This is an ongoing series of short horror stories. In them, I will explore random concepts, themes, situations and issues that cross my mind as I develop horror films.


It’s real name was “Profothylepentanitrosyl Nickel Butalcyclodienyl”. But no one could remember such a name. An odorless slightly pink powder crushed from larger crystals that tended to melt at room temperature into a sticky goo. On the street it was simply called Pleasure. Or Plsr (or Plsure) if you like texting. It was hard to produce and highly expensive. Usually taken as a pill. In very small concentrations it would work as a great antidepressant – the one that would replace Prozac. But on higher concentrations it had a strange effect. It turned sadness and pain into the deepest pleasure one could experience.

It was amazing! One pill could help you cope with stress. Three would turn the loss of your children after a car accident into intense orgasms that would knock you down moaning. But it was so expensive that only the super-rich could afford it.

After a chemist called Emmanuel Ziegler discovered a process to make it cheaply with ordinary household products, we entered the age of the Plsur Revolution. Upon taking it, the user had to wait ten minutes. Then a mild sensation of happiness and some euphoria would replace a lifetime of ordinary frustrations and regrets. Having quit a job that you liked or having walked out of a relationship with the only person who ever really loved you ten years ago gave way to one big smile. It. Just. Felt. Good.

I. Want. More.

Meet David. Eight pills in his pocket. He had ten there 30 minutes ago. He bought a hammer (laughs). Sitting at the bar, laughing with friends, he hits his thumb with it. It feels so good! But he must be careful. Gotta make it last. One finger down. Nine to go. BAM! Oh, the pleasure! But the thumb is far from gone. It’s kinda purple and bleeding but it does not matter! The pleasure is so intense; David can’t stop himself from being carried away. BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! All five fingers! Who needs a left hand? People are laughing. David’s friends decide he’s had enough and take him to the restroom. But David does not give a fuck. Breathing like a stud he watches as his friends hold him straight and wash his face. Looking in the mirror he has an idea. One friend goes for a towel and David hits his own face with the hammer. Now he can see candy-colored stars. One friend tries to hold him down while the other collects David’s teeth from the bloodied floor.

broken glass 233

In the car, David keeps saying how good it all feels. Five fucked-up fingers, four fallen teeth and David has funny ideas about the car door. He opens it and smashes his hand. He can do better. But before they can do anything, a speeding biker slams into the windshield. The scare sends David’s pleasure into new heights. Then the car stops. His best friends are dead and if that does not demand another pill, then I don’t know what!

Now it flows like a tsunami! David needs to explore the car door as a guillotine. But the damn thing is too twisted to open. He just lands on the pavement – face first, of course. There are three dead cars lying on the street. Plus the biker who seems to be screaming. But he is not screaming in pain. He is laughing with pleasure. The two men get up and run to each other. Three punches and David gets his nose broken. Laughter. The other man sticks his tongue out and David hits him with a piece of metal. On the floor, the man lost an eye ball. But not his switchblade that sinks into David’s groins. Now he smashes David’s face on the concrete. Again and again. No pain! Only pleasure.

They look just like children playing.


Class Promo 1

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