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Goretober Prompts

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Ow ow ow ow ow.

Madotsuki drew the blade away from her body, but it was like it had a mind of its own. The knife dipped beneath her sweater, digging into her pale, pudgy stomach and drawing across. A thick, clean line. It dripped with cruor.


Her eyes twitched, the knife's handle slipping in her sweaty palms.

The sharp edge reached towards her thigh. Blood, nothing but blood. The wounds covered her.

"I'm sorry."

Her dreams were hurting her. Her limbs ached.

The knife left her hands. They twitched and tried to grab at it. Twisting and tearing into sick, bloody wounds. The droplets stuck to her pasty, greasy skin.

Her belly and thighs were covered in lacerations, each one red as a cherry and gushing softly. Tears fell from her eyes over her pudgy cheeks, her arms falling limp beside her body. It hurt, it hurt so bad.

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"Wayne, you can't eat cake for dinner. This is getting ridiculous."

"Shut your mouth, Girl-Pants!"

His insults had become much more obnoxious since the incident. So many mouths translated to a volume multiplied by nearly hundreds. Every word was practically a scream. Lucien sighed, gazing down with all of the eyes on his face and neck into his slice of vegan pizza.

He wondered if, perhaps, Wayne had many stomachs attached to his many mouths.

"Moooom!" His voice boomed throughout the house.

"She's not home. Normally at this hour she'd be washing dishes, and I can see directly behind me that she isn't."

"Mom 'n dad are never around for dinner anymore. It sucks!"

Lucien lowered his head. How long until he realized they were abominations, he wondered.

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"Just stay still."

It was silent. The only noise was metal tweezers scraping against raw joy. The little blue orbs took up more space than his organs did, and it left a dull, unkind pain within the pit of his abdomen. Her fingers tightly wound around the tweezers, picking one out.

"...Does it hurt?"

"I'll be fine."

She dropped it on the floor.

"Lisa, you don't mind doin' this, do you?"

"Of course not, Bernard." Her eyes gazed up at him through her thick, dark bangs. His heart twitched as she tugged on the noose. "Though, when you say you've got the joy in your heart, I'd never imagine you mean it literally."

He wanted to wake up from this sick delusion.

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He could feel the damned rodents burrowing further into his body. This was the ultimate betrayal -- a betrayal he could feel digging through his insides.

"Tell me everything you know about 'your' Hikari Club."

Jaibo looked down on him with an empty gaze, jaw illuminated by the flaming coal above the rat cage. His dark eyes saw all, and his nails clicked together, as he awaited Zera's response.

"I'm not telling you anyth--"

His throat convulsed as he spat blood, teeth red and sticky and tears covering his face.

"If you tell me, I'll let you go." His Jaibo, his beloved Jaibo, grinned softly like a loving wife. "I promise to make you my second in command."


That sounded like the worst. The WORST possible ending. Frankly, he'd rather die.

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"Come on, big guy. What's the matter?"

The only response was quiet, pained sobbing. She dragged his near limbless body across the floor by his one remaining arm. "You've been so good, I'm using one of my special tools for the last arm."

Silently following behind her was the SHSL Despair's nurse. She'd sewn shut two of his open wounds, and was soon to deal with a third and fourth, as his sliced thigh and bone still scraped against the floor making an awful, painful noise.

"Let me leave."

"What're you gonna do in this apocalypse? You've only got one limb left. May as well become my pet, right?"

She plopped his arm down onto a metal table, flicking a switch. It let out a violent rumbling sound. She held that Towa in place like a wriggling dog. "Show me that despairing expression, 'big brother'. Show me that ugly scream of yours!"

And as the saw passed through, scream he did. Blood spewing everywhere, he screamed and screamed until he passed right out.

He deserved it.

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She'd never seen a table so gruesome. Not that it was stopping her.

Three heads sat in the center of the table. Her chef, her maid and her butler. The wicked maid had fallen on her side, expression permanently drawn into a sick, orgasmic grin. The other two looked far less... pleased.

In the corner of the table, just barely in her reach was another head, the scalp sawed open to reveal a delicious pink brain. She poured herself a glass of bloody wine, remembering that neighbor of hers whose lovely cranium now sat bared to the world. Beside her was a pile of her teal hair -- a nice garnish for the more flavorless bits of the human body. Things like fingernails and teeth.

