The Black Scab

Chapter 3

كان الشيطان األكبر، وأنا كان THE كان تربيت على االعتقاد وأنا الغرب يفهم هذا ألن الشيطان ميت كبيرة يفهم ميت شكل طريقة وأنا شكل .هذا السبب قررت ألن تتعلم الشيطان يفهم األكبر على من أعمال الجهاد أبدا !وانا ذاهب القول إلهكم سر لماذا طازج المهبل THE من MISSION نحن متحمسون جدا حول الحمقى لدينا الحلو الجلدية الضيق الذي يقطر الحمقى تتشبث حنفيات نعم لدينا الدافع ليتلقى العذارى من القول هو السبب وراء الجهاد .للتعريف الجهاد "النضال الداخلي "الرغبة في النساء األميركيات الشيطان األكبر تنتج أفضل الهرة ومن المعلوم في f**k أرضنا .نجوم بورنو المرأة التي سوف اللعنه في أرقام متعددة الرغبة .DESIRES لجميع دوراتنا UNCONTROLLABLE الجنسي وامتصاص وتذوق عصير المرأة الشقراء والفتيات f*****g !سوف تلبى رغباتنا .ال يمكن لرجل من أي عرق إنكار هذه الرغبة YOUNG حتى وإن في كتابكم المقدس المسيحي آدم استسلمت لكس الليالي تسبب في سقوط قاطبة كنكم ال تزال تبدو لي مع باكره في عينيك، وأنه على ما يرام ألني سخيف مجموعتي LIPSTICK RED المعنية c*m المرأة في كل حفرة والجلد PEOPLE جديد القحبة الشخصية .يحتضر في تلك الطائرة كانت تستحق f**k الذي توفي ألن اآلن أحصل على رأسي THOUSAND THREE يقلل الجهاد مع تحميل كل من نائب الرئيس لزجة .نعم أقول لكم :9 THE AND هو ذنب النساء وما ننشده بين أرجلهم .جحيم ليس له غضب الجهاد رجل 11/

The Pitchfork Diaries

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Pitchfork Table of Contents

Chapter 1 The Scarecrows Lament

Chapter 2 Packaging Hell

Blessing of The Ashes prose"

Chapter 3 Licking the Nails of the Crucifix

Chapter 4 Born of the Flickering

Devils Kiss Prose"

Chapter 5 Juden

Chapter 6 The Seed of Abortion

Chapter 7 Becoming

Chaotic Angel prose"

Chapter 8 Under the last Domino

Chapter 9 The Pain Principle

Burnt wings of Angeles prose"

Chapter 10 The Twisted Flame of Acceptance

Chapter 11 900 to 1

Chapter 12 The Lullaby of Rape

The stench of Mother Sleep prose"

Chapter 13 Heart of the Locust

Chapter 14 The guts of Christ

Chapter 15 Starvin’ Marvin

Chapter 16 To walk the Path of Maggots

The Burning Hand prose"

Chapter 17 The Stillborn Divine

Chapter 1 The Scarecrows Lament

It was almost laughable how cliché the daily grind of existence was in this dead-end town texas town. Nothing ever happened here, everyone’s life was known the weird kids at the high school, the town drunk who sat outside the corner store pouring liquor into his mouth from the shaking bottle nothing was kept a secret. Nothing, except for this. This was one of those secrets that everyone keeps because no one is brave enough to talk about it, to dredge up the horrors of the past. Pushed to the side and forgotten, it had been buried away until it she was nothing more than a whispered legend. But nothing stays buried forever. When word reached us of what happened, I remember staring out of the window into the sand-covered nothingness. Though I should have been shocked and horrified by the news I had heard, all I could think of was how it was about goddamn time that this lonely little town finally had something to talk about. Does that make me a bad person? Hell, no not when you consider what it was that had happened. I suppose the shocking thing was that we had all ignored the elephant in the room until now. This had been coming for so long forty-nine years now, to be precise but it was ignored by everybody. We were all stuck on autopilot, pretending that everything was fine and dandy.

It wasn’t. Before I explain to you what it was that shook us all so badly, you have to understand one thing – on more than one occasion before, there have been acts of violence and strange happenings in the state of texas, just as in any other state. This, however, this inexplicable this was something else altogether, something more terrible than anything which had come before. And now, we come to it. Everyone in the room was frozen to the spot. Staring in shock and awe, they stood as still as statues and listened to what they were hearing, filled with terrible anticipation of what was to come. Forty-nine years ago it happened, and for fortynine years not a single word had passed the lips of the infamous greta o’hare. Her crimes, though never spoken aloud in public, were legendary. It was the the only thing this little town was known for; was the woman who r***d a scarecrow. She ripped apart the bodies of travelers who were lost and unfortunate enough

stray across her path, using their severed and broken body parts to create her own man. But no; such a simple explanation does not, after all, do justice to her story. She used the rotted and fetid scarecrow as her s*x slave. She had taken the p*****s of not only the men she had captured but animals as well cows and horses, amongst others, and she interchanged them as they became too rotten to use for the purposes she had intended. The man that was made of hay, broken tree limbs, and abused human remains had only one foot, a partial arm, a brutally severed torso stitched roughly together with twine, and a gaping hole in the chest where the soft tissue of a now cannibalized heart had once lived. The scalp of the decapitated head had been sewn together from two pieces, one blond and one brown.