The True Faces Of Evil.

*This was meant to be a re-post dedicated to my dastardly and debauched siblings but I ended up re-writing the whole thing instead. In regards to the evil practices detailed below, everything you read here is 100% pure unadulterated truth, .So join me in pointing a finger at these vile trio, whilst hissing a chorus of boos, for they deserve rightly so, to be judged.

Families are wonderful. 

Who better to support you in your greatest hour of need, to wipe away the tears when all seems well and truly lost? Who can you rely on to tell you what you need to hear, rather than what you want to hear? And who will always be there for you, no matter what, come rain or shine, winter or fall, day and night? Not my bloody family, that’s who.

I have long been fully aware, that lurking within the depth of my own clan, there resides a definite spark of villainy. This inherent wickedness, doesn’t so much as run through my kindred folk but gallops and bucks wildly, like a rabid horse, frothing and chomping away at the bit.

 Not so long ago, whilst trying to fathom the origins of Spawn’s nefarious nature, I recalled vividly memories of my then three year old nephew. Memories that are frequently overshadowed by a fiery display of Armageddon. He was rather a cute child, so much so, that sweet old grannies would wage an all out battle on the bleak streets of London. The world seemed almost ablaze as the cobbled stones of the East End were strewn with the countless remains of dislodged hearing aids and bi-focal glasses, whilst walking sticks and frames were held aloft and brandished as though they were deadly weapons. There was much smashing across jaws and littering the roadsides with false teeth and blue rinse hair dye. And all this, just for the chance to pinch at the soft plump cheeks of a toddler and croon a raspy,” ahh,” through the gaps of their ‘fix-o-dent’ smiles.

The cheeks of the same boy who away from the spotlight, would squash ants underfoot with relish and glee and who once garnered the affections of a tiny baby bird by cooing softly to it, only to then try and kick it in the head when it came within mere grasp of his fat sausage shaped fingers.

When I was Spawn’s age, I was so sweet that grown ups could almost feel the onset of early diabetes forming just by looking at me. No evil thoughts ever crossed my mind and no plans for wrong doings were ever afoot. OK, so I had my fair share of pulling the wings off dragonflies, but really, that was as serious as it ever got. (Practicing the ancient arts of Necromancy came much later on) So if Spawn didn’t inherit his fiendish ways from me, then just where did such wickedness come from?

Then I remembered. My siblings. Three of the most despotic people in all of history. And that’s when it  suddenly came flooding back to me, the sordidness and devilry that once marred the innocence of my childhood. Here were the TRUE FACES OF EVIL!

powder

The true faces of evil…hold on, that’s not quite right…

No, that's not it...but getting close...

The true face of evil. No, that’s not it…but getting close…

Here it is. The TRUE FACE OF...Oh forget it...

Here it is. The TRUE FACE OF…Oh forget it…

 My two brothers, one a year older, the other a year younger, were forever finding various ways in which to make me pee my knickers in fear. Whether it was throwing my headless doll at me or throwing their dirty underpants at me, both produced the same reaction, a high shrieking, ear splitting scream, followed by much hysterical weeping and a fair amount of incoherent babbling. My poor mother, who quite frankly, couldn’t be arsed with all the hassles produced by having four children under the age of eleven (bloody hell mum, did you not have a TV back then to keep you otherwise occupied?) and who I’m sodding well amazed hasn’t turned into a raging alcoholic, had probably at some point in her busied life, often lamented her fecundity and rued the very day that after baby number two, her womb hadn’t actually shriveled up and fallen out.
I often wondered how my mother stayed so calm.

I often wondered how my mother stayed so calm.

My older sister? Well, her evil deeds are too numerous to mention but together, the three of them formed a highly and unlikely psychotic trio.

Apart from playing ‘catch’ with the Goldfish and watching it’s innards scatter across the open expanse of  the living room, my siblings most dastardly acts ever, were the maiming, torture and subsequent killing of flies.For them, flies were the greatest of enemies sent forth by Mother nature herself, who mocked them openly with her creation of the wretched winged beasts. It was an all out war where these vermin were concerned and with the aid of their inbuilt super power fly detector radar, all three could easily sense, with just a twitch of their noses, the advancing approach of their mortal adversaries.

 fly2

Over time, the trio soon became adept hunters. Armed only with their weapon of choice, a rolled up newspaper or a Sunday supplement and so driven in their loathing and hatred of these insectoids, they could never seek peace until they had finally captured and persecuted their prey.

