The Splatter Meister Dies at the End
Krystoffer Beej Plutin knocked back another shot of rye and attempted to focus his swimming brain on the subject at hand: writing.
Having just murdered his best friend, Roy Roy Buttecracke and his long-suffering cunty wife Murgatroyd, placing their duck taped bodies head to head in a walk in freezer, then watching them accumulate frosticles while he ‘bated, his writing felt turbocharged.
And speaking of which, there was nothing like some classic fucking METAL to really rev his writing engine. He stabbed “play” on “Beyond the Realms of Death” covered by Andover, Mass. psychowhores Puke Graveyard, then changed his mind, got up from his taped-together chair, went out to the garage again, foraged deep beneath layers of old clothes and weathered copies of Mayfair edited by Graham Masterton, finally pulling out a raggedy-ass baggie with some poisonous silt of yellow rocks.
He tucked the baggie in the front pocket of his black denim battle vest, covered with patches from Pussy Graveyard, Dick Delicious and the Tasty Testicles, Vomit Launch, Chunks Frenzy, Buttlicker Brummies and Horror Sleaze Trash Girls, brought it back to his study and began to chip relentlessly away at the stone, his balls crawling with desire, his three inches of hard mushroom cock leaking a trickle of clear liquid.
“Me fer some of this low-grade meth shit,” he muttered to himself. Lifting his trusty tooter and doing a few bumps, he banged against the back of his chair, his entire body surging with the electric light orchestra.
“I feel homicidal as shit,” he said. “Time for some more murder shenans.”
Without further ado, he used his new Onion router to delve beneath the surface of even the most taboo hardcore dark web shit to the truly nasty. Some of the images made him want to spew his Doritos, but he held it in, going in for the kill. Tightly cinched ligatures. Fixed and dilated pupils. Heads in bags with blood sludge smeared on the sides. Und so weiter, und so fort.
He logged into Facebook, then went live.
“Hey guys,” he said in his high-pitched nutless voice, “it’s the Four Twenty Double D D Goth Bitch Tittays Splatter Meister talkin’ right at ya live!!! How would you fuckers like me to show up at your door and cut your fucking head off? You’d like that, right? You’d even pay me for that privilege.”
Within a few minutes, he had 100 live viewers. By the time his obscenity-laced rant was over three hours later, he’d accumulated 3,000 viewers. Hot women were commenting with tittay flash. Even hotter women were dropping into his dm’s craving even a tiny taste of the Splattermaeister. They were blowing up his email with invitations to multiple beheadings, along with deposits to his Paypal.
***
“Welp, it’s been fun and games and shit, but now that I’ve sliced yer pretty face off and glued it to mines, played with your blood and slicked it over muh pud, ‘bated and busted out a nut rehearsing your murder in slow motion in muh head, saved some of the gooshier bits for muh spank bank, I’m exhausted if not somewhat demoralized.” He peeled the face away and dropped it on the floor, kicking the loathsome rubbery object away. A cat meowed, approached the face of its owner stealthily, then began to consume.
“How ya doin’ out there?” he roared into the microphone of his live podcast rig.
Out in Internet land, the Splatter Meister’s jaded audience reciprocated his hard love for only himself. Hot men and women were peeling off their undies and stuffing then in their own mouths as they furiously ‘bated, looking straight at the camera so Krystoff could see their facial expressions as they worked length, girth and tight glistening snatch.
“Oh my goodness, this is better than sex,” he said to hisself, grunting and feeling his three inch mushroom rise once more.
“Should I write about this?” he asked.
The answer was a resounding yes.
He began furiously typing up his latest shenans as he continued to livestream. It wasn’t just the rock flowing through his veins, not even the certain knowledge that he had exerted the ultimate power, life and death, over other human beings, and done it repeatedly. It was the warm space cadet glow that accompanied understanding that the more outrageous the murder shenans, the more love, nay, adoration he received from his audience.
After a few months of house visits and livestreams in which he accumulated a body count to rival Gilles De Rais, after which he ‘bated and transcribed the results on his phone, he had enough for a collection, which he submitted to the top Splatterpunk publisher, an up-and-coming publisher called Skanky Bukkake Press.
The Splatter Meister began to win awards and the plaudits of his peers. He was interviewed in Cemetery Dance magazine and the revived Wicked Mystic and Bloodsongs. Tik Tok stans gave him rave reviews. He received so many thong panties in the mail that he started his own museum. People began to lop their own limbs off and use their last neural spasms and heroic surges of final life energy to mail them to him, leaking packages that revulsed him without causing him to quit his unboxing videos. He made more and more money, which in turn fuelled more murder junkets. He won five Splatterpunk Awards and received a special Bram Stoker Award that involved remaking the haunted house statuette in his own likeness. He was hosted by fans in South Africa and Brazil.
All of this murderous activity and his guilty feelings at long last caught up with him. Gulping blood thinners and chasing them down with vodka, he took his own advice and began to carve up his arms, making sure to cut across and not down, slicing his radial arteries till the red, red krovvy flowed.
As his consciousness faded, Krystoff watched in abject horror as he saw one after another after another viewer leave his podcast and pop up on Books of Horror where his name was dragged through the mud. “Pollutin should have quit while he was ahead,” was the last nasty comment he saw on a new HWA forum thread. “Real murder is tired, and suicide livestreams are so 2015.”
His body had badly decomposed before it was scraped out of his easy chair by a crew in HazMat suits, who sealed it in a biohazard container and buried it in a landfill.
To this day, Krystoff Plutin’s sorry ghost weeps along the burning shores of Hell, telling his story to nobody. All his books were deleted by his publishers and within a few months after his death, he was completely forgotten.
THEES EES THEE ENT
Horror Sleaze Trash 