“They Do it by Gas”

(Digging through old writing. This is a fragment from a cancelled horror-erotica project in 2021. It’s about the time I started to become increasingly discontent with writing micro/macro and vore pornography for money, and started to despise my audience. I wanted to write something upsetting. The fragment doesn’t make a lot of sense out of context, but I want to preserve it)

They do it by gas.

A bramble of smashed limbs in a foil bag. Muted sobbing from those smothered by the others before the nozzle even made a tight seal above them. The technician was slow, and there’d be nobody to complain. Rough hands smashed flesh and bone into broken, brittle fragments through the coloured foil, letters and spectacle of branding occluding the terror of each life within.

They’d chosen this. Consent was given. Consciences assuaged; contracts signed. In lieu of running, and a worse-still fate, each one led gently to the back room. Assured that their end would be painless, a blissful stupor as protection from the horrors that awaited the ones that ran and struggled.

It smelled like old gum, cloying, its sightless spread throughout the foil prison spreading silence down amongst the damned. Struggles became jerks, muscles responding to oxygen starvation by nervous twitches. Another silence is among them now, deeper and yet more shallow. The complexity of human reason resolved down to a simple point, all of that will, all that was wanted or yearned for or desired. The gas sooths, it removes and plucks away.

It is often thought that the pacified become unconscious to the world around them. This is untrue. After the treatment is complete and the nozzle removed, those remaining in the bag as the thin aluminium foil is sealed are completely aware of their surroundings. They feel the thin air inside clouding their vision as the gas neutralises during their transit. They can touch those below them as they twitch in death. Throughout, only the shining bliss of a single purpose can coalesce through the ruined meat that had been their mind.

To lie there and smile. To smile through blood, and pain. To smile with a detached gaze and limp, broken limbs. Marionette bodies cut off from glory for a chance at peace.

Here was Marion, a self-surrender after 12 months unemployed. She was so tired all the time. Could force herself awake at nine if she had to, if she could bare wanting to toss herself in front of a train for the rest of the day. If she could bare not being able to think until the evening. Was never going to get a job that way. Was never going to meet her potential. Was never going to be what she was meant to be. All of that pain forgotten, now she’s here. Lightly salted with a hint of paprika – it was never good to eat these things unflavoured, after all. A distant smile to go with shallow gasps at breath. She won’t be tired anymore.

Here was Julie, running for months. She did what she could, she said. Here and there, a ragged and desperate soul would be let in, to climb on to her palm, to be soothed with warm tea and gentle words. She would listen to their troubles, to how they came that way. She would raise a fingertip to run it through their miniature locks. And when she’d heard their last, she would pick them up in her warm, soft skin. Shower them with love, smother them in affection. Let them know that there was no gulf between them, not through their size, not through their circumstance. She would close her slender fingers around their struggling body and weep for what could have been. Sobs would fill the air as she clenched her fists to shut out the screaming, and let the blood of the innocent souls pour out from underneath. She only ran. From home to street to rattling train. To be reduced was to die, and she knew that if she was caught, she would run no further.

Here was another, and another, and another. Each surrendered, each gave up. Each now one pack among many. TruTaste Pacified (Paprika Flavour), guaranteed fresh for two weeks before all within succumb to dehydration, the gas itself providing just a little longer than they would have normally, artificial moisture maintaining artificial rapture.

They are one pack among many, another ten percent crushed by force of gravity (within acceptable grounds), another five precent have their mouths (and other parts) filled with flavouring powder as it settles among them, choking out what life remains. In a stupor that are only vaguely aware of their extremities shutting down, of their toes growing cold and