The maid's body had been stuffed with olives, the arms and legs removed. However, she saved one arm and chopped it up as some extra meat. A set of lungs and intestines were plated beside the torso, shimmering a soft pink. She also skewered her teeth, and served her neighbor's breasts. (The fat had a lovely texture.)

The chef's heart and skin sat on the table, a little ways away from one another. Another brain, as well, from the peeled-back and sewn together head of her blonde-haired butler. She took an ear from across the table, dipping it in the sticky, bloody flesh attached to the skin-flap.

It was like nothing she'd ever tasted before.

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Pinkie got a wound around her stomach. However, she didn't really mind too much. She'd never seen inside herself before, and she was all about brand new discoveries and self-exploration. (Her greatest dream was to be friends with everyone on the planet, so being understanding was just something she'd have to do, even on a visceral level.) Thus, seeing her pale guts was just another part of personal understanding.

She ended up blowing them into balloons, though.

Probably not the smartest idea, waving them around in the middle of town like bodily decorations. Though nobody seemed all too bothered by it, so she assumed it was hardly a problem. Maybe people expected that of her by now.

One day later, Fluttershy acquired a similar stomach wound. At first she was paranoid that it would get infected. However, then she figured out that the blood and bodily fluid leaking from it interested her animals. So her stomach just became an animal feeder.

Like clockwork, Rainbow Dash acquired yet another wound. She ignored it. Rarity used the loose intestines as a fashion statement, and soon everyone had gut-bows tied around their backs. Pinkie believed she'd started a great trend.

At the very least, until the wounds started getting infected.

That was... less fun.

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First was blackness. Ayano licked her lips, tasting skin. She was alive. She opened her eyes, staring at a purple ceiling. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment. This was the occult club room. Not only was this the occult club room, but she was in here, tied to a flat plank on the floor.

She looked to her side, seeing some kind of black blob. That blob became a figure, in a long, dark hood and cape. Oh yeah. Definitely the occult club.


That was Oka's voice. Ayano recognized her sort of stuffed-up, gentle voice as she stepped over, the hood falling from her navy-colored head. "I'm... I'm..." She whimpered, clutching the base of a ritual knife.

Blood, Ayano tasted blood. It was thick and metallic on her tongue. Oka shuddered, clutching the knife.

"I'm sorry."

Tears rolled down her pale face. Ayano was a victim for the first time. She was terrified.

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She'd never seen something so vile in his life. Buddy curled her lips into an uncomfortable snarl, staring at the twisted, gnarled figure above her. It was incredibly tall, but seemed to be having trouble... functioning.


His mouth frothed. Buddy looked to her partner, Rando, in silence.

"He's Cooper."

"You can't name it, Buddy."

Cooper's mouth twinged and fluctuated, spitting bloody saliva.

"Outta my way, Cooper."

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"Jared. More wine, please."

"But sir, I--"

"No excuses. You're the assistant."

There was a slight buckle in his knees. The Warden could tell he would fall unconscious from the blood loss sooner or later. His lacerations were gushing. The same blood he had running in his hot tub. It was nice, and warm, and Alice had read somewhere that it does wonders for the complexion.

"So. What's up with the water? Is it ever getting turned back on?" He took his glass of red wine, setting it on the rim of the tub.

"We're working on it, sir."

"What a shame. Still not done?" He took a drink. "I hope you've got a couple more gallons in there, then."

Working conditions could have been better, but really, Jared would do anything to keep this job.

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Pretending to be dead was honestly much easier when he was already halfway there.

His stomach burned as he attempted to loosen the arrow in his guts. He knew that opening the wound wouldn't help him with bleeding out or anything, but he wanted to get a bandage on this. And damn, how was he gonna get down?

Not only that, but the killer of his people was leaving.

"Hey." He called out, tasting blood in his throat. "Get back here."

She turned. He knew it was a she. He recognized a woman when he saw one. He grunted, sputtering and trying to look her in the eye. His guts were tearing from the inside. But he'd still fight for his position, no matter what.

