Join Date: Oct 2009
Posts: 323
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Very rough draft of part 1 of a very lovecraft tale.
It was the fall of 1929 when I and a team of my colleagues, were lead by the late Dr. Hans Gruber into the deep jungles of the strange isles of Papau New Guinea. It was in that wet, dark abyss that we chanced across the Ormammu Death Cult of pygmie men. Our original purpous for going to that wretched place was to reasearch a bright-colored flower known as the Yopo.
It was late...around 9:00. The mood in our camp had become quite upset, and the faint we come upon that damned clearing. Dancing, like monsters, these horrifying creatures moved. Once, twice, three times around the fire. A blood soaked flat-rock had been placed, and on it was strung a girl. It is hard for me to determine her age, as these were pygmie men, and their stature was half of what ours is. Never the less, her head was stretched forward, so that her supple throat was well exposed. The man who approached her was dressed in little more than rags, much like the rest of them. His was a distinctly different color, though. His tunic was a shocking crimson, and the loincloth which hung below was pal blue. His face was painted a most ghastly white, and the stench of dried blood filled the air.
In his hand he held a large wooden stick, and in the end, wedged between a split, was an angular rock with a sharpened edge. It was nowhere near the quality of a modern axe, and I and my colleagues waited with great anticipation to see what was to happen next. As the drums sped up to the grand chorus, the dancing stopped. Everyone present became quite attentive. The tribe began to chant in a tongue not recognized by myself, or anyone in the civilized world to my knowledge. "Rl'yeh Cthulhu F'tgan" is as best as I may spell phonetically. My Western tongue cannot even fathom the means to pronounce such a horrendous chant.
The man in red finally reaeched the girl on the rock. The was crying, shaking. Reaching into a leather satchel, he withdrew a pinch of fine poweder, being of a dark-brown colour. He violently shoved it into her gasping nostrils. The moment the we heard her inhale the powder, her eyes grew wide with fear. They receded into the back of her head, and she began to foam at the mouth. Screaming in agony, her body began to quiver and pulsate, and the scene turned from that of extreme pain to complete and utter ecstacy. She writhed about as best she could under her arm, leg, and neck retraints. Her legs tremored and she gasped for breath, her uncovered sex quivering with orgasm.
The drums stopped, and the man brought the crude chopping tool down to her throat. It made a wretched sound, the sound of rock meeting flesh, flesh meeting rock, and the bang of rock into rock. It didn't cut her throat, but simply smashed it. She gasped, unable to breath. Her wind-pipe had surely been crushed under it's weight. A second chop and she began to make a very inhuman gurgling noise. Blood spewed from her mouth, bubbling at the peak of her orifice. A third chop and she was bleeding from the throat. She couldn't really scream, as her vocal cords were too damaged, but instead she mewed like a goat who's been trampeled. Blood gurgling in what was once a healthy throat, and tears streamed from her eyes.
If it weren't for the drug given her, I feel her agony would have been much shorter lived. She would have passed out by now. Instead, under its terrible influence, she persisted. Clinging on to what little life was left in her. A fourth time did he bring his axe down, and her throat was now well split. Blood spattered down the rock's side and into the moist earth. The crowd of pygmies erupted with joyous contentment. They began to dance again, and left the man, who I now understand to be their medicine man to do his diabolical work. With a fifth smash he finally severed what was left of flesh, and a sixth we heard that terrible noise of rock grinding against bone, and a very audible SNAP of her neck breaking. She laid there limp and desolate, never to breathe or walk this earth again.
My colleagus and I were shocked. Decimated by what we had just seen. Higgins, our photographer, was a military man, and even he, who has seen and survived the horrors of war, had never witnessed such a frightening act of brutality as what we had just witnessed. Thinking that whatever terrible ritual that had befallen our eyes was over, we shifted to leave. With a tap to my shoulder, a colleague bid me wait. There was more to this strange tribe than even I had previous presumed.
The man in red set to work on the girl again. Now, chopping quicker at her right shoulder. With four quick whacks, her arm was severed and on the ground. Picking it up, he made his way to the fire. A knife was drawn, and the arm was divided into many small pieces and given to each member of the group. With a solemn silence, they feasted on what was not five minutes ago a living human being.
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