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The Terrible Tale of Thornhill Thrash

A Fiendish Poem for Postmortem Fanatics From the Year 2525

By Lightning BoltPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 4 min read
28

This is the tale of Thornhill Thrash,

born a ward of the State.

His mother killed his father,

before suffering a similar fate.

The Body saved the baby,

but they may have acted too late.

Emerging from an artificial womb.

A slap on the ass began an epoch of doom.

When Thornhill Thrash was five years old

the State gave him a pet.

His surrogate mother learned that day

she had good reason to fret.

When questioned about his bloody hands

he showed no regret.

He'd repeatedly smashed the tiny creature's head.

He couldn't explain why he wanted to see it dead.

By the time Thornhill Thrash was ten years old

he'd retreated into a shell.

He learned from a priest he had to cease

or his soul would go to hell.

So he gathered his dreams and violent schemes

and cast them into a bottomless well.

He kept the darkness hidden in his heart.

When acting "normal", he played the consummate part.

😁👍

At the time Thornhill Thrash Ascended

his infamy was portended

His designated profession was to see the dead attended.

His natural talent at torture was highly commended.

As Provincial Coroner his aptitudes were given free reign

He became the State's foremost expert on pain.

For the next thirteen years Thornhill Thrash lived a life of ease.

Dealing daily with the dead and near-dead

his every appetite was appeased.

Collecting confessions and final words

and plaintive deathbed pleas...

None of his subjects ever had a chance to flee.

His savagery grew sharper by degrees.

He gained a reputation for being brash

His inspired autopsies could not be surpassed.

In just sixteen years, he exceeded a million served.

Every evisceration got the finesse that it deserved.

Developing a market for dying gasps under glass,

Commandeering, profiteering,

channeling funds into a private stash,

Stealing secrets from the State

and securing a weapon's cache...

🔪🩸 Alone in his lab

He would hack and slash and stab!

Opening gaping gashes,

with cat-o-nine-tail lashes,

The _storm flashes in the eyes of Thornhill Thrash!

Wandering spirits tell

Of how they're haunted in hell

By the memories of their time with Thornhill Thrash.

🩸

By the time Thornhill Thrash reached middle age,

the voices in his head were shrill.

Being an agent of the State had once been great

but legal experiments no longer thrilled.

When he sat back and reflected

on all he'd ever killed,

The meagerness of his acts spawned deep depression,

He vowed to find new ways to feed his obsession.

When Thornhill Thrash was fifty-three,

he began his life of crime.

He lured ladies back to his lair,

promising them a good time.

Even his earliest atrocities

were worthy of a nursery rhyme.

He broiled his victim's breasts in white cooking wine.

He prided himself on the delicacies on which he dined.

🍽️

By the time Thornhill Thrash retired from service,

he was averaging three murders a week.

His powers of polite persuasion

were at their seductive peak.

Because he used preservatives

none of his lovers reeked.

His cryostore was always packed with strips of meat.

All the slippers in his closet were filled with feet.

🦶

Soon new concerns stirred Thornhill Thrash

he suddenly felt the need to share.

The thought his mighty vision might end

was more than he could bare.

So he gathered dark disciples

who could kill with wicked flair.

At first his followers thought his religion odd,

But they soon came to revere him as the Knife of God.

When Thornhill Thrash renounced his sword,

his inner circle thought him insane.

But he showed them all they still had cause

to fear his unholy name.

His minions raised a citadel

upon a forsaken plain.

Zealots came to hear Apocalyptic sermons preached.

No one possessed mental defenses he could not breech.

Justice reps caught up with Thornhill Thrash

and the thousands under his sway.

That morning he awoke from malignant dreams,

knowing it was Judgement Day.

He issued the command to spread the fuel,

confident he'd be obeyed.

By the end of the day, the compound was in flames.

By the next morning, the media was laying blame.

The Law was utterly impotent

against the madness of Thornhill Thrash,

Outgunned and out-smarted,

Justice was goaded into acting rash.

The battleground was bloody,

littered with bodies and glass.

Twenty Peacekeepers were slain in the initial blast.

The citadel was finally erased in a fiery flash.

AND AS THE WALLS CAME TUMBLING DOWN..!

...the faithful SCREAMED that they were FOUND!!!

⛈️ Thunderheads licked the lands

with lethal _lightning lashes

And a laser shot through the brains snuffed Thornhill Thash.

📕

The Chronicle of Evil tells

How many souls came to Hell 🔥

Led that day by the ghost of Thornhill Thrash!

🩸

🩸

This was the tale of Thornhill Thrash...

THE END

🩸

In the same age that Thornhill Trash meets his Maker, in a different place-- love is in the air! Take a quick trip with me to the local holodrome? Techno-Dreams Do Come True in the 26th Century! 👇

I would greatly appreciate it if you hit that heart button 💙 and SUBSCRIBE. If you felt an inclination to tip or make a pledge to me, I would be very grateful… and I pledge in return to do my best to entertain! I appreciate your readership.

Thank you kindly for your support!

______________________Bolt

poetry
28

About the Creator

Lightning Bolt

From out of the blue, _Bolt writes horror galore, Sci-Fi, Superheroes & strange Poetry + MEME-ing MADNESS X12.

Vocal needs a Comedy Community!

Proud member of the Vocal Social Society on Facebook.

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Comments (2)

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  • Emily Marie Concannon8 months ago

    Omg fantastic!! Especially loved this gave me chills! Wandering spirits tell Of how they're haunted in hell

  • Babs Iverson8 months ago

    What an epic poem!!! Left a heart, Bill♥️♥️💕

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