Sunday, December 8, 2013


Immortal souls experience a certain type of occasional, nagging ennui. We do not want to talk to anyone, or drain the blood from anyone or slit the throat of anyone or martyr anyone. A time to sit in small, dark rooms and doze... Not sleep, but just wander and maybe contemplate and explore. So I am going to do that. It is I, Tomas.

But I will tell you this......

Once, in a remote Ottoman province I saw a local potentate raised to the rank of imperial governor employ a certain rare and intriguing torture device. We sat on low, plush divans, eating the choicest dates and sweetmeats. Well, he did. I didn't, though I did enjoy a cold, fresh, crisp vodka-like distillation made from turnips and specially bred garden slugs. 

Unfortunate individuals were brought in, deprived of their clothing and made to sit in the 'funny' seat. a large, squarely built, throne-like chair bristling with small, but lethal, razor sharp blades. And just like spike-lined fakirs' beds, everything was honky-dory so long as movement was kept to a minimum. But the potentate/governor was a connoisseur of exquisite tortures, thus he liked to shake things up a bit.

Now the seat was canted back. In order to get up the subject must, theoretically, focus all weight on their hands and thighs... the back part of their thighs, immediately shredding them to bits.... not to mention other tender parts as well. Few ever tried. But they did not have to...

After a bit the potentate clapped his hands summoning a jester of some sort. The entertaining gentleman attired in a ridiculous assortment of colorful silk braids, belts and ripped shreds of cloth capered about spouting profane and obviously much loved 'dirty' jokes... classics among the residents round about. The victim in the 'funny' seat tried not to laugh, but resistance was futile. And the reflexive movements caused cuts and slices to open up all along his nether regions. 

Oh, I could see it in the eyes. They didn't want to laugh and some were able to stave off such rumblings. But when that happened the potentate clapped again, producing a tittering band of nubile 'honey' girls wielding colorful feather pom-poms on the ends of long, thin bamboo sticks. They used these weapons like rapiers, tickling the victim all over, thus hastening his laughing death. The blood poured like olive oil freed from a press, running down the body and into a finely polished copper pan.

Afterwards he gave it to me, but failed to understand my penchant for live food.

Though I did like they show..... That's all you'll get out of me tonight. Go do something constructive. tell your friends... leave a comment. thank you...



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