House Party (Pt1)
Violence, death, brutality and reality TV, what else do you want from a story??
Well the end might be good, but unfortunately it?s been lost on my defunct PC, but if you guys like this enough I might try and write it again.
Martin sauntered up the front stairs of the large three story mansion, turned to waive to the cameraman and then opened the large red front door.
?Three time returnee, New Yorker, Martin Kline is after his first win at ?House Party?, he has reached the last four on two occasions, but did not take part last season due to surgery on his spine.? The bastard anchorman went on to give graphic details of his beating. He would like to see that shit of a fake pro wrestler risk it all in the ?House?. The imitation plantation home was actually on a film lot in Hollywood, and Martin guessed had at least thirty plus rooms. He tried to work out how many competitors there would be, probably at lest twenty, as well as some nasty tricks and surprises as usual to keep the jaded watching public amused. The voice of the continuity girl guided him to the back of the building and into a large dinning area, and then he heard the click as the door locked behind him.
He was left in silence for another fifteen minutes; he followed each dragging sixty seconds on the large grandfather clock. Other competitors would be posing for their publicity shots and then chat with the anchors for their one minute of fame, before entering the four walls that could easily be their tomb. He had spotted what he wanted as weapons within the first few minutes, but was prohibited from grabbing them until the buzzer sounded to start the game. When he had first watched ?House Party?, HP to its friends, it had indeed been a game, and then when the TV and Violence laws had changed with the Supreme Court ruling on individual freedom of choice ?Maiming and Murder? sub clause, everything had changed. The continuity girl gave him the one-minute warning and he slipped off his silk dressing gown, gave the hidden camera behind the wall mirror a big grin as he flexed his biceps and then stroked his semi erect eight-inch cock as like all the other competitors he would be fighting naked except for his lightweight wrestling boots.
At the buzzer he heard the door lock click open, but he was already waiting by the draws where the sliver plates were stacked. He pulled the first one open, napkins, and then another, cloths, then another, empty. By the time he had got to he tenth and final draw he realised he had been played, and out there in TV land millions would be laughing as he searched in vain for the carving knife, or any knife, but found not even a fork. ?Bastards?, he hissed between gritted teeth and then realised that he better be on his toes as others might already be armed and dangerous and hunting for there first scalp. However he always made sure to have alternatives and so armed with the heavy lead weighted wire from the old clock he silently eased open the large door to the hall and peered out.
The door smashed back into his face, staggering him as he fell back onto the polished wooden flooring of the room, blood dripping from his mouth. A large blond man jumped into the room armed with what his blurred vision guessed was a chair leg, and before he could get back to his feet the splintered end of the weapon crashed across his shoulder sending him groaning back to the floor.
?OK old man, your meat?, yelled the fired up weight lifter bodied mid twenties male, in guttural European accented English. He smiled down at the now totally disorientated older man sprawled at his feet. Shit thought Martin, I?ve not even made it through the first round, but just as he was bracing himself for further punishment the blond?s face disappeared in a spray of blood. The first ten minutes were nearly always a free for all brawl, and often it was when a fighter was on the brink of victory that they were the most vulnerable.
A mature pale skinned redhead, maybe ten years older than Martin, was now laughing as she systematically brutalised the quickly unconscious blond with a heavy marble statue of Venus, she held it tightly in both hands and swung it vigorously like a baseball bat. Having beaten one male into a coma she turned still smiling to the prostate Martin.
?Now to fuck you up too,? she calmly informed the dazed man, swinging back the heavy implement, but the old cow had waited a bit too long to finish off the already injured male. Martin had retrieved ?Blond?s? weapon, and as the red head heaved back the Venus above her head he jammed the splintered end into the big female?s hairy cunt. Dropping the statue to shatter into a hundred pieces she staggered back out into the hallway screaming, clutching her sex, which was now dripping blood onto the highly patterned carpet in the hall. Favouring his injured left shoulder Martin scrabbled to his feet, and still dizzy wobbled after the agonised women, but before he could catch his victim he had to drop quickly down to the floor as a small Hispanic teen leapt at him from a side doorway wielding a large carving knife.
Martin yelped as the blade sliced a thin arc across his back, but just as with the busty female he also had underestimated the tanned and bullet headed forty something gladiator. He also received the same treatment as the redhead; the jagged end of the chair leg gouged his balls as Martin gutted him with a vicious stab from the makeshift weapon. The young man screamed and slumped back, holding his torn and gory crutch, the knife clattering to the floor. Turning the boy waddled off, dripping scarlet, as Martin groggily regained his feet only for his world to explode into stars and pain again as the now recovered vengeful pale skinned mature female slammed a large vase over his head. Blood oozed into his eyes, blurring his vision, as he rolled, covering and kicking out at the women who had blind-sided him.
By luck a hefty boot landed on the mature vixen?s already injured sex, and with a scream she backed back, but by the time he had cleared his vision she was already dead. A brown-skinned Black woman in her early thirties was slowly extracting the teen?s carving knife from the pale 40-inch left tit of the other fighter. The white women?s eyes were wide with shock, instantly dead, her heart cut out by the sepia bitch. Even as he was taking in the scene Martin was rolling for the door to make his escape, but discarding the dead white the wiry muscled fitness babe African American quickly advanced on him, her blade dripping crimson. As Martin dived through the door, behind him screams and curses echoed in the hallway, and he spun round still trying to shake the cobwebs from his head to breathed a sigh of relief. The ?Nigger Bitch? was now fully engaged in a life and death struggle with a small petite ?Desi? teen.
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