Archive for the ‘Slasher Film’ Category

Cut-throat razor by orchid-fabric on

The straight razor kissed my throat and hovered there, level in spite of his trembling hands. He was excited, aroused.

“Wait! You’re making a mistake! I can help you!”

Every breath echoed in his mask. He kept the razor below my chin, but eased the pressure. Blood streamed.

“Help me? How?”

My heart banged against my ribs.

“This is a big operation for one guy, and I need a job! I can clean the torture rooms, help you dispose of the bodies.”

“Do you have a solid work history?”

“No …”

“That’s too bad. Sorry.”

Life On The Murder Scene by Floorsucker on

The sirloin was dry. Mr. Cechmanek wanted to enjoy his lunch at Cadabbara’s, but he couldn’t get past the disappointing brawn.

“How is it, sir?” asked the tall brunette attending to Mr. Cechmanek.

“I like my bodies similar to a sirloin – warm, bloody,” Mr. Cechmanek replied.

He paid his tab and snagged a Cadabbara’s business card upon exit. Through the terror of modern technology, Mr. Cechmanek found the chef’s address. Later, Mr. Cechmanek’s Wagoneer pulled up to a house adjacent to the unfortunate chef’s residence. Scimitar in hand, Mr. Cechmanek got the piece of meat he sought out – warm, bloody.

The Juggernaut, Armoured Truck by Mark-MrHiDE-Patten on

Comment: The Brothers Mutante only liked to do two things: murder and driving their truck. So they put their heads together, spent a month in the garage, and welded their asses off.

Result: A monster truck covered in spikes and blades and ragged hooks with a built-in wood chipper installed on the front bumper. To the sides, drainage pipes ran the length of the truck, with strategically placed holes from which the blood would flow.

What a site to behold as it plowed through pedestrians!

An endless, torrential shower of blood, guts, blood, gore, blood, brains, blood, bone, and blood!

fell down the stairs? by ImSHOE on

Look at these people, these happy people … so beautiful, yet so drunk.

The first went down outside the ladies room, my blade smooth along her halter-top’s tan line. So young, she cut like butter.

I left the next looking like a fall, so good to hear the snap of her neck, and the thump of her head on each stair.

The third was older, but quick. She saw my blade; in one glance her eyes revealed a lifetime of anger and frustration. I felt the snap of my wrist, pain in my eye, then a warm trickle, down my cheek.

Serial Killer by qqphotography on

No one ever said this was going to be easy.

Unsuspecting victims are hard to come by. People are so cautious these days.

Personally, I blame the media. The good old days of hiding in a dark alley are gone.

You jump out of the shadows and people just laugh. It’s embarrassing.

Spilling more of your own blood than the victim’s doesn’t lead to job satisfaction, let me tell you.

But I have a plan.

Patience is key. Death will be slow but assured. Creativity over carnage will win the day.

Blood will reign once more.

Machete by liorcifer666 on

“The job’s high pressure,” said Mason. “Immense competition. You gotta constantly reinvent yourself.”

“Explain,” said Doctor Slotter, polishing his brass nameplate.

“In the eighties, machetes were standard issue.” Mason pulled a machete from his backpack. “Wield this baby, you were respected, feared.” He swished it dramatically, then dropped it. “Nowadays, victims expect variety. Corkscrews, hatracks, zippers.”

Mason swung his backpack. It’s zipper sliced Slotter’s jugular. Blood spurted. Gurgling, Slotter collapsed.

“Even worse,” Mason bent for his machete, “is the reincarnation factor.”

Mason rose. Doctor Slotter stood before him, nameplate raised.

Shoulda seen that coming, thought Mason, as his skull split.

Going Away Party Gone Wrong 2 by DeepDarkAndHidden

He grinned as he washed the blood from his hands and bathed in the delicious euphoria of the kill.

To him it was like a fine wine. It only got better with age.

No one ever suspected the mild-mannered baker. He lured them in with sweets, and their gluttonous faces became his trophies.

It was a labor of love and he lived for it. One more and he would have his coveted Baker’s Dozen.

One more and he would be legendary.

Like his father before him, blood and the best bread in town was the family business.

Machine of Death II by CFKane on

Is your cabin in the woods tangled in vines and victims? Clean them out quickly with Dread’s Supply, your one-stop shop for gardening and murder implements.

How do we sell so low? We literally cut out the middleman.

There’s no escaping our landscaping tools. Slash through shrubs and cheerleaders. Hew through trunks and torsos. Clear paths for scared camp counselors to careen. But don’t cut that tripping root! Blondes love them.

Bloody blades sharpened and cleaned. Extra-large disposal bags for gathering tree and teen limbs.

We also have altars, relics, and desecrated gravestones. Dread’s Supply puts the “cult” in cultivation.

The scythe of L’Ankou by Boredman on

Sarah had seen everyone else decapitated, immolated, or violated until they were yanked inside out and twitching in the shadows of the poplars.

Her Camp Blackburn t-shirt was sweat through, giving her a chill.

The stars were bullets bending in space.

She grabbed the hedge-clippers from the rusty shed and waited.

Her hiking boots would run no more.

The killer lurched forward.

Sarah began to hyperventilate.

The killer whipped the scythe in the air.

The round blade flopped towards the boathouse.

Sarah’s shears snipped again.

His wet wrist-bones were jabbing her flesh, as she kept cutting him down to size.