My first JTHM fanfic. I'm more known for my Invader Zim stories(ZAGR) please, do NOT mention ZAGR or Zim in ANY of the reviews, this is ONLY meant for Johnny. And ONLY Johnny.
The harsh white light of the moon spread across the city, bathed in a cool, milky glow. The sound of cars honking and the smell of smoke hung deep within the nighttime air, as people mingled through the traffic filled streets. Colorful neon lit up the wet pavement and onto the hoods and roofs of the passing cars, giving the suburban area a beautiful fountain of color.
But no person had the care to focus on beauty such as this. The majority of the population had better things to do than ponder on color and confusion. Their absent minds were occupied by sick, twisted matters that were beyond anyone's view of perception. Humans, consumed by filth and rot. Strangers; simply puppets for the Devil's dirty handiwork.
There were some, however, who saw through the dirt and muck, into the eyes of truth itself. One, driven from the clutches of family and love, into the emptiness; one, pushed away from reality, and into unsettling compulsions of delusions and hallucinations, and forced actions upon his will from a terrible demon which thrived within his own home.
His name is Johnny C.
An innocent human, nothing else; an enslaved spirit who is ordered by two Styrofoam doughboys, a pet bunny, and a demon scourge from beyond the realm of humanity. A man, chained to fate, trained to kill, to reluctantly serve the heart of evil itself.
Below the lawn of house 777 is none other than a man's torture chambers, deep within the heart of the house. A maze of tunnels, stairways, ladders and holes led to various rooms, holding many grotesque looking tools and machines caked in dry, leftover blood. Farther into the house, you could hear the faint sound of tortured screams and caterwauling, followed by the sounds of ripping flesh, and bone scraping against bone.
"Now, would you mind repeating that name to me again? You called me a 'cock sucker' followed by the word retched word 'faggot'. You and you're stuck up group of friends, ready for another victim to thrust discomfort into their minds. But they're dead; lifeless... Discomfort…"
Eyeing the rest of the dead hostages, two of the bodies' limbs torn apart from the torso and each organ spilled out from the middle; the other two bodies' bones were fractured and broken; the white shine of bone and marrow glinting under the smooth crimson flow of blood.
Johnny's boney fingers gripped tighter around the small black box he held in his right hand; his slim thumb poised over the silver button at the top of the remote, his thoughts craving the sound of the woman's feeble, desperate attempt for an apology and forgiveness.
A wad of spit was shot onto the left bridge of Johnny's nose, slightly landing on his eye. Gritting his teeth, he screwed his eyes up to his hostage, unpleased at the sight of fearlessness. Cackling darkly, Johnny wiped away the spit, and set the little box down onto the table of deathly instruments beside him. Once he rid himself of the disgusting sewage on his face, he slowly picked up a knife off of the table.
"I hope you're friends see you in Hell." A quick flash of his ridged knife, and both eye-sockets were soon gouged out, along with her jaw cut away from her skull in just a few violent and gruesome knife techniques.
The shallow crypt of blood below the dying, twitching corpse collected every drop of blood that fell from the woman, saving each ounce for the wall. It was to be painted later.
Walking back over to the table of tools, Johnny pressed the silver button on the remote, thus ripping away her flesh and revealing her bloody intestines squirming within. Johnny dared not to further look at the destruction as he drank in the sound of the ripping flesh and exploding organs.
Johnny set the ridged knife down onto the table and headed for the stairs that lead to the top of the house. Step after step, closer to the surface. Breath by breath, calming each nerve, and forcing his pulse back to his normal heart rate.
Johnny's steel-toed boots hit the top of the stairs, clinking against the wood of the floor, setting the trigger off and the gun on the wall to point towards him.
No, it wouldn't shoot unless the phone rang and Johnny picked up the receiver, questioning who might call him.
"Johnny," both Mr. Eff and Psycho Doughboy said in unison.
Twitching, Johnny just continued on toward his room. Glass, wood, and rubble lay strewn around in his 'headquarters' but he accepted this more than the empty suggestions of suicide that Psycho Doughboy would attempt to talk about. It put Johnny into fits of depression. He came close several times, shooting himself, electrocuting himself, killing himself with a store clerk, and so forth and so on. But that was when he had Nailbunny.
Nailbunny… Nailbunny won't answer Johnny. They've grown too strong. The doughboys have grown too strong. This was when he needed Bunny the most.
Johnny let his plans stretch a little bit. Besides, maybe death IS the answer. Now it's time's turn to play and see when someone will have the heart to call or even care.
Dear Die-ary,
Why are humans so proud of their 'perfection'? What is it that gives them such confidence within their very own being? Could they not know the blindness in which they are consumed? Time is no longer the subject of the matter. It is care and comfort that stands against before the word of death.
I need another Cherry Brain-freezy.
(AUTHOR'S NOTE): Comment, Review, Favorite, Flame, just don't bring up IZ. Tell me how I'm doing at the story so far, and tell others about this story as well.