"Guts," by Chuck Pahlaniuk

[Steve9347]

Alright boys, this is not for the faint of heart. Chuck Pahlaniuk is one of my favorite authors (Choke, Invisible Monsters, Fight Club, etc.) His most recent book is called "Haunted" and hit shelves in April.

 

Anyway, it is a collection of short stories that are true, and truly messed up. This is a first-person retelling of an event that happened to some poor schmuck, called "Guts."

 

I implore you, if you can't take some sick s***, then don't read this. During public readings of this short story, people have vomitted and fainted. You've been warned.

 

enjoy.

 

Guts

by Chuck Palahniuk

 

 

Inhale.

 

Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.

 

A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.

 

So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.

 

Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.

 

At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.

 

Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.

 

He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.

 

After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.

 

This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they nev¬er do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.

 

People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a par¬ty and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....

 

As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.

 

That’s the spirit of the stairway.

 

The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.

 

Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.

 

Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm every¬where. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look ... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.

 

Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of pol¬ished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, ei¬ther a big metal ball or the kind of fan¬cy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.

 

It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.

 

After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school. That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.

 

He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on. He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's got for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy.

 

On the phone, the kid says how-the day before-he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. A ballpoint pen's too big. A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin.

 

Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work.

 

Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've totally reinvented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.

 

The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.

 

From downstairs, his mom shouts it's supper time. She says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life.

 

It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax, so he figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his back hurts. His kid¬neys. He can't stand straight.

 

This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people scream¬ing. Game shows.

 

The X-rays show the truth, some¬thing long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and rougher, coated with crystals of calci¬um, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.

 

This kid and his folks, his whole fam¬ily, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses stand¬ing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.

 

On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.

 

They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mis¬take, and now he'll never be a lawyer.

 

Sticking stuff inside yourself. Stick¬ing yourself inside stuff. A candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big trouble.

 

What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents' swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three, four minutes.

 

Just from jacking oft' I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.

 

After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each hand¬ful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my mom.

 

That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister, think¬ing she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed, retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father and the uncle. In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.

 

The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sit¬ting on it.

 

As the French would say, Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked? Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never be a lawyer.

 

One minute I'm settling on the pool bottom and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow¬striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped foot¬ball practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.

 

One minute I've got enough air and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be home for hours.

 

My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch an¬other big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.

 

I do this again and again.

 

This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bot¬tom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.

 

And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls. It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.

 

Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.

 

People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about everything. Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Get¬ting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.

 

Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat in¬side my head getting loud and fast.

 

The bright sparks of light crossing and crisscrossing my eyes, I turn and look back ... but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue¬white and braided with veins, has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding on to my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue¬white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.

 

That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.

 

So ...I kick at it, at the slippery, rub¬bery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butt¬hole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.

 

Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse¬pill vitamin my dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega¬three fatty acids.

 

It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.

 

It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.

 

Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working-unravel¬ing my insides-until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound s*** and you can see how this might turn you inside out.

 

What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctors call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin, runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.

 

That's all this soup of blood and corn, s*** and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unravel¬ing out my ass, me holding on to what's left, even then my first want is to some¬how get my swimsuit back on.

 

God forbid my folks see my dick.

 

My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow¬striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.

 

You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lambskin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on.

 

A lambskin condom, that's just plain old intestine.

 

You can see what I'm up against.

 

You let go for a second and you're gutted.

 

You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.

 

You don't swim and you drown.

 

It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.

 

What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital 13 years ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football schol¬arship and get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.

 

Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen tele¬phone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow¬striped swim trunks.

 

What even the French won't talk about.

 

That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say, "I need that like I need a hole in my head...," Russian people say, "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole......

 

Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse.

 

Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead.

 

Hell ... even if you're Russian, someday you just might want those teeth.

 

Otherwise, what you have to do is¬you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.

 

It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night. If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.

 

It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in trou¬ble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my mom said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs.

 

All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me....

 

I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.

 

Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple of hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.

 

After you have a radical bowel resec¬tioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inch¬es. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was 13.

 

Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swim¬ming pool. In the end my dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vita¬min pill still inside, even then my dad just said, "That dog was f***ing nuts."

 

Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second...."

 

Then my sister missed her period.

 

Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks never men¬tioned it again.

 

Ever.

 

That is our invisible carrot.

 

You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.

 

I still have not.

[Milkman delivers]

Alright boys, this is not for the faint of heart.  Chuck Pahlaniuk is one of my favorite authors (Choke, Invisible Monsters, Fight Club, etc.)  His most recent book is called "Haunted" and hit shelves in April. 

 

Anyway, it is a collection of short stories that are true, and truly messed up.  This is a first-person retelling of an event that happened to some poor schmuck, called "Guts."

 

I implore you, if you can't take some sick s***, then don't read this.  During public readings of this short story, people have vomitted and fainted.  You've been warned.

