The modder's den

You wake up lying face-up on a hard surface. The world is woozy, sounds echo, images are vague and keep splitting into duplicates. “You know normally I don’t believe in anaesthesia” the voice sounds near and far away as if it were whispered from the other side of the world, directly into your ear. Above you floats a face wearing brass goggles. Two dark ringed eyes try to hide behind the glass, but the glass is see-through so it doesn’t work. “It cheapens the art. Modding is a cooperative art. What’s the use of cutting into someone’s flesh if they can’t even feel it? If they can’t experience the splendour of destruction and recreation.” You feel rubber fingers press down on your skin, but your skin feels off. Thick, unresponsive, like it’s not yours but someone else’s. the fingers grab your arm and hold it tight against whatever you’re lying on. Then something coarse starts rubbing against your flesh in that little nook between your shoulder and torse. Moving up and down in long slow hauls. Your skin separates. Your muscles separate. You try to grasp what’s happening but your mind won’t allow you to find out. As if it’s trying to protect you. One hand pushes down firmly onto your collarbone one hand grabs your arms and pulls and twists. Your arm separates. You wonder where it went. You look around for it. Oh, there it is! Lying on a cast iron trolley leaking red. The rubber hand moves through your hair spreading red goop everywhere, he then moves to your chin and turns your head back up to the ceiling. You hear a soft cracking noise. “All right that’s one, time for the other.”