The poor flies would first, be stunned by the hard swat of  newspaper but they were not so readily dispatched afterwards. Oh no, they were kept very much alive in a ‘fly Guantanamo Bay,’ awaiting their moment of torture, a moment that would always and inevitably end in their untimely execution.

The demise of each insect was met in two ways. The first and most merciful was ‘The Crush’. The second, by way of burning. ‘The Crush’ was exactly that and simply involved placing the defeated body of the fly into the groove of a window ledge, while the handle of the window itself was rotated in the locked position. All the while, it’s pitiful screams were ignored by the three sadists, or at least that’s how it sounded to me as I watched in dismay and horror from a safe distance by the doorway. With not a hint of guilt or a show of remorse, two of the ‘evil ones’ would stand by whilst the third, crushed it’s tiny body until there was nothing left but a black and bloodied stain.

 Burning was like a kind of medieval witch trial, “You stand trial accused of being a fly. If you are found to be a fly then you will burn. And if you are not…well shit, you’re gonna burn anyways cos yous a bloody fly!” (We had appalling diction back then) The poor thing never stood a chance.

And as if it wasn’t bad enough that it had to die through no fault of it’s own but by way of it’s genetic DNA, it had to also go through a series of grisly punishments before it could eventually earn it’s release from such hellish torment.

*Warning:The following scenes

Winged creature of evil, you stand accused...

Winged creature of evil, you stand accused…

depict acts of decapitations and outright villainy!

The first series of unfortunate events meted out to the fly, was the pulling away of it’s wings. Next to follow was the loss of all it’s limbs, as the evil trio chuckled evilly in an evil manner that was dripping with pure evilness. And that was not the end by far, for worse was yet to come…much worse.

After the insect victim had been stripped off everything that made it what it was…which was obviously a fly…you would know that if you had been paying attention, it was then IMPALED on the sharp end of a pin. But still, that was not the end of it. As if it had not suffered enough at the cruel hands of these sadistic under-aged and clearly deranged humans, it’s last act on this very earth, was to then be ‘fly roasted’ over the rings of a burning gas oven.

"You're gonna shove that pin where?!

“You’re gonna shove that pin where?!

To this day, the three psychotic fly killers remain at large. By a sheer force of good fortune, none of them have yet gone on to become mass serial killers, though I have noticed that my sister’s lawn looks remarkably fertile since her husband went missing. With the winter months still creeping it’s way into our bones and the bite of frost still lingering, things for now remain calm. But come the turning of  the summer tide, all hell will surely break loose. To this day, my siblings cannot see a fly pass by without the shiver of the promise that they can bring it, for their abhorrence still remains deep, running like chilled ice through cold veins. A coldness born from years of perfecting the art of their murderous craft. And so it is to them that I dedicate this post. To the TRUE FACES OF EVIL.

May your evil souls rot in fly hell and may you all never experience the sharp point of a pin up your bums!

~Lily

*Not sure what’s happening with the spacing on this post*

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17 thoughts on “The True Faces Of Evil.

    • My crime Frank, was pulling the wings off Daddy Long Legs and then letting them drop listlessly back to the ground, where they would attempt to crawl to safety. I wasn’t proud of my maiming ways and would often think about those poor disabled creatures and what life they would then go on to have. I’d imagine them being shunned by their own kind and left unable to fend for themselves and their poor families. Dejected and depressed and no longer able to call themselves Daddy Long Legs, for without wings, they were just ‘Long Legs.’ And then I’d remember that they were “EWW!” And go out and maim some more.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. Question: Is it possible for a new face of evil to have an old nose, as in recycled? Curious. Believe it or not, there are several rhinoceros who need to know this. WeLL, that is what they told me, but I am not sure if it is truly a need. Rhinoceros can be veRy nosy,,,,hahahaha (nosy, rhino, hahahaha) Rhi-nose-are-us, hahahaha, I just now wrote that, oh, boy, it is afta midnight, I must rest soon …

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    • Mr E, your question not only makes me ponder such a subject matter, but also makes me want to turn to drink.
      I think the best person to ask about recycled noses, would be a top Hollywood plastic surgeon. That’s a surgeon who performs plastic surgery and not one who is made out of plastic. Nor does he perform surgery on plastic…no…wait, he does. I’ve just seen some pictures of Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian and I can conclude that they do indeed perform plastic surgery on plastic people, in order to make them look even more plastic…what was the question again?

