The Wall of Rears

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The following work contains adult language, graphic violence and terrifying situations.  If you are below the age of eighteen LEAVE NOW!  This is the third part of a little experiment I’m doing to take a bizarre picture from the internet and write something about it.  See the below image after the text to see what I used.

The Wall of Rears

            I woke up.  My head felt like it was stuffed with straw and my mouth was as dry as a bone.  Through my bleary, caked vision I could see a multitude of tan objects, round firm globes staring back at me like some pornographer’s wallpaper.  Sticking under each squirming derriere was a slip of paper with a number printed on it.  The soft sounds of women weeping, muted and faint trickled into my ears.  I was sitting in a wheelchair, bound and to weak to move.

            What the hell? I mused drunkenly.  I remember the party over at the Minford’s vaguely.  John and Sarah had thrown it for me since my book reached the number one spot on the New York Times Bestsellers list.  Carol was with me and we were leaving—why don’t I remember anything else.

            My wife Carol was a gorgeous woman who had stood by my side through the thin years.  Believing in my work when everyone else around me felt I should give up my dream of being a writer.  Faithfully she remained staunch and defended my vision from friends and family.  Since “Diary of a Monster” came out and I hit the big time she had taken great delight in saying “I told you so” to all my doubters.

            Carol.  Where was she?  My head lolled on my neck in a creaky manner while I strained to locate her.  The sobbing sound of the women in front of me sent an icy chill through my soul.

            Could she be one of those fleshy bottoms in front of me?

            “I see you’ve awakened,” a gruff, raspy voice chuckled behind me.  “It’s so good to finally meet you Mr. Thompson, I’m one of your biggest fans.”

            “Who are you?” I croaked out.

            “My name—well it’s not important.  However I have read your work and I say do find myself a bit of an expert when it comes to you.”

            “I’m flattered but if you want an autograph this isn’t the way to go about it.”

            “Autograph?  Oh no, that’s not my intention at all.  See you stated in an article that you’d know your wife no matter what the circumstances were so I thought I’d test that theory.  Let us play a game.”

            “A g-game?” I tittered.

            “Oh yes,” he replied.  “It’s a good game—this contest of ours.  Before you in that modified wine rack are ten women, all about the same dimensions as your beloved Carol.  Each one is here against their will, snatched up off the street just as I have done to you and your wife.  The game we are going to play involves your ability to identify the woman you married.  Simple is it not?”

            “W-why are you doing this?”

            “Why?  Simply put I want to see if you are as honest as you claim.  Your book showed the workings of a serial killer’s mind.  However your depictions of his victims left much to be desired so I wanted to give you a small taste of what it felt like to be a victim—to know the terrors of being in this sort of situation.”

            “You are insane!”

            “This could quite possibly be the case or perhaps I’m just deeply interested in the human condition.”

            “What are the rules?”

            “You have three chances to guess which one of these quivering bottoms belongs to your wife.  Since she sports no identifying marks, such as a tattoo or a mole I have equally surrounded you with similar asses.  If you guess wrong I will inject a lethal dose of puffer fish neurotoxin into the incorrectly identified butt and then cut off one of your fingers.”

            “And if I pick her out?” I said with a cold shiver.

            “I will release all those in captivity and you’ll be free to go as well.”  The unseen man behind me answered.  “In short you can save everyone’s ass if you get it right on the first try.”

            He chuckled deep and low at his jest.  Sweat began to form on my brow, my eyes darting from plump derriere to plump derriere.

            “You have thirty seconds to make your first choice—staring now!” he announced.

            Okay let’s weed them out by skin color, I thought licking my lips.  Carol doesn’t tan so that leaves all but one on the bottom rack and three on the top.

            My mind swirled with images of the two of us making love, trying to ascertain a clue to that which I had cupped, kissed and petting for the past seven years. 

            “Ten seconds remaining,” my captor whispered dramatically.

            “Number two,” I replied.

            He stepped from behind, but his face still hidden by a leather fetish mask.  The zipper across his mouth seemed to mockingly smirk at me.

            “Number two is it?” he rumbled.


            “Oh I am so sorry but you are incorrect.”

            Producing a hypodermic he stabbed it into the fleshy cheek of Number Two and pushed the plunger down.  The rack began shaking violently and the woman’s ass danced in spastic shivers.  Her voice, muffled by some devious means was shrill but quickly descended into a deep gurgling coughing.  The white piece of woodwork rattled and swayed until suddenly, terribly it stopped.

            Turning to me he gripped my right hand and produced a small pair of bolt cutters.  I fought to keep him from obtaining my pinkie finger but failed.  

            “No! D-don’t do this!” I shrieked.


            I screamed.  Hot agony laced up my arm into my shoulder and finally reached my brain.  Tears of pain poured out of my eyes and blood started spurting from my hand.  Quickly, and without being asked, my captor bound the wound shut.  My body was wracked with jerking convulsions and I moaned without meaning to.

