It Has Eyes

By Samuel H. Langley

"It Has Eyes." Indeed, it does.

"But...what has eyes?" They ask.
That's for you to decide.

This story is a lyrical piece, with rhythm and flow, much like an epic poem. Our narrator is a self-destructive, world-adored frontman of an international rock 'n roll band, "Cuntmother." Lyrics regarding the details of murder enter his mind without warning. An unknown muse artfully implants verses about "The North American 'Stabber", into the vocalists song content.

This novel shifts points of view throughout, between the following: The famous lyricist, un-named. The serial killer, Snow Liapis. A young detective, Jane Duplessis. And, YOU. Yes, this book forces you into the passenger seat. Being powerless, you cannot change the outcome. On a forced march through the depths of my imagination, I plant you in the center of my universe of depravity and chaos.

Unlike any other book (I know of), this one plays out much like a musical on paper. Demented truth, and twisted honesty. Are these qualities? Imperfections? What are humans capable of? What truly lies on the "other side"?

Read my words if you dare to. Poetry and filth. Beauty and smut.

To describe this story in 3 words...
"So much fun."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514439388

Samuel H. Langley

My name is Samuel H. Langley. I've been writing my entire life, and don't plan on stopping anytime soon. I live in hell each day, and that's what makes the good words come out. There is no saving my soul. I stay up all night typing, drinking, and smoking.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Samuel H. Langley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 01/07/2015

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Contents

He’s Too Old for Pediatrics.

2 Hot Shrinks.

Hive-Mind.

Whatever (Planar Supremacy)

In-Line-666.

The ‘How to’, to: ‘Our stay’.

Fame and All It’s ‘Thangs’.

#317.

Dazzle Camouflage

Sensory Memory

Question/answer. Question/answer.

Helicopters. Everywhere.

The Dark Flyer

Platinum-plated Gold.

All Your Relations.

Old as Time?

My Son. My Daughter?

Rattle-Canned ’240.

Badge Necklace, Part #1

Daddy’s Girl Has A Monologue.

Badge Necklace, Part #2.

Cuntmother.

Intermission.

Predicament.

Smells like: ‘Happy’.

One of the Many Endings

Damage Report

Hunk of Burning Love

The Rise and Fall, of Jane Duplessis

Self Destruct in: 10…9…

…8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2…

Every Day, with Rachael Ray.

Satan’s Driver Attempts Suicide, With You in the Passenger Seat. So, Take a Selfie

It Has Eyes, I Tell You.

Slightly Armed, and Pretty Dangerous.

Buenos Dias, Padre.

Encore.

#1

You fucked up. Hahahahaha

Black Octopus.

The Tale, of ‘X-Eye’ Bunny.

When the ‘Dead’ Get Together, and…You Know….

…Fuck Each Other’s Brains Out.

Right Moves

He’s Too Old for Pediatrics.

…A lair full of women, and I’m the only man.

That is, until another dick enters the chamber. He cleans my left arm with sandpaper. These tattoos aren’t so permanent!

-A glowing bit of glass in the corner spits noise and image.

With a grunt, he pulls my tooth, to see if he has courage. To test his stomach, he cuts off a thumb (not sure as to which one).

Things happen around me. Events are sped up, and viewed as a montage dedicated to THIS history.

My wallet was emptied. The girls laughed, then went to the store.

Light poured in.

Does he have any cigars? Comes a perky female tone that I recognize.

Got ’em. My girlfriend answers.

I want to tell them to take everything. A dead man can’t smoke anyway.

The fever makes me high. A flashing television screen lures, then lulls me.

My constant narration loses momentum.

This is a death, slow and deserving.

My maimed spirit does ricochet around the room, looking down.

They must have disposed of me…

Because, I can smell myself rotting.

2 Hot Shrinks.

…No windows, just lights. The posters feature motivational slogans. Ones that promote feelings of self worth.

We’re worth a set of hospital socks, and scrubs.

Humans, throughout history, have killed themselves with pens. That means we aren’t allowed to own one.

-Canada Dry is unlimited here, and on the house. We stir ours with a straw.

-Cigarettes are contraband…we mimic ours with another straw. Ripping them in half matched the length…by the way.

Sharp remarks zig-zag, a few or more words apiece. They can’t be captured.

Rip this skin…until this wins. - The phrase, it repeats.

You’re so cool. - It’s coming closer…

Get out of here. Another says.