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She groaned, rising in the broken remains of her floating island. She'd managed to survive, but not without any damage. Her face was numb, as was her neck. She must've suffered severe burn damage to her face.

Peeling through the ruins of the windmill, she stood on shaking legs, painful blisters still boiling in her shins. Her legs felt like they were tearing apart, but she still rose. Looking up to the sky, she saw she had landed in a trench, the sun miles and miles away from her. Water dripped into the crevice below, as rain fell, and she once again took refuge under the splintered piles of gunshot-filled wood. And as the ground grew moist, she could see her reflection.

Covering one half of her face, she looked normal. Uncovering it, one could see the blackened skin and open flesh. Her right eye now completely blinded, and staring out into the distance with white iris and pupil, veins covering her scorched maw. Blisters and pustules sat across her eyelids, breaking and spewing fluid. Some parts of her skin had become yellow with exposed fatty layer, and the shifting in her burnt lips forced them open, teeth sticking out abnormally. Her neck was slightly red as well.

She sighed. This was to be expected, the boys putting her in danger and all that.

But this? This was an irreversible damage.

She'd need a mask to hide a burn like that.

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It began when Cat swallowed some sort of toxin by accident. He fell dead. However, Dog was still living. Still living, and still attached.

At first it was just an inconvenience. A depressing inconvenience, at that. A constant reminder that his dear brother-friend was dead. Dog continued pressing on in life, forcing himself to remain functional, though the grief was swallowing him alive.

Then his body began to decay. The skull of Cat was exposed, as flies began to stalk him, nibbling on the rotting flesh. The abdominal cavity fell open, sending Cat's unused intestines tumbling out of his body, dragging against the floor. His corpse left a pungent, yellow residue that spread across the floor of their house, stinking harshly of rotting meat. The house smelled like Cat after a few weeks of this. His tongue fell out as well as a few of his teeth.

But Dog couldn't bear to have his brother-friend removed.

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The painting was, really, a bit of an insult.

It was her, with her hands on her skirt in a curtsy. A smirk crossed her pudgy, young face, which was tinged with the pale rose of blush. However, there was a detach. Between her head and neck, specifically. Within it was a crowd of twisting vines, covered with thorns from the open cavity of her throat. Covered in blood, twisting and intertwining around her grinning head.

Below her skirt was a pile of roots, digging into a ground below. Then, beneath her chin, a bright red flower.

"What do you think?"

"I love it."

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Kirie was a tolerant person. Her boyfriend was anxious and nervous all the time. He hid from the universe when things became tough. But she loved him. And he loved her. Regardless of any of his problems, they were perfect. Kirie wouldn't give that up for the world.

So, when Kurozu-Cho began to fall into disarray, Kirie took it upon herself to make sure Shuichi stayed safe. He definitely wouldn't protect himself. He was paranoid, too much so to do anything, and had been depressed to the point of suicidal ideation since his mother tragically died. And with no parents or relatives, she was really the best he had. So she visited every single day to make sure he was safe, and stuck around for awhile.

However, there was the disconnect.

For a very long time -- two weeks to a month, Kirie believed -- she couldn't get to Shuichi's house. The world seemed to twist and contract into impossibility whenever she thought she was going the right way. She lost sense of where his house was for a very, very long time, only to find it had somehow, during this time, shifted right back to where it began.

She found him on the floor. His ribs created ridges in his pale, dry skin. Little hills across his body splitting off into a V. His cheeks turned inward, plastered against bone, his lips thinned out and cracked. His belly dipped into a wide plateau between the edges of his ribcage, occasionally grunting with its emptiness. No energy was left in him to even perk up at Kirie's entrance, his eyes only darting towards her and lips forming soundless words.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't get here." She sighed. "You know how this town is... But I brought food."

She drew him into a hug. His body was cold, and he sunk into her, accepting her bodily heat.

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He felt wrong, somehow. So very, very wrong. He crossed his arms, eyeballs twitching. Half of his body felt wrong. Who was he? He tugged at his hair, long on one side, short on the other, as the effects slowly overtook him. He was different from before, he felt it.


It didn't feel right. But who was he? He looked around for answers, picking at the stitches on his head, but he was given none.

