Macarena My nemesis, my stalker. My enemy. My most hated. My cold shoulder of blight. Why couldn't you handle the immense mountain of my rejections? The constant efforts of trying to void the flickering flame of your candle could not be accepted by mankind. Why oh why doth Satan create such one-way heat and desire? We had the feud that dare not speak its name for it envelops strangers into jealousy. We never had a date planned. Such a date would not be glorious, and it would've continued to spark the rumours you started about that cherry tree all those weeks ago.

I stabbed your hand and we fought over the blood-soaked grassy hills. The violent gusts of wind mangling our hair. The rays of the sun burning our flesh above us. We were not hiding. We were fighting openly. I stood in front of you, and put my arms out, each one at a time in a menacing way. I turned my palms over, one over at a time, revealing daggers in each of my hands. I took my right hand and tried to stab you on your left shoulder, and proceeded to put my left hand's blade over onto your right shoulder, staring hatred into your eyes. Next, I put my hands on the back of my head, just one at a time slowly. My hands then lowered to my hips, each one at a time ti the opposite side of my hip for each hand, staring directly at you. And then I swapped positions of my hands, moved them three times, and turned to my left with new swords to continue our battle.

We were cursed in madness and cold, and we destroyed that tree. On a path to Hell, we tasted blood and we tasted true hatred. The devilish imps did find us as in Hell, but I made it turn against you and made it try to kill you as you rest on a pile of leaves, breathless, full of anger, and yet a glimpse of joy that you were holding out for this long. We played cat and mouse for weeks after trying to build up more intensity in our feuds. But you were the Macaroni and I was the vinegar that needed to sour our sauce. We were never meant for each other. The pineapple and pizza. The Spork trying to get the same piece of food at the same time. We could be together, but we were always apart in the end.

A plan for your mutilation was created. I made a promise. I planned on aborting your baby. Not because I hated it, nay, but because I wanted to rid it of perpetual pain and agony with your games of torment. Macarena, your body lay there primed for removal. I will dismember it. I will create an everlasting rot. I will mutilate your "love". A Macbeth and King Duncan story were we, but without our armies in the way... rather just solely the fates of our clashing swords. A roll of the dice. An end to our feud, but I will defy the fates. I will defy Satan trying to force you with me. I still have your body. I stole it from the funeral home. They will never be able to take you away from me, and our feud can continue beyond your miserable life.

I will cover you in hornets. I'll get honey if need be. I will carve your horrid face my nemesis with the finest blades. I will blacken your eyes, and cut your lips in the darkest of reds. I will get you scalped or for the time being ripping your hair. I will replace your eyes with worms. Should your tongue not be everlasting, a snake shall take its place. I will dismember the parts the need to be removed. Staple you to keep our feud whole. Nail what needs to be nailed. You will be my living doll of desecration and hatred as I know you would have not wanted me to do.

You will be so revolting. I will tell you how repulsive you are. I will sit down and scream to you. I will tell you how despicable you are, and how much we were never meant for each other. In defiance of Satan. In defiance of the laws. In defiance of all that society may deem decent, I will continue our feud. You may not be able to speak anymore or maybe I will hear your voice. We can have arguments that no one else can hear, while you profess your hatred to me and I to you. You may not be able to move. Your putrid hands may wither, burn them as I may, but Satan did give us the ability to fight. I have the knives. I have the hammers. I have the scissors. I have the skins of cats and small animals. This will be okay. You will remain broken. I know your spirit will live on in this shell, and our immaculate feud will beat death. Your statue will define a generation of torturers. People will think of us and their quarrellers and only wish to reach the heights we have in our violent spars. It's with this that I go back to the basement with your body and contained soul, preparing, desecrating, and salivating the deliciousness of my savoury yet sweet prize, a delicious dish between my maple and your soiled sauce.

If this isn't true love I don't know what is. 

I'm sorry for your lose Honestease but I am sure that Macarena will always be watching over you. Very, very, very closely. 

Very close.

Hearing Honestease words he made the sign of the cross.

I am sorry for your lost Honestease. I hope you will find comfort somehow. 

Smirking as he patted his shoulder and walked off. 

West was just standing there staring, he could not even be bothered to sit down and stay to talk to. Well, he's not sure. West had considered Honestease and his family friends for a while now. This how ever is a whole knew level of some starnge new form of fucked up even for Honestease. West had been around and known about the Macarena bone hoping on Honestease's deceased fathers bone and now even his friend has apparently lost it. Looking closer West notices the helmet Honestease has on he had apparently gone as far as to paint pentagrams on with what he can only assume is finger paints. Having seen enough of this fuckery, emo edition. West has one thing to say to Honestease.

