Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude

Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude
Where Great Intelligence Goes To Be Insulted

Friday, 20 May 2016

Filthie's Fearful Friday Blog Night Creep Show

Today on the Thunderbox, with the rains pouring down and lightening flashing across the sky - the mood is set for a night of blood curdling horror! The blogosphere's most fiendish and creepy authors assemble here tonight to regale you with three tales of horror so profoundly scary - that I must issue warnings to those of you with weak hearts and irritable bowels!!!

We'll let Count Foyd start this theatre of chills and horror!

This first story comes from the pied paki of pick up artistry and asks us the question: Is our reality real? Are our actions our own? Arrrrooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!

Great Ceasar's Ghost! That one was so scary, I will have to go upstairs and change my underwear!!! In the meantime, Elvira will introduce you to our next special guest!

Thanks for having me on your blog, Glen, you big handsome stud muffin!!!
I really enjoy the company of fearless men unafraid of the dark! This next story comes to us from
a creepy old man that imagines an America where the military-industrial complex goes utterly mad!
Without further adieu - Fred Reed.

Good heavens, Elvira!!!! A woman with 10 arms?!?!? How ghastly!!!! There'll no easy sleeping for me this night!!!! And may I say, my dear lady, you haven't aged a day since we last met! Why, that last story was even SCARIER than the first! I don't know how much horror I can possibly take!

This last story, dear readers - is seriously not for the faint of heart, weak of mind - or craven of spirit. It's my first attempt at fiction, and is a dystopian alternate universe where all the greatest blogosphere celebrities aren't nice people - but utter ASSHOLES! What would your doppleganger look like in the next alternate universe over from ours?

The prisoner was half walked, half dragged to the chair illuminated by the anemic 40 watt bulb and roughly thrown at it by the burly jailers. Missing the chair, he fumbled and stumbled and sprawled across the wet concrete floor, and laid there for a moment, trying to gather his wits. In front of him, three grim men, seated at a table - traded disdainful looks among themselves as the prisoner regained his feet, and tried to sit down with as much dignity as he could summon.
"Name," the older gentleman said.
"C'mon, Wirecutter... you know my name -" the prisoner was cut off as one of the jailers slugged him across the jaw.
The prisoners head lolled and he spat out some blood. "Glen Filthie," he croaked.
"Do you know why you're here, Mr. Filthie?" Without giving him a chance to reply, Uncle Bob took over the interrogation. "In the last month you made an application for Rule 5 clearance to a panel much like this. Your portfolio contained photos of women so ghastly, that the last one induced PTSD in one of the reviewers. Thanks to you, today, Stackz O. Mags is sitting in a rubber room, mumbling, sometimes shrieking about fatties and chubsters with machine guns! In his more lucid moments, he tries to call in an airstrike on his own position."
"Look. It was a joke, okay? It was a friggin JOKE -" Before he could go on one of the jailers slugged Filthie in the gut and doubled him over.
"We're gonna give you one last chance to redeem yourself, Glen," Wirecutter said in dangerous tone of voice. "We understand you have a new portfolio for us to review. Pending that review, if you are successful you will be a licensed Rule 5 blogger and will be able to post pictures that celebrate the beauty of women, camel toe and milfs etc etc. If you fail - trust me on this, Filthie: you don't want to fail a second time. Are we clear?" Still groggy from the beating - Filthie managed to nod.
"Excellent! BW! Will you do the honours?" And with that - the third member of the review panel rose, picked up a folder off the table - and walked it over to the prisoner. As he handed it to the inmate he whispered quietly, "Don't mess this up, Glen."
Fumbling with the photos and the pictures inside, the prisoner's hands shook both from fear and trauma. He stuttered as he spoke. "I would like to thank the board for agreeing to give me this second chance at redeeming my reputation and my honour. My Rule 5 theme on my blog, if successful, will be 'Girls With Guns' -"
"GET ON WITH IT, FILTHIE..." WC growled. "Yessir. Gentlemen - my first of three photos for this application.....". Trembling with fear, Filthie produced the first photo.
BW  buried his face in his hands. Uncle Bob made choking sounds. Only WC looked unruffled. " So. Mr. Filthie thinks we're a bunch of pedos..."
"No...NO! She's a midget, WC! You like midgets! Please, please don't...!". Wirecutter nodded at the guards. One caught Filthie's arms and held them behind his back while the other guard beat him up for several minutes. Finally, Uncle Bob intervened. "That's enough, boys. Filthie - would you care to try again? We're looking for PRETTY women, the kind of wholesome gals that good men want to look at! Why is this so tough for you...? C'mon, man! Get with the program! Next photo, please!"
With one eye swollen shut, Filthie extracted another photo, and held it face down in his lap. "C'mon, Glen - you can do it!" the sympathetic BW  coaxed. The prisoner clenched his one good eye shut, sobbed silently and shook his head. "It's okay, Glen - just one good pic - and all this is over!"
Taking a deep breath, Filthie produced the second photo.

BW cringed. Uncle Bob turned his head, retched, and vomited noisily onto the cold cement floor behind him. This time the guards needed no command - they fell on Filthie, kicking and punching until the prisoner was on the verge of unconsciousness.

"Are you shitting me? Do I have to tell you why you got beat for that last one, Filthie?" WC asked. He sighed in resignation. "Guards - he can't move any more - let's see that last picture and be done with it!"

"I thought so. BW - can you pay our respects to the applicant? Uncle Bob isn't doing to well and I'm just gonna walk him out and maybe get him a bucket..." BW pulled a set of brass knuckles out of his jacket pocket and put them on. "No sweat guys - I got this."
Filthie felt the first hit and heard his teeth skitter across the floor. On the second, he lost consciousness and was welcomed by the blackness. Never would make a Blogger's Rule 5 Application again.
The concludes Filthie's Monsterpiece Theatre for tonight, folks. Sleep well, and don't let the bed bugs (or anything else) bite!

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