FATAL PHOTO FINISHES: A LIFE TERM OF DEATH PENALTIES
By Quillon42
SOMETIME IN 2015
Far beneath the surface of so many superhumanoid-saturated streets, someone subhuman was completing a certain circuit yet another time, all against his will and at the insistent behest of a duo of vindictive vigilantes. As the latter would have it, the former would perform again and again the same cycle of desperate sprints—and then ever-so-divisive splits—until each of those vicious officiators would say when. Unfortunately for the runner in question, it was likely that such a stasis of satisfaction would never really manifest, such that he would be locked for a long, long time in a DNF of recurrent death.
Yea, even after so many runs and after so much ruination befalling this one hapless young yob grinding it out again and again, those watching him—specifically the man in stygian and the woman in sterling—they each decided after every lethal loop that another was in order.
Going again and again through the cruel course was an insidious individual whose abominable offenses against society involved the…coerced disqualification of certain individuals from a particular race—a foot race, as well as the human race at large, to be exact. The college-age cocksmear here was one who engineered said deadly DQs, which resulted in so much mayhem, leaving many either unceremoniously deceased or unthinkably dismembered. Now that he was in the clutches of those who really knew how to dole out death, though, his comeuppance was not only certain…through antihero ingenuity, it was bound to be serialized to an infinite extent.
In the runnels lining the either side of the sewer corridor, all varieties of explosives were set down, the devices designed to divide into as many fragments as possible the fucker who rendered into so many slivers the lives of so many victims at that marathon.
Unlike the real life rendition, in which this issuance of excrement was sentenced roughly two years after the tragedies, then sent off quickly to prison…here right after the verdict an intrusion by two sentinels of vengeance effected a certain…change of venue, regarding the cell into which this detritus was to be disposed.
Now, as it would turn out, the one who planted all those murderous munitions along the finish line…the one who caused all from those who would charge across that tape, to those who cheered them on, to lose limbs and other precious parts, all in the blink of an eye…he would experience exactly what they went through firsthand, experience it twenty-six-point-two times cubed or more, in fact, as a certain Mr. Castle and a particular Ms. Sablinova would use him as a test subject for a new sort of…Hurting Factor that the two had devised in tandem.
For certain, the terrorist would once again be close by as kin huddled together, watching intently as a person dashed towards a finish involuntarily on sprint-enforcing rocket boots, then flew to fleshy pieces most messily. Only this time, it was the guano of a guy himself, the one who orchestrated the ordnance itself, who was splintering to shit in front of the spectators.
"That's it, Sir Naïve, do it for us again," uttered a rather peppy Punisher, he sardonically urging on this iteration of organic compost as the latter cantered along, exhaustedly, across the one-hundred-meter stretch once more. "Finish hard and strong…"
And once again, the attacker…he dubbed Dzjerkoff Sir Naïve by his costumed captors, a play on his real name, the moniker also bestowed upon him due to the ignorance of the anguish he caused through his acts a couple of years previous…he now for the nth time became a toilet for a shitstorm of suffering as, he straggling anew, seeing if he could reach the line this go-round before the detonation…doing all he can in vain to try and beat the burst…yet
[BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM]
[SPPPLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT]
his legs betrayed him again as they did the time before, betrayed him in the abandonment sense as they were blown off at the waste of the pathetic personoid's waist, the blast depositing the literally and figuratively dick-deprived dastard several feet into the musty air and then onto the sewer ground, the savvy shitpiece now a quasi-qualifier indeed as the runner went from terrorist to only the torso thereof once more.
He flailed his semi-severed arms violently, vainly in his supine state, the veins and arteries where his thighs used to be writhing in time with this.
"As I always have done, in my own training," said Silver, she approaching the remains of the wrecked wretch on the ground, "so must you too now work to beat your prior record…work to improve your personal best."
The magnificent mercenary turned to William Baker, her Man of Sand who adored her in every sense, and grinned. Then she turned back to the baleful bastard on the flea-ridden floor. "Come, now, cruel Sir…you must run this again. And get the lead out this time."
Upon glancing at some of the homemade explosives that Sable and Baker cooked up together: "Or should I say, get the lead in, ever more so."
