#madmansbunker

DATE: 2026-03-15 METHOD: Decapitation (sword)

“Oh, this one’s beautiful. Where’d you find it?”

Ruby tilted the sword to one side, the gleaming blade producing perfect mirror reflections of the overgrown garden around them. “Got it from an antiques dealer in Glasgow. He’s an idiot.”

“Why is he an idiot?” Cyr frowned.

“Because he only charged me £120 for it. Here, hold it.”

Cyr took the sword in both hands, but found they could carry it easily with just one. They swung it gently through the air, taking care not to hit either of them in the process.

“Feels pretty light, yeah?”

They nodded.

Ruby grinned. “He thought that meant it was a cheap weapon made of garbage metal. I, on the other hand, know a magic weapon when I see one. That blade exerts way more force than should be possible given its weight.”

“So you could get through someone’s neck with this?”

“Oh yeah, easy,” she laughed.

They handed the sword back to her. “You wanna try?”

“Obviously.”

Cyr didn’t need to be asked twice. They took off their already-unbuttoned shirt and tossed it to the ground, their trousers and underwear soon following, before kneeling down on the grass with their head leant forward and their hands clasped behind their back.

“God, you’re so eager for this every time,” Ruby chuckled. “Alright, let’s give this girl her first blood in a couple centuries.”

She rested the sword gently on the back of Cyr’s neck, lifted it high into the air with ease, and swung it down hard with a grunt. The blade wedged itself a half-inch into the earth, having passed straight through flesh and bone as though it were no more an obstacle than the air itself. Cyr let out an aborted, wet gulping noise as the sharpened steel effortlessly severed their neck – their body convulsed before collapsing into a heap on the slowly reddening grass, while their head bounced along the ground before coming to rest alongside Ruby’s right foot. She dropped the sword, knelt down and turned the head up to face her, watching the recognition slowly drain from their dulling eyes, and letting their bleeding neck stump stain her black leather boot an impressive shade of crimson.

Once Ruby was fairly sure her partner was well and truly dead, she strode back into the house and started counting in her head. One, two, three… She retrieved a small red notebook and a pen, returned to the garden to sit by Cyr’s cooling corpse, and waited serenely.

Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven…

She heard a sudden, strained gasp a few feet to her left, and turned to see Cyr rubbing their neck and coughing violently.

“Twenty-eight seconds,” she said as she passed them the book and pen.

“Thanks,” Cyr said hoarsely. They looked at their old body, still slowly leaking blood into the grass, and walked over to observe the fresh wound. “Oh wow, that’s a really good slice you got.”

“I know, right?” Ruby picked up the sword again – Cyr’s blood was still slightly liquid as it clung to the blade, creating swirling scarlet patterns in the reflections. “Definitely gonna be using this again. I think I’ll call her Eliza.”

“Ooh, good name,” they replied, as they opened the book and began to write:

There's something quite beautiful about crucifixion. Done properly, you strip the victim naked and slam thick steel nails through their wrists and ankles - ideally, you want the metal scraping against their nerves, without severing any major arteries.

If you want to up the pain, you have plenty of options. You can do it outside, leaving their nude body exposed to the elements - either under the blazing sun so their skin starts to blister, or out in the cold driving rain so they freeze. You can put an extra nail through their genitals, catching as many sensitive nerves as possible. Or you could break a couple of ribs, making every single laboured breath that much more agonising as the bones scrape against each other.

Nobody is sure exactly how crucifixion kills you - it's probably some combination of asphyxiation, dehydration, blood loss and heart failure. In any case, if you want to end your victim's life by a more deliberate finishing blow, I'd recommend waiting a few hours before amputating their limbs, below the knees and elbows. This leaves their severed hands and feet still nailed to the cross in a macabre display, while the rest of them is left to collapse on the ground and rapidly bleed out from their fresh stumps.

ps I really love being able to breathe

of course :)

I think you could use a noose around your neck - we've got to disabuse you of those silly ideas of breathing - but a regular hanging is far too dull. So before I string you up, I'll attach a heart rate monitor to your wrist, and then let your body dangle from the ceiling until your pulse gets very faint. Once it does, I'll cut the rope and let you crumple to the floor. If I've timed it right, you should make it out just barely hanging onto life.

We'll rinse and repeat that, oh, four or five times? Long enough for you to end up lying exhausted on the ground with some gorgeous dark bruises on your neck.

To finish you off, I think I'll drag you outside, lie you down sideways in front of my car, and drive straight over you. The front wheel will crush your chest, shattering your ribcage and forcing your last breath out of you, and the back one will smear your heart and lungs over my driveway. If I'm feeling cruel, I'll reverse back over your abdomen and turn your guts to paste as well.

