Sadistic Sam

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Sadistic Sam is a short piece I wrote to compliment the devices of personification and metaphor. It in itself is plainly creepy, freaky, vulgar, and yet at the same time, exciting. Have fun reading! Hope you come back alive!

Submitted: June 12, 2010

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Submitted: June 12, 2010

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Sadistic Sam

Sam Samuel approached the frilly cow named Beef with such a sense of content, “Go t' hell, Beef,” Sam muttered as he nonchalantly walked over to the cow, his pace quickening, “and stay there, dammit!” He stabbed Beef, and the cow let out a yelping cry of relief. He took his scimitar and rung out the internal organs of the frilly beast; the flamboyant beef. He, Sam, despised the flamboyant beef, the zen of meat, the bane of his existence. “Shit,” he said in a rasp tone, “the goddamn squirms saw me.”

The squirms were the swine of Desperato, the land in which Sam Samuel and the slaughtered beef now resided. The obese fuchsia beasts roamed the mud and fed on the scum of the earth. Scum like his cousin, Milford. The squirms grew to be carnivorous sons of a bitch; their contorted feet, and tails, and several eyes probing eyes. Their nasal cavities reeked with the stench of death, the smell of blood, the aroma of his sister's cooking. The squirms picked up a trot, and then a steady pace of creeping-death as their disfigured selves closed in on Sam.

“Sons of Satan!” Sam jumped back with an anxious fury, and fear, as one of the squirms took a gnaw at him. He swung at them like a bunch of five year-old children playing pirates. Sam jabbed at the squirms with violent rage, stabbing some of their eyes out, and ringing up some of their heads on the tree branches. Who seemed to be the ringleader of the squirms, leaped at Sam and screamed like a warrior in battle; but he did not see that there was a beautiful death awaiting him, and for Sam, a culinary delight.

The ringleader squirm changed its scream to a squeal of terror as Sam engraved a clean cut with his scimitar, elongated the wound upward into its heart, and ultimately rung it clean through the squirm's throat. The squirm's skull slammed hard onto the rock that awaited him below, and cranial fluids flowed from his head unceasingly. The scarlet blood differentiated in colors: from velvet red to royal rose, from baby blue to grossly green; it sickened Sam, but he continued to lay the sliced and diced strips of meat on the rock.

The morning cocked, the rooster crowed, and all of Desperato awoke, including Sam Samuel. “What the hell?” he whispered to himself as if in disbelief, “Beef? Oh, goddammit! Who the hell propped you up?” Then he started to eye the clouds, and an eerie silence came over the pasture, “Who the HELL is messing with my head? You think this here is funny? Well I oughtta show you...” His thoughts trailed off, as did his voice, and his right hand reached into the satchel lying next to the rock, and revealed the gruesome and bloody scimitar from the squirm massacre. Sam tossed around the scimitar with fluency in his fingers, as he slowly came closer to Beef. “Who the hell---Why are you HERE?!” Sam's voice turned nervous, and he started to stab the air around him, as if there was something that was going to pop out. The frilly cow sat there, propped up, back to Sam, and didn't say a word.

Sam advanced to the tree that was next to Beef, hoping to get within range if he had to use his curved weapon. Before he knew it, he was standing right behind Beef, who didn't make a single budge. Just sat there. Sam couldn't take it any longer: he started to lunge his scimitar into the cow's back, and then again, and again, and again. Repeated this several times until there were a handful of wounds on Beef. But what Sam could not understand, was that there was no blood. No blood. No nothing. Just the wounds that he caused. He looked in amazement at the flamboyant beef, and a switch of insanity flipped on in his mind, for he then took his scimitar, raised it high, and cut off Beef's left arm. It fell to the ground, though not a wriggle or wrangle, or anything of the sort. It just fell. Plopped onto the earth below, on which the cow's buttocks inhabited.

Sam gave an anxious look, dropped his scimitar, and started to scream, “Holy....What the....Who would've....Mother...” The rest of the words escaped under his breath. But then he stopped, his eyes bug-eyed, and his smile crooked. He started to yell like a cattle herder yells “Tyah! Tyah!”, and using the full force of his body, he kicked the cow. He kicked the flamboyant beef off the cliff. Was there a cliff there before? Well those things don't matter now. Was there? Yea yea, there was, I'm sure of it. Sam continued to think to himself as he was slowly going insane. Insane. In – sane. I-n-s-a-n-e. Insane.

