyone who knew him. 

Now sporting a bright mohawk and a few inches taller, people had come to realize Zed was taking the rebellious lifestyle very seriously. No one would ever imagine him as someone who could be kind to his parents and willingly interact with them. He'd avoid all questions about them when asked, which only fueled this image of 'independent, parent-hating anarchist'. All those points were true; he just didn't hate his own.

He decided to take his music with him as he went to the bathroom, debating whether to actually look at his history book when he returned. Upon opening the door to his bedroom, any thoughts even remotely connected to school dissipated in an instant. There in the hallway stood his mother, back to him, and a young man he didn't recognize with a switchblade in his hand who seemed very intent on pointing it at her chest.  Perhaps she hadn't called for help in order to keep Zed safe, or perhaps she'd made several distress calls that had been drowned out by Keith Morris' voice. Either way, only one thing seemed appropriate for the teen to say at the time.

"A switchblade? Really?"

His mother gasped and turned around at the sudden sound of his voice, flailing her arms. "Zed, go back to your room!" This did not sit well with the young man, who slashed at her arm and barked at her to shut up. The woman gasped, panic settling on her face as she held a hand up to cover the wound. 

Zed, on the other hand, was not feeling panic. He was feeling rage. He ducked into his room without a second thought as his mother shook her head at the man, telling him to please take what he wanted and leave. She would have made an attempt to grab the blade had she not already been wounded by it for merely annoying him.

It soon became apparent such an action wouldn't be necessary anyway, as Zed had not retreated to his room for safety, but rather to grab his baseball bat; a relic from his one year in Little League. He turned his music up as loud as it would go, feeling a surge of adrenaline run through him as he made a wild dash towards the man, bat held high. His mother shrieked and ducked as he rushed past, bringing the bat down on the man's head as hard as he could.

And again.

And again.

He only stopped when the song was over, by which time the man had stopped moving save for some minor twitches. His mother didn't say a word, leaning against a wall, her hand to her wound still. Zed removed his headphones and turned to face her, panting, his baseball bat now resting beside the man.

"So. How 'bout that movie?" 

[junkyardkilling-blog]

A Small Form Of Torture

When Zed was only five, he'd lived on the ground floor of a large house which had been divided into three individual apartments. His bedroom window faced the garden, something he was thrilled about. Even after his parents had told him it was lights out, he'd often sneak out to the garden and make an unholy mess of himself until he got tired and climbed back into bed, leaving dirt tracks everywhere.

The only problem about having a window facing the garden was the cat. One of his upstairs neighbors- he was too young to care which- had a fat old tabby (or at least it seemed fat and old to Zed) who loved to go out to the garden around midnight and begin mewling like an asshole. It woke the poor kid up every single time, but perhaps the worst aspect of it all was that whenever he'd look towards the window after his rude awakening, the tabby would be sitting there on the windowsill, eyes glowing. 

It was a nightmarish image to little five year old Zed, but even as a little one he refused to not take charge of situations he felt he could have some control over. After all, he was a big boy and the tabby was just a stinky old cat. He was bigger, therefore he could handle this. So one night after having quite enough of meows and stares, Zed went up to the window, pushed it open, and shoved the cat, telling it to shoo. His puny little shoves were not enough to push the tabby off the windowsill, but were definitely enough to get it angry. It hissed and scratched at the boy, leaving three long marks across his forearm.

He never got over it, and avoided every cat he saw from then on. 

[junkyardkilling-blog]

Hello, Father; Hello, Mother

"Tell us about your parents, Zed."

The first people you rebel against are your parents, they said. They couldn't be more right in a case like Zed's. Way back before the Zed of today was no more than a dream, an aspiration, there was a fourteen year old boy by the name of- well, for the sake of comfort we'll still address him as Zed. Despite having fairly average parents who did not ask much of him, he still felt the need to defy them, even if it was in minor ways. He wanted to be a badass, a tough guy, but his scrawny physique made this harder to manage, and his peers often took his attempts at being a rebellious teen as something of a joke, as opposed to something they should admire.

His mother was cooking beef stew and his father had just gotten home after a long day of work. The woman asked quite a simple request of her son, hoping he'd show a little cooperation this time around. "Could you set the table, please?"

"Set your own goddamn table!" Came the pouting teen's response. She expected nothing less.

"Language," his father warned from the sofa. 

"It'll only take you five seconds, and you aren't doing anything else," his mother said gently, determined to not let this behavior get to her.

"Why don't you do it then, if it's so fuckin' easy?" His expression was so smug she felt the urge to slap it right off his face. She shook her head quickly- she'd never hurt her child. At the end of the day, he was still her precious son, her little miracle after months and months of trying to conceive to no avail. Her little fighter, after half a year in the NICU due to being born prematurely. But sometimes...

"Language," his father warned again, more sternly. He would have never dreamed of talking to his mother like that. A brother of four, he knew life at home had been a lot more hectic for his parents growing up than it was for them raising Zed, so whenever he'd stepped out of line as a child he'd gotten quite a beating from his own father. Still, the man didn't believe that was any way to discipline a child, much less a teenager.

"Shut up, old man!" Zed retorted, folding his arms as he turned to face his mother again. "And what, got nothin' to say to that, huh, bitch?" His heart had skipped a beat when he'd used the word, feeling like it would be the ultimate act of defiance and teenage rebellion.

Little did he know all it did was make his parents reconsider their trains of thought. His mother slammed her ladle down in disbelief. "How dare you?" The look in her eyes was one of hurt moreso than anger, and it made Zed feel panic.

His father rose from the sofa, uttering a 'that's it'. Usually he'd demand an apology when Zed was being rude, but this had warranted a bit more than that. Grabbing his son by the shirt, he turned him around and gave him a hard slap.

The woman gasped in horror. The boy gasped in pain. The man gasped in a mix of both, though his pain was not at all physical.  As Zed ran to his room in tears, proceeding to slam the door hard enough to shake the house, the man caught his wife in his arms, attempting to console her as she sobbed her little eyes out. He didn't do a very good job, not knowing what to say.

One thought ran through Zed's head at the time; he'd have to find a different way to rebel.

One thought ran through his parents' heads. 

That they'd somehow failed. 

[junkyardkilling-blog]

psychedelia-dmt replied to your post:♦

[I’m gonna say the tooth one is false and the others are true. *o* ]

You got it! He lost his tooth before he died and therefore it never grew back. However, if he had lost it down there and it did keep coming back, he probably would have done the same- he has a habit of pushing his tongue against the gap when he's thinking. 

[junkyardkilling-blog]

askringmaster replied to your post: askringmaster asked:◊"I got a thi...

Joesy’s buttplug is true the others are false

Close, but no cigar! The buttplug is for Lewis (': It's shaped vaguely like a pinup girl lol. 

The true one is the thimble one! It didn't go all the way in, but it did get stuck, haha.