As it would turn out, during this next torturous heat, the ruinous runner would he hailed by a fusillade focused not only on his own self…
…but also, the shell of a self embodied by his baneful brother, as that bullet-barraged degenerate, he treaded upon ultimately by the tires of none other than the sleaze that was Sir Naïve himself, was once again in a prone position—both in terms of his bodily displacement, his form lying facedown in the finisher's lane just ahead of the tripwire tape that would trigger yet another explosion…as well as prone in the sense, of course, that the scumbag sibling was quite susceptible to shrapnel shooting out from another deadly detonation.
Then before the slimy Sir could protest, his legs were set into motion once again by the hurrying hush puppies plastered to his feet, courtesy of Punisher's and Silver's ingenuity. The terrorist was now already a at a trot, then at a full sprint as his revived brother, he also Factored into the Hurting, watched in horror at his oncoming brother and squirmed in vain to evade his hurtling husk.
It was another foray of fast feets, as the fecal fucker hustled along…another frantic fartlek towards the finish and then
[BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM]
once again the marathoner-maimer was himself humbled into the most pureed of putrid macramé…
…but this time his brother Lamestass had been liquefied too, he similarly splattered into so much juicy jetsam, as his own organs and innards otherwise had been obliterated utterly to help lend a new coat of vibrant paint to this subterraneous scene.
Through this repetitive exposition of agony, Frank decided to filch another kiss from Kathryn, his impromptu amour from the Nicky Cavella catastrophe some years back. In this reality, Miss O'Brien had survived the ordeals that undid her, and as such the lady in time became as much a dame of the Death's Head as Lynn Michaels or Rachel Cole ever would.
Now the couple cuddled all the more as they surveyed the slain-again before them, the gratuitous gibbing of siblings who deserved it the most since the Menendezes in the Nineties.
Across the trough of tenderized tendons, Sand and Silver smooched as well, they so finding some kind of arousal in the erasure of those who perished by the plastique, just as they might have killed by it.
Such interplay between paranormal paramours was interrupted, of a sudden, by the obnoxious oomphing that sounded at their feet. Baker and Sable looked to the floor to espy Dzjerkoff Sir Naive's face contorting in defiance as, several meters away, an errant arm of the arrogant terrorist test lay twitching against the corridor's cruddy curve of a wall, the limb's hand splaying open and closed, open and closed, then apparently via a thought thrown at it by the chickenshit Chechen, the digits crushed together into a fist, the middle member erecting itself archly to wrest attention from the audience witnessing.
Sable was nonplussed. "That how it's gonna be, huh."
Impulsively the Eastern European assassiness unhooked a crescenty chai blade from a palladium-clad-thigh, and then she let fly. The glistering projectile whistled whiningly through the sewer space, a second thereafter the babe's blade severing the digit from its kin.
Then kissing her sedimentary suitor quickly upon the cheek, Silver slipped away, she sliding slickly across the tunnel to retrieve the offending segment of the reprobate's hand.
Before Sir Naïve could even turn his decapitated head to face the incoming lady, her beautiful arm craning around his cranium, she shoving the shithead's middle finger well into his eye socket:
[SHHHHHNNNNNNNNNNTTTTTT]
"Right back at ya, fuck for brains!" she cussed, awkwardly yet somewhat endearingly, as English for her always took a back seat to Symkarian. "In yer fuckin' shitass of an eye!"
Determined not to be outmaneuvered by his mistress, the bilious Billy Baker mustered all of his sandy self to slither across the sewer, he reaching the bastard's blasted bottom half, he ripping open the front of the pants, he jerking hard at the two-inch fucking boyhood that flopped out the zipperspace.
"I got yer lewd gesture right here."
The thickness of the young terror's now-detached tail had been engorged with intimate fluid at the sensation of his dismemberment (just as, say, a hanged man became similarly aroused at the moment of asphyxiation). Sandman gave an abrupt squeeze to this, the seed within spurting out abruptly onto the gack-encrusted ground. Then the Sinister-Sixer popped open a small cylinder and crammed the slippery contents into the rear of the pulled-off pecker.
Another second and the Sandman was ready to go, he having Sandman supplanted the semen inside Sir Naïve's ubershort shaft with Semtex. He turned the disconnected legs over and ripped off the fabric covering the godless bomber's bleached glutes.
"Flip ya right the fuck over…
"…then right the fuck off."
