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bitches get stitches

x.there is no pain, you are receding.x

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DEADOLL SAGA
by clockbox

On a dark and windy evening (actually, it was quite a pleasant night, temperature moderate to fair, sky faintly overcast, a few stars clinging to the tendrils of cirro-cumulus, but no matter) a depraved experiment was taking place. (That was true, at least)

Dr Z looked at his be-yu-ti-ful creations, in the dark and dingy square of greasy half-light that served as his Top Secret Lab.

The body of the child-like teenage psychopath stood propped uo against the door of the Libido Installation Chamber. On her back he had grafted wings, where the skin of her back had been burnt off by the village mob set on revenge. Soft rabbit ears flopped on her head, in place of the shell-like ones that the Transylvanian witchhunter had lopped off. A bolt ran through her slender neck...

Suspended from the ceiling, cut into several seperate pieces (and even as he watched, like a cobra swaying to the eerie pointless music, the threads between her body stretched towards one another, wrapped up and embraced) hung slices of several young women, all possessed and killed by the same succubus, whom he had succeeded in decapitating and whose head was even now edging onto the patchwork throat. Between her eyelashes, the glimmer of dead eyes sparkled.

Seated on a workbench, her arms bent into awkward positions, was the corpse of Jack the Ripper's last victim- the one the world held in incognizance, because the Ripper's brother took her home. He had not been able to do anything about the large hole cut into her stomach, but the devilish dash that had sliced her head apart from the lips had been mended with a little welding and sewing her inanely smiling lips together.

He shuddered with ill-concealed delight. At last, the three younger sisters he never had, to tease and play games with, the three female companions he could take out on Sundays and amuse with card tricks, the three surrogate mothers who would cook his meals and stitch bats onto his socks...

The three wives who, between them, would sate him more than living women ever would. Kinky, but strangely pleasing. Ah well, each to their own.

The rabbit-zombie-girl shivered. The patchwork girl, now all threaded together, groaned. The Ripper girl mumbled something.

Poor them, Dr Z thought. It must like waking up after a *really* good party, only to find there is broken glass scattered under the pillow and they have no idea how it got there...

As one, in a silence so stifling it almost strangled him, their eyes flew open with far more alacrity than he'd programmed. The rabbit-zombie-girl's were a mossy green, like the tree leaves in the forests at the edge of the Never Never. One eye in the patchwork girl's was icicle blue, the other an arcane and disconcerting black. The Ripper corpse's eyes were huge, wide, chocolate and mad.

"O, my darlings," he whispered weakly, sinking to his bony knees. He sagged, like a puppet cut lose from its bonds, apparently no more in comtrol of his own destiny than he was at the beginning. "My darlings... you are awake..."

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