Meanwhile, off in a distant shade of trees, there was a buffalo standing erect. Chuck. His name was Chuck. The buffalo eyed the panorama of the pasture: Desperato, he thought, as his nostrils sucked in the midday air, should be a good season. As Chuck let his eyes wander, he caught out of the corner, a glimpse of Sam. And Beef. He knew Beef a mile away, that flamboyant beef. What the birdhell? That son of a---he cut himself short, for he had lost his breath: Beef was gone, off the cliff; dead. Chuck huffed, and the pierced-ring around his nose swung back and forth like a pendulum as he gazed at the horrific scene that had just taken place. Give me some speed and I oughtta....dammit! Chuck was full of grief, but also resentment. He took a deeper look at who the figure might be. He couldn't completely make it out, and the rough image of the figure didn't ring a bell. He had too much too do, and so little time; he would deal with it later. Grievance for his friend, yes, but his mission was far more important than a pile of dead meat.

He trekked onward, through the thick brush, with pure determination to carry out his mission. My mission, he thought, my mission. Why me? The very thought of why he had chosen, in his mind, to embark on such a quest, baffled him to no end. Chuck came by a tree, with such grandeur, such liveliness; The Oak. Then he proceeded to construct a makeshift shelter. Chuck gathered several trees which had grown around The Oak, and sawed them down with his thick and burly claws. Neatly, the trees were shaven down into pure and smooth stakes, about the height of an average person. Chuck then continued to implant the stakes in a circular pattern at the trunk of The Oak. There was a rustle in the distance. Perfect, he thought with a grin, just what I needed. The erect buffalo threw down his pack, swiftly grabbed his javelin, and started to run in the direction from which the rustle came. He took a sniff at the air, It's close, I feel it. Feels large. Birdhell, I'll be feastin' tonight. There it was again, the rustle, the patter of noise, the one thing that alerted the predator, and doomed the prey.

Sam walked to the edge of the cliff and stared down the abyss, “Well I'll be damned...” As his gaze down into the shadows increased in perception, a stench like none other, worse than those in the nasals of the squirms, arose into his nostrils, and withered the hairs inside. Poor hairs.

Sam jumped back and grabbed his nose; his eyes trickled tears of disgust. The trickling turned to flowing, then the flowing turned to flooding. He couldn't stop it. The pain and tension increased. He couldn't stop it. His veins pulsated and his head throbbed, pain like none other. Sam thought he was going to die; he couldn't breathe, barely at least, and he couldn't move. Then suddenly, he blacked out, fell unconscious, ceased to experience reality, and slipped into a void where his mind was the limit.

After several hours of unconsciousness, Sam awoke to a most terrorizing sight: Beef was sitting on the same rock the squirms-meat had been laid on, before a fire roaring with delight. Sam rubbed his eyes, and didn't believe what he saw: Beef, in the meat, eating some BBQ-style squirm. “Beef? That you?” Sam inquired, then proceeding to take a closer look, “Ho shit! Birdhell your eyes are all bugged, and them veins are poppin'! What the hell's wrong?” Beef did not answer. He stared at the ground as he chomped on his roasted squirm, and didn't move a limb other than to pickup a new piece of meat, and eat repeat the same digestion process all over. That's when Sam noticed: Beef had one arm. His right, since Sam had slain the left.

Sam put out his hand, and made an attempt to touch Beef, and if he really was alive, to knock him out of this daze. “Beef, buddy?” Sam questioned as he lightly shook the frilly cow, “You there---?” Sam was cut, both in speech and anatomy. Within a split second, Beef had caught Sam's left arm, broke it, then sliced it clean off with a razor-sharp shank of some sort that Beef had found earlier that day.

Sam let out an agonizing, terrifying, and horrific shrill of madness. “GEEAAH!” Sam looked at his arm, rather, the little remains of what used to be his arm, “GEEAAH! WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?” Before he could fathom any more words or sounds to compliment “what the hell” just happened, Beef stared at him, with his bug eyes and all. Sam felt himself going crazy; he had such an itch to use his scimitar, though not for means of survival, but for means of fun. Sam Samuel cocked his right brow, and grinned.