Hinata? Hinata Hajime?

He knew his name, but not his purpose. What did he do? What was his point, his reason? Eyelids twitching, he couldn't find the answer no matter how hard he tried. His fingers twisted in his mismatched hair, trying to tug at his brain cells to dig the memory out of them. There was nothing. He stared blankly into the distance.

"Who am I?"

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Buddy Armstrong had no shame or fear. Rando learned that quickly.

The pacifistic Mr. Beautiful now laid dead before them. His throat was cut, the sinews split and blood pouring out. She kicked his body away. Her hair and hands all sticky with blood. Rando wanted to turn back time and stop her, and apologize.

But it was too late.

He wished he had said something. He wished he had told Buddy not to. He wished he had refused to help her, and gone home, or even stood in her way, instead of being responsible for what she did. He couldn't believe what he had done. He sighed, and followed behind Buddy. Buddy, who murdered a man who wouldn't fight back. Ruthless, shameless and fearless. He shouldn't allow this, dammit, but it was done.

He said a silent prayer for Mr. Beautiful, and hoped it would be passed on to heaven.

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"Eddie. Eddie. Eddie!"

His eyelids flickered. He grunted, looking up. Mark and Jon were there, looking worried. "You suffered a nasty fall back there."

"An' your face is burnt to hell!" Mark punched Jon in the shoulder as soon as he finished speaking. Eduardo grunted in response, rubbing his face and whining as it caused pain. "You probably shouldn't touch it, it looked pretty painful!"

"Did it look bad?" Eduardo always had his priorities straight. Mark rolled his eyes.

"Regardless of how bad it was, you're lucky to be--"

"It looks bad, doesn't it." He sighed. "Can't you get me a mirror or something?"

Mark eyed him up. He eyed up his wrinkled face, shrunk into messed-up wounds. Red and pink exposed flesh, covered loosely with bandages. There were little marks here and there, mixtures of the color in his flesh. Mark looked him up and down.

"Let's wait on that."

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They were well-attached. Highly functional. Could do nearly anything. Though, Nidai missed the ability to feel things in his arms. A hug was near meaningless if he couldn't feel the warmth beneath his arm flesh. But they were nice.

He almost thanked Monokuma, before remembering this was his fault to begin with.

They were shiny, and sparkly in the sun. They glimmered in the island sunlight. Souda was in love with them, intrigued perpetually, looking at them, touching them. Nidai didn't mind, though. He liked seeing the boy happy more than anything, really.

So when Souda tugged his arm, he stood still and let him.

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It started with a few lumps. There was a crawling sensation within him. When he went to take a pee, it burnt as the insects fluttered out. He was full of flies. It was painful, and sometimes the pustules would open, and they'd flutter out in droves. He was in pain, but they protected him. He was protected, rescued, saved. But also bloody, covered in wounds, bumps, lumps, they were red and painful and burnt to the touch.

His cheek became the mother of spiders. It was so big it dominated half of his face, a sort of x-shaped mark for where the spiders exited from. He slowly became a hive, a house of insects, he was nothing more than a drippy pile of welts.

He slept on the basement floor. When he laid down, pus squeezed from the wounds, and he cried out in agony. It was so, so, so painful he could hardly even breathe from all of the crying he was doing.

The flies couldn't protect him from what they had done.

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She had done it. Something illegal, something most people would regret. Something she craved. Murder. She'd killed three-quarters of a family. And then they laid before her, each one sprawled on the ground beside her deep black shoes.

The mother and father were boring. She never liked adults. As for Lucien, he had a bit more vigor with him. He twisted and wrestled with her, he fought back. He was violent, and Wendy liked that. She never expected it from Wayne's pacifist of a brother. However, people can change drastically when their lives are in danger. He was one of those people. He sported a black eye in death, his teeth gritted and glasses still poised upon his nose. She felt like she'd caught some kind of massive prize. He was amazing. Most likely because he and Wayne shared genes.

She adjusted her camera, which stood atop a tripod. Clutching Lucien's decapitated head, she smiled for the photo, and didn't even blink at the camera flash. She felt as though her lips looked especially rubylike and beautiful that day, almost comparable to the blood beneath her feet.

