Title: Conversations of the Doomed
Author: Cherry Doom
Author email:
Genre: General/Angst
Rating: PG-13/R (You make the judgment call)
Characters: Nny's victims/Nny is mentioned
Story Description: Some general slivers of conversation that might go on between some of Johnny's long term victims.

Disclaimer of Doom: For once, I actually own all of the main characters. I don't own Johnny, however, but he's only mentioned.

"PSST! HEY! You still alive over there?" A scraggily looking brunette called across the dark, cold, and dank 8th level of Johnny C's basement to a blonde, battered and bruised young man. They were both chained to what appeared to be dental chairs, and several large spikes were dangling from overhead attached to strings that were attached to individual fingers. They remembered being told that if they moved a certain way, the spikes would fall, piercing them.
"Yeah, I'm still alive. Who are you?"
"My name's Sue," she said. "You?"
"Hank."
"What are you in for?" Sue asked, smiling at the mild jail reference.
"I was in the back of a truck with some guys and we were drunk. I remember yelling stuff at that psycho and then the truck swerved and we hit a light pole. I woke up here," Hank said miserably. "What are you here for?"
"I don't really know. I was at the 24/7 and my boyfriend commented on how the guy looked. Said he dressed like a fag or something. I thought it was hilarious. That dude just went nuts, slicing up Michael, the clerk, and I passed out from the sight of all that blood. Oh, god...He gutted Mike like he was some kind of livestock! There was so much blood...So much! But I don't understand what I did! What did I do that was so wrong!" Sue started to cry hysterically at this, and with the tears came the nervous shaking, and her left index finger twitched. A large spike came crashing down, nailing her in the forehead. Several more fell, but the first one had killed her, and blood splattered the surrounding area.
"OH FUCK! OH SWEET JESUS! OH GOD...SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!" Hank screamed. His stomach started to churn and he felt as if he was going to puke. He instinctively squeezed his hands to keep what little bit was in his stomach down, and another spike fell, piercing his left leg. He screamed, and the twitching of the fingers caused three more spikes to fall, the others landing in his stomach, chest, and right shoulder, respectively.

In the third level of the basement-hell, about six cheerleaders hung upside down, two already dead from the blood building up in their brains.
"Rachel...Rachel...I can't feel my nose anymore!" One cried.
"Quit your bitching Heather! We're all a little fucked up right now! Where's Bri?" Rachel replied.
"Brianna's dead now. I think she drowned after her nose started to bleed. All I could make out was some gurgling." A voice from the corner squeaked.
"So how many is that now, Megan?" Rachel asked.
"Sarah, Brianna, and Lauren," Megan said. "Sarah and Lauren just died. They didn't say anything, didn't make any noise...They just...died." She sniffled, and continued: "And yeah, I think Bri drowned."
"GODDAMMIT! HEY YOU MOTHERFUCKER, SICK, PSYCHO BASTARD! WHY DON'T YOU COME DOWN HERE AND JUST KILL US ALREADY!" Rachel screamed at the doorway her voice cracking.
"Would you just shut the fuck up!" Megan sneered. "It's your fault we're down here in the first place!"
"And how would you come to that conclusion, bitch?" Rachel shot back.
"You guys...stop fighting...we're cheerleaders...we're like sisters...OW! My head feels like it's going to burst...I think too much blood is rushing to it," Heather whimpered between sobs.
"FUCK OFF!" Rachel and Megan yelled at her.
"You know, if you weren't such a skank, we would be at home right now! Safe in our beds, with some hope of seeing daylight again!" Megan said to Rachel. "If you hadn't talked about how that sick motherfucker looked like some twisted psycho killer, we wouldn't have found out that he was a twisted psycho killer. He wouldn't have gone a-wall, he wouldn't have had to worry about which ones he was going to kill there, and which ones he was going to stuff into his trunk. And I still don't get how he managed to fit all of us back there!"
"Yeah, well..." Rachel began. Neither girl noticed the odd gurgling sounds coming from the space beside them.
"See! It IS all your fault! Heather agrees with me, don't you Heather?"
The space next to the dead Brianna was silent.
"Heather...HEATHER?" Megan's voice became frantic. "HEATHER? You're not dead Heather! NO...Wake up! ANSWER ME!"

Several levels down, about level seven, was a room filled with medieval torture devices. A young man, his entirely Tommy Fuckfinger outfit covered in blood, was strapped to a stretcher. Both of his shoulders were dislocated, and the skin covering his hips was starting to tear, and his knees had snapped at the joint. A clock had been rigged to the stretcher so that as each minute ticked past, the young man was stretched even farther. At first he hadn't noticed the movement. But then it got to where he could feel the pull. Now it was his every wish for the next tick to be the one that killed him. It had been 3 days (by the clock) and he hoped that by tomorrow he would be dead.