Some speak in unfamiliar tongues. Others are in hysterics, pawing madly at our reality as we see it (at the moment).

It’s as if they’re stuck behind a 2-way mirror.

- We will never be scared of them-

We are prisoners of war, who surrendered willingly. They make us rise early, and with nothing to do. We wait, watch T.V, and get our vitals taken.

They feed us too much, and torture us with their warm expressions and boobs.

-Hourlys-

Drinking coffee, eating sandwiches, surfing the web, fucking in the shave room, power-walking with headphones on, and fingering themselves.

I tried to jack-off in the shave-room once. Figuring it was a good idea, since shaving sessions are supervised. The young lady kicked me in the dick, well before I could cum on her.

Their asses turn us on, as they go by. Each time we see one of them gliding down the corridor, we fall in love. Skirts, stockings, high-heels, glasses, clip-boards, the works.

Love lasts a moment. It’s unavoidable, primal, and disgusting. Everything starts looking good to us.

There is something that we all want, and we can’t have it. At least, in here.

We’re shacked up in a getaway resort, at first glance. Our secrets are what make this place a living, breathing, interesting thing.

Evil lives within. The battle for the good within us goes on…pointlessly.

This is the path to recovery…

We mindlessly stir our soda, while picking apart our surroundings.

This is a room, assuming it has four walls that can keep us in.

It’s structural integrity begins to melt, and re-harden. Every solid in the chamber turns to liquid, and back again. The floor starts to vibrate, and our vision flickers like a dying bulb. Feels like something is pushing through into our world.

Reverse architecture.

The tiles below us separate, and expose a tar-pool beneath. Black worms wiggle their way through the cracks.

-Ignore them-

Our hospital’s floor plan is displayed behind a section of glass mounted beside the door frame. An escape route is indicated with a red line.

We have it memorized.

Some Officesluts.com look-a-like is about to enter. She is going to ask us the same questions as yesterday.

The doorknob turns, and it’s go-time.

The Chamber repairs itself. Tiles scurry back to their designated spots, like cockroaches avoiding discovery.

Our eyes are barrels. Double-barrels, trained. The ends can sense the light.

In walk two hot shrinks…

Like sisters, they stay together, at staggered heights. They glide as if their feet don’t exist. A hallway’s light outlines their shapes, buxom and fit. Dress-clothes are their armor.

As for the tall one: black high-heels start the experience. Your eyes travel up her long sun-browned legs, for miles. A pair of stockings make them a shade darker. Her purple skirt comes up to about three inches above her knees. The bust is barely contained by a matching blazer, with a white button-up shirt underneath.

Exposed neck meat, it’s bite-worthy.

Following, is a face that’s kind, and tan, with Fuck me eyes. Long black hair is tied up in a professional-looking bun.

Her shorter counterpart has red hair and freckles scattered across her countenance. The outfit she wears is similar, but navy-blue in coloration.

She hugs her clip-board like a pillow-pet.

She humps it at night.

Her doe-eyes are shielded by bookworm specs.

Is it that I favor her? (The red-head)

…Neither of them have name-tags.

The door shuts behind them, and they just stand there, smiling down at us.

We detect their spirits, which oddly, do not inhabit the bodies. They float around the room, agitated, wanting, hurting, and horny.

You smoke? Inquires the taller one, as she reaches into her clutch.

-We have been addressed, directly. So, one of us takes over:

What do you want? I’m answering with a question.

Grins radiate: mechanic and polished.

Eyes bat: With metronome persistence, both rhythmic and silent.

Me, being observant, I’m waiting for the two imposters to blink.

They never do…

We want you to smoke this, Starts the red-head, with two voices (A female, and a male that sounds as if he’s underwater).

She reaches into the bag that’s slung around her shoulder, and burrows around. Produced, is a bedraggled cigarette. It’s been crushed between a miniature mirror and a pocket-rocket. Knowing this, i accept the offer. I can see the glistening of fluids infused with the paper.

You know, smokin’ ain’t allowed on the hospital grounds at all. I’m spitting out my words, half-laughing.

With the touch of her trigger-finger, the end of the cancer-stick glows, and starts to burn evenly.

Smoke rings squirm and spread apart, as they dissipate like escaping phantoms. The guilty digit’s red fingernail polish is white-hot and steaming. An odor of melting steel cramps the atmosphere. I accept the lit smoke, and take a long drag.