As the photo printed, she thought of what to write. She simply used a pen, and wrote in script, "To Wayne, with love." Then doodled a little heart next to the words.

Time to send some mail.

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He'd never hurt someone quite like he'd just wounded Sal. He was covered in blood, and he deserved it. His belly split and cheek torn, and thigh and shoulder ripped, squirting blood all over the ground. Samekichi stood between his legs, scowling with scarlet on his teeth. His eyes downturned, staring at Sal's missing hand, which he had swallowed.

"Your bloodlust is showing."

Samekichi kicked him between the legs, eliciting a high-pitched squeal from Sal's pale lips.

"Don't say that shit."

"But it's tr--"

He stepped on Sal, blood oozing from his open wounds. He was still smiling, that bastard. Silently, he kicked Sal off the cliff, and into the ocean. He smiled on the way down.

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Jacknife dove behind a wall. His chest heaved. His rib must've been broken, it hurt just to inhale, to press his lungs against his bones. He was scared, as he was every time this shitty robot showed up. He was hardly even embarrassed to admit it anymore. That thing was a monster. He licked the blood off of his lip, whole face seeming to pound and twitch. He just wanted to go home and lay down. He must've been awful in a past life, like, Hitler level, to end up where he was that day.

No longer hearing the whirring of the robotic propeller, he began to shift through the alley. He rubbed his bruised and broken face, whining at the pain. He had fistfuls of cash and was hurting so much he wanted to die.

His arm was forced back. He stared at his shoulder.

A metallic claw was clutching his arm. He growled, pulling on it. The robot drove him into a wall, and pulled him away.

Damnit, he just wanted success.

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A lot of people asked, what Lord Wally's delicious, juicy hamburgers are made from. Well, we're here to show you! As our old Wally is laying on the ground, you can see the pinkish meat inside of him. Get a close-up on that.

Yeah, it's kinda smelly, but that's what Wally is made of.

Anyway, Li'l Nuggie over here is harvesting the meat. And... having a few bites of his own. You like that, Nuggie? He's not listening. Oh, there's a bit of chipping on the face too. There's prime meat there as well! This is what's used to make the delicious patties of Wally's burgers.

Next step is finding a replacement.

Who do you think will be a good Wally, Li'l Nuggie?


Hey, don't gimme that look.

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What's under the helmet? He lifted it from his head. Brad watched in shock as his neck bones twisted. One, two.

What's under the helmet? His single eye blinked, somehow, despite no eyelids. It was dark, with a spot of white in the center, a big one right in the middle of his head.

What's under the helmet? His circular skull twitched, teeth grinding together as his blanket fell loose around his skinny spine. His nostrils puffed in and out gently with his breath, though uncertain of where that breath was drawn from.

That's what's under the helmet.

Brad wondered, what kind of a man this could have been.

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Brad was amazed at how poorly-hidden this machine was, considering all the effort he had to go through just to get the keys. Looking back, he could've just used his bare hands to break in through the truck's thin walls or windows. But he unlocked its back, shuffling into the darkness.

The ground was covered in something soft and squishy. He assumed the worst.

Suddenly, he was on his back, pressed up against a wall. And someone was digging their hand into his chest, ripping into the skin as he wriggled. This guy was strong! A fucking monster! Allowing himself to get held down was his worst mistake. He couldn't overpower the guy in this state. They were digging their hand beneath his ribs, touching things that certainly weren't meant to be touched. He hissed, biting back swear words.

In the low light, he couldn't see what the man was holding, but he was in immense pain. He flicked a light on, clutching something veiny and bloody. As Brad faded in and out of living, he realized what the man was holding. It was his heart.

He clenched his fist, squeezing it nearly inside out as red squirted everywhere.

It had to have been Satan himself.

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He was not the type to blaspheme, or sin. He would never turn on the lord. However, he was plagued with childlike curiosity. He'd never side with Satan, but he'd observe him! It'd be like a little game of sorts, a little science experiment. Sadly, Orel was never taught that the devil doesn't believe in things like "games" and "experiments". After shedding blood for sacrifice, he became a victim. A traitor, a true Judas Iscariot before he even went to high school.