            “Well Mr. Thompson are you ready for your next choice?” the maniac questioned.

            “You sick son-of-a-bitch!” I snarled in agony.

            “Fifteen seconds.”

            Frantically I scoured the jiggly scene before me, my eyes darting from top row to bottom, from derriere to derriere.  Trying to see if I could hear my wife’s weeping in order to aid my decision. 

            “Ten seconds.”

            The flesh began to blur and my mind was racing with confusion.  I heard a soft cry.  I deduced it came from where Number Seven’s rear protruded.

            “Five seconds.” He remarked in a blasé tone.

            “Number Seven!” I called out.

            Again he stepped from behind me holding another injector. 

            “Humph—I should think this would be easier for you.  Unfortunately you are mistaken once more.”

            “No!  Don’t do it!  This is crazy!”

            Jabbing the needle into the wildly twisting sphere he once again sent a deadly poison into the victim’s blood stream.  Blubbering turned to gasping, gasping was reduced to thick choking in a voice thick with mucus.  Once again the impromptu wine rack danced and thumped until it was deathly still.  Tears ran down my face while I screamed obscenities at this unemotional murderer. 

            He snatched up my hand again, this time before I could move cut off my ring finger on my right hand at the second knuckle.  Pain like I’ve never felt before blew through my brain like a hot knife thrust into my skull.  I bit down on my lip causing it to bleed profusely.  Refusing to show him anything, any modem of hurt which he could delight in.  I blew scarlet bubbles out between clenched lips when I finally mastered the agony.  He bound up the spurting wound.

            “You cowardly bastard!” I growled.  “If I get out of this I’ll hunt you down and kill you myself!”

            “Last chance Mr. Thompson,” he said, not noting my threats.  “Stop blubbering like a child and find your wife.”

            Frantically I searched and search.  But now the backsides began to all look the same due to my hurried investigation and fear I’d sentence another poor female to death by lethal injection from a madman.  My hand throbbed horribly.  Jumping from tender globe to tender globe I sought out the woman I loved, who meant the world to me and who I just had to save from this maniac’s cruel game.

            “Ten seconds,” he said in a bored voice.

            Flicking my gaze from ass to ass I tried in vain to pick out my wife’s bottom.  Sweat ran down into my eyes as if deliberately blinding me.  My hand hurt like hell.  I tried to will away the pain and shook my head to clear my eyes.

            “Five seconds.”

            All the women arranged in front of me were shaking in utter terror.  The realization I held their fates in my hands made my blood run cold and my mind to drop into further confusion.

            “Two seconds.”
            “Number Five!  It’s Number Five you filthy bastard!” I shrieked.

            Everything went silent.  Perhaps it was just my brain making it seem this way but the leather faced man stepped up and patted the chosen behind.  He turned to me, his blue eyes glittering from the eyeslits in the fetish mask.

            “Are you sure?” he inquired, holding the hypodermic in his hand.

            “Please, please don’t do this…,” I wailed softly.

            “This is your wife?”

            “I’m begging you—spare them all and kill me if I’m wrong.”

            “You would exchange your life for theirs?”


            “So be it.”

            I closed my eyes just before the sting of the needle pierced my throat.  My body shook wildly and then I knew no more.


            “Bill?  Bill are you awake?” a familiar voice said from beyond the darkness.

            “C-Carol?” I gasped past sore and swollen lips.

            “Yes it’s me honey.  Are you okay?”

            I opened my eyes to the world around me.  My wife’s half-naked body shone in the faint rays of sunlight streaming through the dusty air from the windows high above us.  She had found some scrap of dirty blanket to wind around her shoulders. My right hand sang a song of misery and the pin-prick on my neck ached dully.  Scattered about the empty warehouse were eight moving bodies, nude and quivering in apparent fear.  They sat upon the ground, each one shooting me a dirty look of utter hatred.  Looking to the left I spied two shrouded forms lying on the cold cement, their identities hidden by the filthy blue plastic tarp which covered them.

            “Are we safe?” I asked.

            “Yes.  He let us go right after he injected you.  You guess correctly I was number five,” she sobbed.  “I was so afraid!  What kind of monster was he?!  Just to prove a point he killed two innocent women.”

            Thinking back to my bestseller I realized the poorly written victims of my book had been a travesty.  I tried to imbue them with a sense of impending doom but it stood shockingly pale compared to what I had just experienced.  I stood up with a groan.  Eight female faces turned to me all wearing angry expressions for being taken hostage just to torment a writer.  Shame flooded into my being but I couldn’t find the words to express my sorrow at what had just happened.  Gazing down at my hand, still wrapped in a blood soaked bandage I felt hot tears of guilt pour down my face.

            “Are you okay?” Carol asked quietly.

            “No,” I answered, “I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”


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