Normally it showed up early in the afternoon, when the blazing sun was at its strongest. Usually when he stopped feeling the pain in his belly, and started feeling it in the skin of his wrists and ankles touching the burning-hot steel manacles, it meant he was nearly due for a visit.

Today, he couldn't see the bird. He could hear some distant thudding noises coming from the rocks on his left, and as he awkwardly twisted his head to one side, he saw why.

Another man, naked as him but with curiously gold-streaked white hair, was clambering across the mountainside towards him. The man was holding something - he couldn't make out what, but it glinted in the gently waning sun - and for some reason was walking with the wild, unsteady gait of a drunkard.

"Sorry I'm late!" the other man shouted as he approached. "Still getting used to the legs, you know?"

The man chained to the mountain didn't know, and found he didn't have the energy to yell back, so he simply waited for his visitor to arrive. It was only when the figure was a few paces away that he realised what the mysterious glinting object was.

"How you doing?" the visitor grinned. "Surprised?"

"Are you... here to free me?" He wasn't confident, and didn't sound it.

The other man scoffed. "Oh, you really don't recognise me, do you? Maybe this will help."

He raised the gleaming knife in his hand, and sunk it deep into the prisoner's belly.

An inarticulate scream echoed across the cliff face. "Oh, come on. Which one of those idiots up there turned you into a man?"

"That's above your pay grade, I'm afraid," the eagle smiled sadistically. He pulled the knife out, and watched fresh blood flow freely over the day-old dried crimson stains on his victim's abdomen. "Whoever it might have been, I'm glad they finally gave us the chance to talk."

"The fuck is there to talk about?" the prisoner snarled through gritted teeth. "The other birds? The clouds? Gonna ask if I've seen any pretty sunsets in the last couple decades?"

His torturer shoved a hand into the wound, rummaging around in his guts before locating his prize. "They're doing great down there, thanks to you. Art, technology, civilisation. I'm told the gods find it quite entertaining to watch, actually."

"Call me when they'll let me see any of it," he grumbled.

"Let's hope they don't," the eagle laughed, "or I'll be out of a job." His hand reached something soft and tender, and he wrapped his fingers around and ripped it out in a single sharp motion.

The defeated titan hissed in agony as he watched his liver be pulled free, spraying a new round of blood over his chest. "Am I only here to keep one fucking bird employed? Gods, that's bleak."

"I'm trying to thank you, you ungrateful swine. And you're keeping me fed, too." The eagle stuffed the dripping liver in his mouth and bit down hard, tearing a chunk out with a squelch and a satisfied smile. "You thaphthe gweay ath wehw."

"What?"

"I said you taste great as well," the bird repeated once he'd finished swallowing. "Very rich flavour. I'm lucky to have you."

"Oh good," he replied sarcastically through the throbbing pain. "I'd hate for my eternal tormentor to have to endure slightly stringy meat."

"Exactly, you get it!" The eagle shoved another bite of fresh organ meat into his mouth, before idly running a few fingers over his victim's skin. "Anyway, that wound looks lovely on you. You should be grateful for how much more handsome I'm making you."

"Sure." The damned man shook his head. "Just finish eating me and fuck off, would you?"

"I thought you'd want more of a chat." He sounded hurt. "We've been through so much together!"

"No," he growled. "We've been through one thing together, ten thousand times."

"Twenty eight thousand, eight hundred and thirty five, actually. I kept count." As he finished speaking, the final chunk of liver went down the hatch.

"Good for fuckin' you."

The eagle wiped a smear of blood from his jaw as he stood up. "Well, it was nice catching up. Same time tomorrow?"

"Do I look like I have a choice?"

"I guess not. See ya!" he waved cheerfully.

The chained man scowled for a moment, before suddenly realising something. "At least I get to stay here. You have to hike all the way back down the mountain, right?"

"Huh. Yeah. I suppose you're probably right."

And then his tormentor looked out over the cliff, suddenly transformed into a mass of feathers, and flew with wings spread into the sunset.

He deals in death, and rot, and flesh, And blood, and deadly sin; He walks away, rechristened fresh While mud sloughs off his skin.

He speaks of breaching with an axe The skulls of those he hates, In deadly tongue, he seals with wax His screaming victims' fates.

But those he loves shall not be spared, For he loves them even more When cold and still, with organs bared In crude, artistic gore.

Himself, he's died a hundred times-- Perhaps he'll die again. They call his utterances crimes, And burn down his demesne.

But by cathedral's candlelight When Henry's not long died, A corpse cries out: "I live in spite, "For I am Edward Hyde!"

-----