And as the house shook, his family noticed, looking up, asking, "What was that?"

As the building rattled, he could feel the fire in his hands, the horns in his temples. He could see beyond time and space. It was scary and unkind. Things like Heaven and Paradise were all lies. The young boy twitched, his mouth tasting like burnt sugar.

As fire blew from the upstairs, he descended.

As his whole world ended, his house destroyed and family killed, he shouted a resounding, "Amen!"

Orel never would have.

But that child was long gone.

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Too much whiskey, he thought. Bent over the toilet, whose insides were now painted red. Too damn much.

Nathan was out dialing their personal doctor, as Toki, in a moment of intelligence, claimed he might've torn his esophagus. Murderface refused to get involved, so Skwisgaar was stuck comforting him and getting him stuff. All Pickles really wanted was a nap.

He swallowed, spewing more red into the toilet bowl. He drank too much and got too sick.

"Does you wants anythings?" Skwisgaar didn't even look him in the eye, too busy checking his own hair.



Nathan appeared to be arguing with the doctor on the phone. Pickles sighed, resigning himself to the situation. It was gonna be a long, long night.

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She never understood the world. She never even went outside. Instead, sitting in droves of others similar to her. All deformed and ugly. She wasn't a talker, instead she just ignored all that happened around her in the world. That was until the originals came in.

In the high window, as she realized she could fly, she saw her own reflection. Disgusting and abnormal, abhorrent, with misshapen teeth, arms, eyes, and everything else. Looking between herself, her creator, her sisters, and the originals, she finally understood who she was. What she was. She knew she was an abomination, a freak of nature. But who had made her this way? The answer to that, also, was clear.

She turned her eyes at her creator. A harsh, cruel man. The man who she once saw as a slightly rough father, she knew was using her.

"You never gave us love."

Her teeth clattered as she approached him, and her sisters followed suit.

With her malformed teeth, she'd tear him to shreds.

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Of course he had gone with the fat one. More body mass means more skin, which means more product. Obviously. And while the dark-haired one definitely had slightly more flesh to him, he was also a bit less stupid, which would've made his job just a little bit harder. So he went with the extra stupid one. (Which thing did he play? The very quiet guitar thing? Nobody really cared.) And, despite all of the bodily hair on him, he served his purpose well.

However, whilst handing away his piles of skin to make more leather, a problem arose. If he murdered a death metal icon, he'd be caught for sure. William wasn't the most popular member of that band, but still, there'd be a bare space in the band that people would notice, and he'd most likely be arrested.

No, sir, not a chance he'd let a specimen like this go.

Using some leftover skin, he decided to sew the man back together. With black thread, though he knew William would be disappointed in the loss of most of his tattoo. Most of the skin wasn't quite enough to cover his body, and so it was like making a patchwork quilt on top of a human body. He thought it was quite an intriguing project, really. As he finally shut the last length of bloody stitching, William came to, flicking his tongue in the gap of his teeth as he did.

A moment of pure silence, as he grunted in mild pain, feeling the stitches shift beneath his new skin. He stared down at himself, eyes going wide. He rubbed them. This was not some kind of freakish dream, this was a reality.

"Wuh..." He was at a loss for words. "What the fuck?!"

"Silence, I saved your life."

Eric had, after all.

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"No, this is a fuckin' great idea. It's like a tattoo, but even more badass."

"Nate'n, this is fuck'n stupid."

"It is not stupid! Branding is like, it's like... some really cool thing! And you're all gonna do it with me, so you better keep your damn mouths shut." Nathan crossed his arms, pouting like a child. "Or else we'll just sit here shirtless forever."

"I ain't schittin' here shirtlesch forever. That'sch gay." Murderface chimed in. Pickles grinned slightly at the fact that it sounded like he said "shitting".

"Look, you guys. We're all getting branded. It's the new Dethklok rule. I should even make Charles get one. Hey, Klokateer guy!" Nathan waved over to a random Klokateer walking by, who walked over to the group of half-nude men without a question. "Go get us all a really cool custom brand."

"Yes, sire."

"I want one that schaysch 'Planet Pissch'!"

"Understood, sire."

