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CreepyPasta: Ben Slayer Vol. 3I seemed to have picked up a new hobby as I no longer have an interest in videogames or browsing the depressing depths of the internet.
For days I was staring at the wall, focusing on nothing in particular. Through the windows of this barrier you could see the outside shrouded in total darkness, with unusual silence to match.
It was 2:30 in the morning when the telephone rang, breaking the mindless trance.
I answered with a basic greeting,
"What the fuck do you want?"
"Meet me at the store as soon as possible.", the caller replied in a cold voice.
"Why should I?"
His response and without specifics, yet it seemed to be backed with great meaning. "Because you face great regret if you don't."
There was a pause before I heard the signal that the line was dead.
I attempted to start my car, but it was unresponsive like the lifeless wilderness around. I left the key in the ignition again, the battery was drained.
There was a feeling of confusion in my hazy mind. I felt there was no reason to
CreepyPasta: Ben Slayer Vol. 2
Keep a lookout for Volume Three. I'm constantly updating this.
I stayed in a hotel room for the past few nights to wind down. I didn't sleep well, not just because I'd be facing justice for slaughtering those pricks, or the noisy chump who was at it with the hookers every minute, but because I had that "gut feeling" indicating that I've overlooked something. It proved true, as always, when I returned home. First thing I noticed when I set foot into my dusty old home was the sunlight shining through the old cracked window as it caressed the forgotten N64 game I left on the table a few days back.
I figured the late elderly hacker swapped the pcb module with one that had rewritten ROM before I ended his life, and that it might contain vital clues for what they might have been planning next. If I knew what they were planning next, I might know who slung Old Ben's guts into the kiddie pool, as this was the unsolved mystery.
Absent of fear, I inserted the cartridge and turned
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More