‘Cesspool Asylum II:Cut-Up/C.A.M. Experiment’ by Ahmed Nader Gretly


I fell down the asshole in infinite spirals, and kept going abysmally into the abyss. Silhouetted serpents slithering sadly, slickly seeking strange sensations, singing silent sonnets. Hallways stretched for miles, reacting as if under huge amounts of torsion, twitching like the soft sweet murder of the human soul. And the chart of memories unrolled to worry about this so called unseen misfortune of ingesting what is known as Blue, a glowing liquid that could turn the human conciseness into mashed-potatoes with lots of hot brown gravy in the core.

“A twisted mind is an awful thing to waste, Mr. Gretly” The Doctor exclaimed walking on all fours now, his hooves click-clacking on the linoleum flooring of one of the wards.

The Doctor explained that this specific ward housed a vast amount of degenerates delivered by the Federal Bureau of Self-Molestation; males, females, and transvestites addicted to masturbation. The Doctor had developed a rather messy method to cure the subjects from their illness; he described it to me with his high pitched voice.

“It is quite simple, Mr. Gretly. As you can see, the ward is one large room with hundreds of screens all around.” He said “Pornographic materials are shown on those screens all day long, with the subjects chained, each one in front of a screen wearing chastity belts, and a contraption on their heads that forces their eyes open each time they try to close them. The subjects are given ipecac every few hours to induce nausea; this method conditions them to relate pornography and ejaculations with sickness and vomit.”

The surrealistic atmosphere of the ward questioned the masks of reality, something asymmetrical about the hollow eyes that glared, hanging motionless, glassy, crystalline, pearly, calm, not the kind of calm that might be associated with peace, but a kind far drearier than having the will and need to die, yet not being able to. The aroma of insignia blinking before my senses made me sick; it felt as if I was walking through a dense fluid, like crossing rivers of wet dreams.

“But we all cast shadows, Mr. Gretly” The Doctor said “Are you…mad-d-d-d?”

The echo of the last word lingered on as we continued to play out our roles of subterranean and disastrous beating, not surely influenced by Blue, but far more concentrated through desecration of the subconscious mind. The sickening sensation grabbed my guts once more as we stepped into a ward surrounded by filthy iron cages, human limbs scattered everywhere.

“Cannibals,” The Doctor said with glee “The easiest subjects to handle, just place them in one room and watch them eat each other. The last one standing would walk around the cages all proud, soon to realize there’s no more human flesh to eat but his own, so they all end up eating themselves. There’s a show every Thursday if you’d like to see for yourself, and on Sundays, there’s another show in the bestiality ward where the women and men spend two hours pleasuring horses, dogs, donkeys, and chimps. Quite magnificent to watch, really-y-y.”

I couldn’t handle such madness! The blood, the vomit, the shit, the skin, the iron, the fur, and the disintegrated third class human beings wandering the wards like corpses.

“Four people dead, seventy-five injured by the intensity of forged romantic emotions-s-s-s” he whispered in my ear as I gulped a teleportation pill, and found myself in my broke down apartment where sweet Mary still lay naked in my bed, with her porcelain ass sticking out from under the covers, as she clenched a bottle of a blue glowing liquid in her hand. I tried to wake her up, but instead found myself falling into her subconscious.


About Ahmed Gretly

Ahmed Nader Gretly. Construction/Site Engineer, fiction writer, poet, psychopath, researcher, a book addict, and a daydreamer from Cairo, Egypt. Currently doing Construction Project Management, MSc, at Heriot-Watt University, Edinburgh.
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