 

enjoy.

 

After reading that and knowing that you like that author, I have one question:

 

What the f*** is wrong with you?

[FlaSoxxJim]

That is just brutal. Hell of a survival instinct story on one hand, but stull brutal.

 

Let this be a lesson, kids. Playboys and hand cream never killed anyone.

[CubsSuck1]

f***ing crazy

[Wong & Owens]

These things sound suspiciously like urban legends. What proof is offered to back these stories up?

[CanOfCorn]

These things sound suspiciously like urban legends.  What proof is offered to back these stories up?

 

Please refer to Juggernaut in the "Hit me with your best shot" thread.

[Buehrle>Wood]

What the f***

[SnB]

i got through half of it and felt sick.

that's enough

:puke

[Steve9347]

i got through half of it and felt sick.

that's enough

:puke

 

that's the idea.

[SnB]

that's the idea.

have fun with that

[Spiff]

Holy f***, I thought I could pretty much deal with any story but that's retarculous. I thought I was gonna faint.

[LowerCaseRepublican]

That was pretty damn intense. ::shudder::

[Steve9347]

I don't know, it may be f***ed up, but any story that can make you feel like you're going to faint is pretty impressive, if you ask me.

[Texsox]

Sounds like someone found a certain poster's diary

[FlaSoxxJim]

These things sound suspiciously like urban legends.  What proof is offered to back these stories up?

The impregnated sister thrown in at the end is most certainly an urban legend imbellishment. But the prolapsed rectum and large intestine is, sadly, very real. 150 cases a year was a shockingly high number to me, but it may well be that high.

 

I remember about 5 years ago when a 9 year old kid died down here by having his bowels and intestine inverted and sucked out of him in the exact manner. Most likely it was a pre-adolescent 'good feeling' he got sitting on the intake pipe. If I recall the story right, he lived for several hours after the doctors had told the family there wasn't any hope.

[Milkman delivers]

I didn't feel sick or like I was going to faint. I don't get sick that easy. It's just that I don't understand why a person would read that. Just stupid, IMO.

[FlaSoxxJim]

I didn't feel sick or like I was going to faint.  I don't get sick that easy.  It's just that I don't understand why a person would read that.  Just stupid, IMO.

Why do people watch graphic war films like Saving Private Ryan? They are intense and they are very disturbing, but they are real depictions of human tragedy. As are incidents like the prolapse depicted here. The lack of pain the author alluded to (and this did not happen to the author mind you, it is fiction based on an actual event) is as morbidly factual as some of the the soldiers' last moments recounted from the battlefield.

 

Somebody getting in a situation like that depicted in the short story is f***ed up, sure, but 13-year olds are f***-ups practically by definition.

[Sonik22]

Wow, i made it through the story and realized im not not sick, not faint, but really freaked out. I don't see how anybody could live through that. I still dont get how it would just suck out your intestines. And that dude with the wax has to be f***ed up real bad. as that one guy said. :shudder: wow

[Sonik22]

heres another very happy story:

 

The X-rays alone were several hundred dollars. That part was easy. Despite living in his car with his wife and son, Miller's credit line was spotless. The tricky part was relocating, food, gas, just enough money to take him from Nashville to Chicago. If he hadn't been pissing a dark, rusty brown Miller would've been none the wiser. That's blood in the urine, that abnormal color. Renal cell carcinoma will do that to you. If caught early it's usually treated with surgery, though it is notoriously resistant to radiation.

 

Little could be done, the doctors said.

 

He took out a loan from the bank and hit the road immediately, fitting an appointment with a specialist in Michigan at the very last second. Your car as collateral, when you're on your last leg and desperation sets in, can bring you all the money in the world you want. Miller knew MRI scans were expensive, but how much would the bribes cost, to leave a few blank spaces in his medical history.

 

In the end, every doctor has their price, or in this case, a third-year resident up to her eyeballs in debt. Miller got worried as he hit Fort Wayne and his vision started to blur hurtling North on Interstate 65, not to mention the stomach pain as he brushed the southernmost tip of Lake Superior.

 

That's another common symptom. When patients first present for medical attention they're looking for what's called the 'classic triad', blood in the urine, flank pain, and an abdominal mass. Constipation is just the next inevitable step.

 

In the Department of Cardiology all cell phones are turned off, pagers, PDAs, wireless televisions, radios. They're silent here. Everything is quiet except for the footsteps of doctors and disenchanted visitors lumbering slowly against glossy tiles, the squeaky wheel of gurneys paddling along hard linoleum, and the occasional Code Blue alarm clamoring all the way from Emergency Trauma.

 

The room of the MRI has no metal, everything is made of something else. The shelves are wood painted white. The faux handles of drawers and cupboards are lacquered black plastic as are the skylights above. If anything were galvanized it would get swallowed by the oversized photocopier.