"I just gotta say as fucked up as this all is Honestease, what really has me going what the fuck is the fact you claimed to have never loved Macarena but why did you spend so much time making their body look like your mom, the only women you ever made love with is now twinsies with the only women you will ever love if I had to guess." turning and heading toward the exit West says to himself. "These fuckers are more fucked in the head than I am, god damn."

PlagueGuy had been mostly alone in his HQ for the past couple of weeks, what with Honestease having taken some form of vacation and been away from Vegas for the entire period. Upon the news of Macarena's death due to a defector, he figured Honestease would have some reaction, and he gambled that he would be arriving home soon. After a long day of wandering the streets, he was a bit overjoyed to notice the front door wasn't as dusty as usual; Honestease had returned.

PlagueGuy swung open the door, expecting to find his Right Hand somewhere in the living room, but to no avail. He checked upstairs and in every room, but the usual smell of syrup was nowhere to be found. Not a single trace of Honestease was present in any rooms, at least until a loud crash was heard down below.

The basement. Why hadn't he thought of there before? It's where he usually wound up living, sleeping, or torturing Honestease otherwise. PlagueGuy made his way over to the side of the stairs and pushed aside the wall covering. The door to the basement was wide open. This was already concerning.

Making his way down the stairs, the occasional crash or banging noise only became louder and louder. But with each bang came a new noise, some sort of...slurping, or chewing. He could barely tell what it sounded like, but it continued growing louder each step closer to the bottom of the basement he went. Eventually, he reached the bottom of the stairs, with only the basement door in front of him waiting. The staircase had been pitch black; he hadn't turned on the light, but the open crevice at the bottom of the basement door was illuminating some sort of red light. This was already strange enough.

He took a breath and slowly began turning the knob on the door handle. At that moment, all the noises coming from behind suddenly ceased, as if expecting him. He opened the door inwards, but otherwise couldn't make out much in the room despite the red light. All he knew was at least one figure was in front of him, seemingly holding something. His hand fiddled around for the light switch on the side of the wall, and he flicked it on as the flash forced him to quickly adjust to the light.

Honestease sat there, faced away on one of his spinning round chairs, smack in the middle. Coated in blood, waist-high to what was left of what looked like Macarena's mutilated corpse, he was frozen solid in his position.

Even after continuously working with corpses for most of his life, this was worse. So much worse. Years of digging around and moving rotting corpses was nothing compared to the horrific sight PlagueGuy now had to lay his scarred eyes on, as what he assumed were Macarena's insides were sprawled about the room. They lined the walls and the floor, the tables and the chairs, and some had slouched over into the entrance where PlagueGuy had opened the door to.

And before he could even begin to try and process what he was seeing, before he could freak out and run or stand there in shock, Honestease began to twist towards him. The slow turn around was accompanied by a multitude of cracking noises, and PlagueGuy swallowed down his own vomit as Honestease finished turning to meet him.

A twisted smile. Something unhuman. The stare penetrated his soul and seemed to continue further beyond his own being. He had called himself a god, and maybe he was truly right, but no god, even THE God, could make out whatever the hell he was. How one could physically look as normal as he did, besides being bloodied beyond recognition, and yet hold a leer as unholy, repulsive, and petrifying as that, one will never know. His cheek-to-cheek grin seemed to stretch beyond normal means, and his bloodshot eyes only further exacerbated the horror of the sight.

And yet, there was still something...sane within. Something that could be saved, or given retribution, or purified.

But not now.

PlagueGuy's legs finally began to move. He slammed the door shut, hard, and quickly bolted up the stairs in a panic. He reached the top of the stairwell faster than he thought he could, and shouldered the entrance door shut firmly. He quickly pulled down the covering of the wall, and shoved some furniture against the door as a loud screech was heard from within.

The windows became a problem to his house as he burst through it, confusing it with the front door. It wouldn't matter. The glass shards and the deep cuts would be a problem to focus on once he was far, far away from the house. One could find him by his blood trail, but nobody could catch him at the pace he was going.

It was best to leave Honestease to his own matters. Maybe he'd return in a month or two. No amount of alcohol would be enough to block out the terrors he had witnessed.

Hopefully, no one else would suffer the same fate.

Hopefully, no one else will lay their eyes on something so dreadful.

What a mess he had put himself into.