Chuck's running quickened in pace, and almost broke to a sprint, when he then came into view of the animal he had sensed before. Quite big alright, he thought, my senses were right. As always, of course. The buffalo, already slowing down, started at a trot once more. He equipped his hand with the mighty javelin, and prepared to lunge it as he gained speed and ground on the unsuspecting bear. At throwing distance, the bear sniffed and looked up, checking his surroundings, then continued to sluggishly walk around. Chuck threw the javelin, almost perfectly, and lodged it in the bear. The bear split in two when it came into contact with the fierce javelin, cutting through the wind with such precision.

The buffalo tore the spear from the bloody flesh and spilled organs, and slid it into its compartment on his back. Chuck then went on to build a fire, not much, but enough to get by for the night, and have one “grizzly” feast.

After his feast on roasted meat came to pass, Chuck lied back on a tree stump and relaxed. Long day. Pretty odd too, he thought as he relaxed,I still want to know who that was that pushed ol' Beefy off the cliff. He let out a sigh, a sigh that was mixed with regret and grief. I've gotta finish what I started, he eyed the medallion which rested in a loop around his neck, if I don't, it'll all happen again.

Sam felt his senses flare crazily beyond belief. It was quite peculiar for them to act up like this. More importantly, in what was left of his sane mentality, what the heck happened? He felt such a strong pull towards the now-darkened outskirts of the pasture, which emitted an eerie feeling to those who saw it. In his mind, he could see himself holding a circular object, with a star, and a cross in each point.

Sam confusingly thought to himself, What the hell happened? Where the heck did Beef go? Was that even Beef? What is that object I'm seein' in my head? Wha--. He was cut off, for he lost control of his own conscience, and sadly, there was nothing he could do to control it. Sam continued to walk aimlessly into the darkness of the fields, coming across shrubs and dying brush. Funnily enough, Sam “brushed” away the brush: a collection of twigs, broken branches, leaves, trees, and other foliage. His strut was rather sly, and his feet made no noise when they came into contact with the ground.

He smelled flesh, burned flesh to be precise. It smelled the utmost delicious and scrumptious to his new diabolical nature. The aroma increased, and delighted his taste buds. Sam continued his strut, and sought out the source of the wonderful odor. He came upon an area where the smell was at its strongest, delivering such anticipation to Sam Samuel. The hairs on his back stiffened like a man prostrate, and he sniffed the nighttime air, It's here.

The buffalo's ears twitched: he heard something. There was now another rustle in the distant shadows, but Chuck wasn't too concerned with it,If it messes with me, I'll kill 'm. He had a very intriguing mentality at this time of night. Nothing really seemed to get in the way of his tunnel vision: completing what he started, the mission.

Once again, Chuck laid back on the stump underneath the makeshift shelter, with the roof made of stretched bear skin, and slowly closed his eyelids. This would be the last time that Chuck closed his eyes in peace. In peace, will he rest.

Sam was going mad, purely insane; he ran with the likeness of a wolf. His anatomical structure had grown more grotesque than before, and his eyes were bloodshot. Head pounding, arms sweating, body itching. He couldn't stop it.

His rate of speed started to decrease as he saw, within running distance, a crude hut and a small fire; the smell of meat still lingering in the thick smoke. It smelled like fear. Fear and worry. Suddenly, his conscience and logical self came through, and snapped back into reality, What the—Where the hell am I? How the---. The real conscience of Sam Samuel receded back into the shadows of his mind. If you could even call it his mind.

With a swipe of his right hand, since his left had been sliced from his body like cheese on a grater, Sam wielded the scimitar, crusty with dried blood and rust. He stopped running. The force he had sensed was at ease, and Sam's movement and nature was not alerting the creature. Sam continued to walk quietly to the hut, and took a look inside, through the stakes that were planted in the ground. And that's when he saw it.

Chuck was asleep. His mind, drifting elsewhere figuratively, would be physically drifting elsewhere soon enough. The buffalo's nostrils let out a snore; one last snore.

Sam raised the scimitar above his forehead, the battered blade shining in the moonlight, and let his arms go. Down they went, and down went the blade, as well as the buffalo's head. He took the head of the buffalo, what a gruesome sight it was, and placed the cranium inside his satchel. Then, almost as if bad luck had gotten the better of Sam, his real conscience came to, and he gazed at what was before him, and what the hell could have possibly happened.


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