 

Imagine your body in a casket, the casket is buttoned down in the back of a hearse, bumping and bobbing along gravel in the parking lot before hitting the highway at eighty miles an hour. The table slides backwards as the MRI envelopes his body. Whirlwinds of sound circle him. He tries desperately to cover his ears but he can't even touch his chest. Trying to move is impossible. His ears are covered by plastic anyway.

 

Don't start.

Don't even scratch that itch on your nose.

Do you want to start from scratch all over again?

 

You're inside a giant photocopier or a very large washing machine. The X-rays develop line by line on the image-enhancing screens. They stand in white robes, clipboards in hand, pens in pockets, the washing machine of the MRI swooshing away like the turning of the tides.

 

He writhes in the coffin, his chest heaving up and down. Something small and fleshy swims in his mouth, the way a tadpole would be trapped in your saliva. He swallows it before he has a chance to spit, his neck still braced in gentle white plastic.

 

The inside of his mouth goes numb quickly filling up with blood. His air supply is cut off. His chest burns intensely before the organs liquefy in his ribcage and his stomach feels like ten baggies of cocaine opened simultaneously in his intestinal tract.

 

Outside the room, the doctors tell him to keep still. People have been known to get claustrophobic, some even hyperventilate, but even then there's usually a few minutes left. The throat closes up, unable to receive oxygen.

 

Still, it's a real b**** to start over, from scratch all over again.

 

The front of his tongue is gone, bitten off by his own front teeth, the pain too awful to bear. He's now kicking the machine from the inside, his knees pounding against the stiff interior. The doctors can't even hear it, hear his thrashing behind two inches of glass. His head smacks back and forth, rattling the not-so-gentle plastic as the woosh, woosh, woosh of the giant photocopier rolls on.

 

Then everything stops, flatline, and the glass turns red, blood red, so red that they can't even see the room beyond the window it's so dark. The resident on call slowly backpedals out the room as more and more blood appears along the windows in thin lace-like streaks.

 

What the doctors see is a giant lump of tissues ripped inside-out, curtain-thin sheets of skin dangling over the examiner's table, transparent against the blinding fluorescent lights high above their heads. The bloodied ribbons of muscle wound bountiful on what was once his stomach. His collarbone is sheared as bits of ribcage remain jagged and upright through the scored flesh of his chest.

 

That's when they notice it, something shiny and thin in the waterslide tube of the MRI. The nearest doctor picks it up, smeared in blood between two gloved fingers. Its thin-tipped ends still clasping onto shreds of ventricles torn from the inside, all stringy and damp the way spaghetti looks out of the strainer. That's the problem with pacemakers, old pacemakers anyway. Today they're made of hard plastic and don't interfere with heavy machinery.

 

It doesn't matter now.

 

The malpractice settlement was six figures alone, more then his father pulled in over the last thirty-some-odd years of his life. This man had nothing, but now dead, his family will live nicely off the life insurance. His baby boy will go to university, his mother will be able to buy food, they will able to live in a real house with lights and heat and everything.

 

How quickly time flies by.

 

Eventually little boys grow up.

[Iwritecode]

I read the story with no problem. The author has nothing on Stephen King.

 

Try reading the Running Man (might be under Richard Bachman). He vividly describes a character that actually drags himself down the aisle of a plane with his large intestine dragging behind him. Then it gets caught on something...

[FlaSoxxJim]

I read the story with no problem. The author has nothing on Stephen King.

 

Try reading the Running Man (might be under Richard Bachman). He vividly describes a character that actually drags himself down the aisle of a plane with his large intestine dragging behind him. Then it gets caught on something...

He had a short story called "Survival Instinct" I think, in his second collection that was pretty hardcore too. It was about a surgeon stranded on an island with a bag full of morphine but not food. In first person narrative via journal entries, the character methodically describes how he shoots up and then surgically removes parts of his own body to cook up and eat. The last journal entry was the one before he finally had to eat his own hands.

[Iwritecode]

He had a short story called "Survival Instinct" I think, in his second collection that was pretty hardcore too.  It was about a surgeon stranded on an island with a bag full of morphine but not food.  In first person narrative via journal entries, the character methodically describes how he shoots up and then surgically removes parts of his own body to cook up and eat.  The last journal entry was the one before he finally had to eat his own hands.

 

Yes, that was a good one as well.

 

Describing the people dying from "Captain Tripps" in The Stand got pretty gruesome as well...

[Milkman delivers]

I read the story with no problem. The author has nothing on Stephen King.

 

Try reading the Running Man (might be under Richard Bachman). He vividly describes a character that actually drags himself down the aisle of a plane with his large intestine dragging behind him. Then it gets caught on something...

 

The Running Man was a great book. I couldn't stop reading it because I was that into it, and I hate reading. It's unfortunate that the movie was absolutely butchered along with the fact that it starred Arnold Schwarzenegger.