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  2. Flies get a hard time, there are times when rolled up newspapers are the weapon of choice in our house and I tend to just keep my head down. Once those newspapers are hitting stuff it is best to hide as anything that moves might fall victim and that includes me and the cats. But living in the country with cows, chickens, water and woodland round us means once the flies arrive they do it on mass. There is talk this year of one of those industrial fly zaps to deal with them. There are many beasts around us but flies are the least popular unless you are a fly.

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    • Mr Z, my older sister is like a whirling dervish when she gets her rolled up paper baton in hand. NOTHING escapes her when she’s in full whacking mode. Plants, furniture, babies, family members, pets, Gordon Brown, all get a taste of ‘The Independent.’ She’d have a nervous breakdown if she had to move to the country.

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  3. Thinking about it, I am as guilty as your siblings on this one.
    Many a summers afternoon was wasted in the back garden trapping ants in little holes and pushing them back down whenever they managed to find their way out of the intricate maze of water pits and random stabbings.
    I would always let one escape to tell his mates the horrors he had survived.
    I imagined that he would be hailed a hero for living through such terrors … then my imagination would get away from me and I began to allow paranoia creep in.

    What if the surviving ant had convinced his mates to band together and search me out?
    Should I sleep with one eye open? Should I move house?

    To this day I am always wary of insects and wonder if they are capable of communicating with other. is there an an ant hill with a tiny little wanted poster with my face on it, the words “Wanted bitten or alive” written in in tiny ant words.

    I need to get out more.

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    • Hahaha! Mr H, that is worthy as a post in itself.

      I fear the same about arachnids. I fear that there is a hit out on my head and that through the power of arachnid psychic ability, they contrive each summer, to make my life a living hell for revenge out of all the ones that have gone before. There are a few rogue ones that use winter to confuse me and then work under the cover of darkness to strike fear into my heart. But the alarms soon ring out, (Spawn’s girly lady-boy screams) and I am able to thwart their plans.

      I think I may need to go back on my anti-psychotic meds…

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  4. The use of appalling diction back then cracked me the hell up lol
    I do remember you mentioning your siblings to a certain extent, but didn’t know there was so much evil involved. If they met my cousin, who actually makes sure flies and all sorts of winged “domestic” insects, get out of her house alive. She takes them in her hand with care and release them out to nature. I can’t imagine your siblings being roommates with my cousin.

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    • PorkStar, my older sis is a conundrum. She will work herself up into a frenzy when it comes to flies, but will personally escort an arachnid safely back through an open door and wave it along with some homemade biscuits and a bottle of lemonade.

      Liked by 1 person

  5. Can’t say that I ever engaged in any fly torturing, but when those nasty horse flies were biting the living crap outta me at the beach, I would have applauded your siblings for putting a hit in on some of those buggers.

    Worst thing I did with critters? (And I’m not proud of it.) Sometimes, my friends and I would step on lightning bugs. Their tales would continue to glow for a while, and we’d put them around our wrists like diamond bracelets. Yeah, I know. Makes me wanta gag now, too.

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    • LOL! Susan, this did make me chuckle. I envisage those poor bugs battle scarred and with little walking sticks, glowing in remembrance as they told tales of how they had survived a mass attack on their kind. It’s a great imagery. The diamond bracelet part however, is kinda scary. It’s akin to flaying your victims and wearing their skin…in my overactive imagination…

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  6. All I can say, Lily, is OMG, what you had to see as a child! Those siblings of yours were like young mad scientists in a horror movie!! I’m no fan of flies (if those little buzzing buggers even have fans, ha!) and I’ve swatted many a fly in my day (out of sheer necessity, of course…usually I just try to shoo them out the doors and windows) but I’ve never tortured or burned one. Wing pulling and limb pulling was horrid enough but then impaled on a sharp pin and “fly roasted”?! That really is dastardly! Had to laugh about the diction…”you’re gonna burn anyways cos yous a bloody fly!”…reminds me of kids on the streets of New Jersey when I was growing up LOL! Btw, the images you added here were perfect!

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    • As always, a big thank you Madilyn!
      Fly killing was like a professional job to my siblings and they took their craft seriously. My sister was like a ninja! She could spot a fly a mile away and the fly never knew what hit it, as she vaulted and somersaulted over furniture and people to get at her prey…okay, I may be exaggerating a little, but she was definitely very nimble when it came to the capture of these winged beasts.
      As for the spit roasting, the crackle of burning fly will stay with me forever…as will these two pounds that I’ve recently added in weight.

      Liked by 1 person

    • The thing that I’m starting to slowly realise after reading about the experiences of others Linda, is that there are a few potential psychotic killers reading my posts…

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