By way of a dune shaped like a fist emanating from his back, Sandman shifted a second, a small segment from behind himself arching upward in an obscene salute to Dzjerkoff.
Baker then barged into the buttocks at his feet with the probing penetrator permeated with plastique. The beachy badass thrust himself away in a wave, he making over toward a detonator belonging to Castle and Kathryn. (Ordinarily the Punisher would be reviled at the idea of fortifying fuckers such as Sandman, but in this capital case he'd made an exception).
An instant following and yet another
[BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM]
[SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTT]
Then
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
screamed the godless lepton from his finger-interrupted face across the way, he feeling every violation to visit his shit self scattered all around the sewer.
…
…
…
"Frank and I've got the next round."
This phrasing issued curtly from a focused Kathryn Castle-to-be, she loving the company of Sablinova and her swain, as well as the sordid sport at hand, but conscientious as well to ensure that this next phase played out as comprehensively as planned.
Once the blast-obsessed boy was back together entirely, and set up back at the starting line:
"Well, you ever-living syphilis, you've gone and earned it.
"It's visiting hours now, boy."
O'Brien ambled over to a portion of the underground chambers modified specially for this segment. Pulled back a curtain upon which a chalk skull was scrawled.
There in chains were all the beloved relatives of the bomber, still alive in this reality at least, every constituent of the Chechenshit clan dosed up with just enough hurting factor to return repeatedly from whatever treatments were foisted upon them. Everyone, from Naïve's Nan to Daddy Dzjerkoff himself, was there.
And their unveiling unto that young enemy of humanity came just in time for his next hundred-meter slaughter. "Give 'em hell again, fuckhead!"
Echoing after the scampering asshole was this last cruel prompt by the Punisher's sadistic squeeze, all as the desperate Dzjerk did all he could to dig into the ground with his involuntarily-hurrying heels…all to utterly no avail. Frenetically his feet flapped along the viscous floor while his vicious captors and the victims-to-be who were his kin looked on.
Then, just as the sicko skedaddled across the trigger-tape once more, that same chorus of carnage kicked up anew:
[BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM]
[SSSSSSSSSSPPPPPPPPPPLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT]and Sir Naïve saw it again, saw Lamestass mauled most miserably into mincemeat…then saw his sister sliced into ribbons of pink tissue, saw his mother's torso melt into a mess of maroon, saw Papa Dzjerkoff pureed sharply by so many sheet metal shards all fashioned in the design of a homemade explosive.
And this was all merely a preface to the endless epic of faces and limbs and other bodily components of the killer's kindred, all annihilated again and again as juice for the justice for which those like Kathryn and Castle and Sable and Sand all salivated. Features were fractured, legs blown off luridly, asses exploded into the exosphere, all of them pertaining to the parents and other relations of the unrepentant runtcunt who couldn't be bothered to be a human being a single day of his life. So he would die out the rest of his existence by paying the penalty for what he brought upon Boston.
Near to the looping blasts and bloodshed, Sand and Silver spooned while Frank and Kathryn out and out fucked. Even Frank's alternate reality scion Fulvio, first and last seen in an Ice-Bucket-based assassination or three under this author's invention, that…Sonisher was making out with Lil Sylvie, the cartoony teeny bopper counterpart to Miss Sable, to make the supersadistic circle complete. No need to let the mojo of the moment go to waste. Fulv and Sylv even snapped a few selfies at key moments of mayhem, with bastardly body parts bursting to pieces in the background, to make for the most perfidious photo finishes imaginable.
Onward ensued, at any rate, the incessant bolt-and-blast involving Sir Naïve Dzjerkoff's sprinting, then the spattering of the shit's own self as well as that of all his loved ones. Between showering shreds of fleshly fuckjob, the vindicators keeping vigil kept on with their lustfests, they envisioning all the while the programs they would found and fulfill throughout their antiheroic retirement. Personally the Punisher and company would all oversee the floating timeline life terms of looped death sentences, to be served by the Sir, as well as all those of his lineage most incidentally.
And though Castle and Sablinova alike had themselves known kin to be cut down in the most graphic of manners, their thirst for vengeance overrode even such deep-ingrained memories, each of them now sated instead with a surfeit of justice which even scads of Scourges could never serve.