And off he went. Then was a long period of time spent in near total silence, before he returned. "I couldn't get one that says 'Planet Piss'."

"Aw, fuck!" Murderface stomped his foot angrily. Toki gently patted his back.

"But I did get little gears with your names on them, if that works, sires."

"Perfect." Nathan almost cut him off. "Burn me, man."

"This idea ams dildos."

Nathan punched Skwisgaar in the arm, shooting him a dirty look.

"Right on the back of my shoulder. Perffffffff..." His teeth dug deep into his lower lip. "...ffffffff..." The sound was endless. The others stared at each other, as the smoke and smell of burning flesh filled the room. The Klokateer pulled the branding iron off. "...ffffffuck! Christ! That's brutal!" He looked over his shoulder, not even able to see the brand very well. "I can't read it, how does it look?"

"Looks pretty cool, Nate'n."

"Tokis nexts!" Toki grinned, straightening out his back. "Toki wants a cools brands like Nathans!"

The Klokateer shrugged, edging over to Toki, who looked over-eager. Pickles rose an eyebrow.

"You sure you can handle dis? It sounded preeeeetty painful."

"Whos the fucks does you thinks I ams? I ams hardcores! Brand me!"

The Klokateer heated up the iron, before pressing it to Toki's shoulderblade. His back arched and he let out a whining cry. The brand turned black against his skin, as the Klokateer pulled the iron away. A bit of flesh came off with it. Toki puffed out nervous breaths, wiping his eyes. "That really hurts!"

"No shit." Nathan grumbled at his idiocy. Murderface made a 'pfft' sound.

"You guysch are a bunch'a pusschiesch. I bet I can take it juscht fine!"

"Well damn, now I wish I had brought my phone to record you screaming like a little bitch." Nathan held up his hand to Skwisgaar, who did not give him a high five. Sighing, Pickles gave it to him instead. "Yeah, that's right."

"Whatever! I ain't afraid of no fire."

The Klokateer shuffled behind a hunched-over Murderface, who was smirking like he'd just won the lotto with someone else's ticket. That smirk near-immediately became an open-mouth screech as the hissing of flesh on fire filled the air. He spewed swear words near endlessly. "Schtop! Schtop! Take it off!"

"Just one more se--"

"Take the brand off, douchebag!"

"Alright." The iron was peeled off, and Murderface flopped over into Toki's lap, twitching in his seat.

"I thinks he peed his pants." Toki remarked, patting Murderface on the head. Nathan, Skwisgaar and Pickles all shrugged. Murderface pissing wasn't anything new at this point. "Skwisgaar should goes nows."

"Pfft." Skwisgaar crossed his arms. "I ams never destructing mys beautifuls backs. The girls says it's my second-bests body parts... next to my--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Nathan waved his hand at Skwisgaar before he could finish. "We get it, you big pussy."

"I ams not a pussy."

"Yes you are."

"No I'ms not."

"Yes you are."

"No, I'ms not!"

"You totally are."

"Random guy! Gives me the fucksing thing!" He scowled at Nathan, who just looked a little smug. "I am'n'ts no pussy, I'll evens get your homo tattoo on my perfects shoulders." Skwisgaar crossed his arms, and, when the iron hit, he hissed between his teeth, biting back screams of almighty pain. His fingers dug into his boxer shorts, and he let out short breaths, refusing to make any sort of noise or give a proper reaction.

And then it was over.

"...My beautifuls backs..."

"Shuddup, ya big baby."

"You am'n'ts evens gotten the fucksing brands!"

"Fine then! I will!"

"Why does I gets the feelings we're only doings this out of spites nows." Toki added in, but nobody responded. Pickles stood tall, or as tall as he could get, being the shortest member of the band. One moment, he looked like a triumphant sphinx, the next he curled over.

"Oh my gAAAAAAA-"

It was the longest scream Nathan had ever heard in his entire life. It lasted the whole time, and even a few seconds after the Klokateer finally pulled the branding iron off. "Jee-zus Christ on a bicycle! Fuckin' 'ell, man, that shit burns!"

"No shits, it ams a branding irons."

"Guys, I think Moidahface's gone into shocks--"

"He'll get over it."