Hertzan Chimera didn't die. No one would have suspected he would survive the terrible things Monica J's friends did to him in that stone basement. What were their names? Ernest, Caleb and Ian. Just cause 'ertzan wasn't represented like the rest of them; just cause 'ertzan writes with a common accent, he didn't fit in with the rest of the horror boys. And while Ernest, Caleb and Ian done each other in, 'ertzan survived the onslaught, picked the impossible lock and escaped to freedom. A tad worse for the wear…
Monica J is in her bath, trimming her pubic region with an open razorblade. On the side of the bath is a large glass beaker of blood. She takes a mouthful of the still-warm blood and half drinks it, half pours it down her scalded breasts. Frothy red bubbles dance on the surface of the scalding hot 120-degree water.
Suddenly a clink-clink sound from the hallway makes her sit up in a heart-thumping red panic. It has been so long since she heard that horror metal sound and the regret of ever setting that Experiment in motion has finally returned to haunt her. She throws on her bathrobe and races for the door lock.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (rattles the door handle) Monica J., I promise you you'll say your vowels correctly before this day is out.

MONICA J: (yells through the door) Bugger off, 'ertzan!
(starts to sing in a really awful cockney accent)
Just you wait 'ertzan Chimera, just you wait!
You'll be sorry, but your tears'll be too late!
You'll be broke and I'll have money;
Will I help you? Don't be funny!
Just you wait, 'ertzan Chimera, just you wait!

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (taken slightly aback by her bizarre choice of song) You have done your trade proud. Everyone in the known horror universe screams out loud in support. Burn the witch for her crime against decency. (he head butts the door, his face still cast in metal)

MONICA J:
Just you wait 'ertzan Chimera, till you're sick,
And you screams to fetch a doctor double quick!
I'll be off a second later,
And go straight to the the-atre!
Just you wait, 'ertzan Chimera, just you wait!

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (kicks down the bathroom door) When the fuck did you become English? I'm SICK of you Anglophile Americans. I thought you were Irish or something, you traitor. Enough of your boundless threats, silly mick. I am no ghost of literature past. I am alive, and creative retribution is my standard bearer. (Mercury starts to run from his nose as he continues) Horrors have been recanted in my presence. Books have been burned, movies melted, songs shattered and women. How could they do that to us?

MONICA J: (Ignoring him, expressing her tirade in song yet again)
One evening King will say, "Oh Monica, old thing,
I want all of New England your praises to sing."

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (he jumps up and down in an unholy tantrum, his rectal and urethral rods of iron clacking loud) King who? Who's King? Where's that voice coming from?

MONICA J: Guess, asshole.
KING:
"Next year on the thirteenth of May, I proclaim Monica J. O'Rourke Day!
All the people will celebrate the glory of you,
And whatever you wish and want
I gladly will do."

MONICA J:
"Thanks a lot, King," says I, in a manner well-bred;
"But all I want is 'ertzan's stupid head!"

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (pulls off his head and smashes Monica J in the face, knocking her unconscious) Your wish is my command. Then we'll talk about your new bastard child SUFFER THE FLESH.

MONICA J: (awakens, tied to a butcher's slab in a damp basement, her left eye swollen and discoloured) Uhhh, Hertzan? What are you doing, baby? Hertzan continues working with his back to her, appears to be fiddling with instruments on a tray.

MONICA J: Look, the fucking novel wasn't my idea. It's incredibly nasty, the torture is over the top. Every deviation I could think of went into that book. I didn't even want to write it.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: So you say ...

MONICA J: (Clearly getting nervous) Look, it's just a book. What are you doing over there anyway? Hertzan? I was just kidding about the song! Really.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (only now do we see that his eyes are like Lichees) Too late! That song was dreadful. And Monica J, do you know what these are?

MONICA J: (looking at the nipple clamps) You don't scare me. Come on ... come on, Chimera. (Becoming more excited as the clamps draw near) I've seen better ones. What is that--plastic? Amateur! Come on ... come on, Chimera. Come on. (shouting, as the clamps threaten her engorged nipples) Come on, Chimera! Move yer bloomin' arse!

HERTZAN CHIMERA: Is that a threat? Maybe I'll put these to good use after all. (Picks up a copy of SUFFER THE FLESH, begins to flip through it). This is just sick you know. You are one twisted bitch.

MONICA J: That's what my fan mail says. And look who's talking!

HERTZAN CHIMERA: Don't try to change the subject.

He applies the nipple clamps. First the left nipple then the right - it's like watching a baby take suckle.

MONICA J: (refusing to show any pain) You know you won't get away with this. Let me up now.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: Or what? You'll call yer mommy? Well, go ahead soon-to-be-famous writer-person. Call yer mommy! (he jumps on top and grabs hold of the nipple clamps, hanging onto them like the mane of a wild animal as she tries to buck him off) Go! Baby! Go!

MONICA J: You're an amateur! You won't be able to do it right, you'll just fuck it up and make a bloody mess.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (in a lunatic world of his own buckery) Yee haw!

His undead, wrought iron filled cock suddenly rises to a serrated altitude. In his breaking joy, he impales Monica J in her belly and starts to rip. A great big cloud of faecal gas rises into the air and Hertzan inhales his fill. Again and again he opens up great slabs of flesh with his inner rod of most cruel metal and still-warm innards slop to the floor like some slaughterhouse spillage - eyes like rods of electricity. With a single straight jolt, he ejaculates a thin spike of iron into her liver, piercing her loathsome heart.

MONICA J: (but she also refuses to die) Come on, Chimera, admit when you've been beat! Untie me, let me show you how to use that thing.

With a sigh of despair HERTZAN CHIMERA sinks into a dark depression.

MONICA J: (reproducing her pitiful Covent Garden dialect again) Ah! That's done you in it has, 'ertzan! Now I don't care that (snaps her head since her hands and arms are secured to the table) f' yer bullyin' an' yer big talk.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: Jesus, do you ever shut up? You impudent hussy! There's not an idea in your head or a word in your mouth that I haven't put there.

MONICA J: (laughs) Yeah right. (starts singing again)
Without your pulling it, the tide comes in;
Without your twirling it, the earth can spin.
Without your pushing them, the clouds roll by.
If they can do without you, Hertzy, so can I!

HERTZAN CHIMERA: If you don't shut up I'll kill myself.

MONICA J: (still singing…)
I shall not feel alone without you.
I can stand on my own without you.
So go back in your shell,
I can do bloody well without you!

HERTZAN CHIMERA: We'll see. (Pulls out a revolver, cocks back the handle, aims it at his own head). Those songs really sucked!

A loud BANG.
A small clanking sound rings out. Hertzan's head was already full of metal and the bullet just tore open a leaf of his new book, the tattered page a lesson of anatomy, fonted in cerebellum. Curlicues and serifs ahoy, ladies and gentlemen.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: What great moment in your life first got you interested in anatomy?

He puts the gun into her mouth. The still hot gun-barrel scalds the inside of her cheek, and she smiles right back at him, an involuntary tear in her eye. He pulls back the hammer and she starts to gyrate her hips all rotten and strangeland. Hertzan blows a hole through her cheek. Her head puffs up to three times its normal size and teeth explode on one side. There is a numb hole in her face.

MONICA J: (poking her tongue through the smoking hole, tasting the blood that has started to flow) Anatomy? (Spits out flecks of tooth) Who gives a rat's ass about anatomy? I just like writing things that shock and disgust people. And I like torturing people. Hey, I have a headache. Got any aspirin? (Shakes her head violently and coats Hertzan with a fresh spray of blood and gore) Torturing people in my writing is therapeutic. I've hurt and killed people in my life who have pissed me off, or harmed me in some way. If I can't do it for real, I do it on paper. Less jail time that way. Unless you live in Ohio.

HERTZAN CHIMERA: (smearing the blood all over his chest) Ohio - yeah - now we're talking.

Hertzan leaves for Ohio immediately. Before he goes, he whistles for his sickly dogs to munch on the leftovers shat all over the floor.

MONICA J: (as the ravenous runts tuck in, barking and biting for their own truffle of gory memorabilia) Just you wait, 'ertzan Chimera, just you wait!