Michael Goscinski

by Horror Sleaze Trash on February 15, 2012

Michael D. Goscinski is currently hiding in bumfuck New York.  Apparently he felt his poetry wasn’t tasteless enough, for he has now started writing fiction.  His topics include bestiality, necrophilia, drug use, and the various ways Herman Shicklgruber sodomizes patients at a nursing home.  Although I would advise against it, if you need to send hate emails to this sick fuck he can be reached at: mgoscinski@gmail.com


The Trinity

The ripples in the holy water whispered an unheard warning to Father Clarke as he did the sign of the cross upon entering the church.  A well respected member of the community, he’d been molesting the altar boys for years.  None dared speak up for fear of being ridiculed.  Father Clarke knew his secret would be kept.  The community pivoted around the church and sought comfort in the Father’s innocent blue eyes and soft red hair.  Little did he know retribution for the souls he’d damaged lingered in the sacristy.

Three former altar boys, Greg, Jimmy, and Alex, waited patiently for the Father.  They’d been planning for months looking for the right moment.  As the Father shuffled past the pews on his way to the sacristy, angelic rays screamed through the stained glass windows.  The pigeons in the bell-tower fluttered and coo-ed providing a demonic soundtrack for the mercy killing.  Up the altar, past the rood, to the door of the sacristy.  The hinges creaked as he slowly pushed it open.  A cold stuffy air greeted him.  Once inside he turned to close the door behind him.  He felt a thump on the back of his head as a split-second flash of light startled his vision.  The Father found himself on the floor surrounded by the boys.  Jimmy stood front in center with Alex to the left, and Greg to the right.

“Bless me father, for I am about sin,” Jimmy said followed by a growling laugh.

Greg and Alex started to repeatedly kick the disoriented priest.  He balled up as the kicks sent tremors through his body.  Jimmy gestured to move on to phase two.  Both boys squatted, grabbed the priest’s arms and flipped him over.  He was gasping, desperately trying to catch his breath.  Jimmy leaned down and ripped the Father’s pants off.  “You’ve fucked so many with religion, well, now religion is going to fuck you!” Jimmy reached for a crucifix, placed it between the Father’s ass-cheeks and rammed it in fast and hard.  The Father kicked and struggled as the crucifix ripped at his insides.  The only relief he found was the thick, warm lubricant mixture of blood and shit seeping out of his asshole.  After a good minute of faith-fucking the priest, Jimmy stood up and told the others to turn him over and step back.  Father Clarke lay there terrified, crying.

“Now, for your baptism,” Jimmy unzipped and whipped out his cock.  “Remember him!  He’s a little bigger now yeah?  Well, he’s got something for you.”  Jimmy pissed on the priest making the sign of the cross over and over in urine.  He laughed watching the yellow moat surround the Father.  “Shit, this is more fun than writing my name in the snow.”

Jimmy finished, zipped up, and continued in a sarcastic tone.  “Alright Father, I’ve had enough fun for one day.  It’s time to give you what you’ve wished for the most.  Week after week you babble about striving to be Christ-like.  Well today you get your wish.”

The priest struggled to speak.  “wha wha what are ya doing?”

“I’m gonna make a Roman Pinata out of you,” he responded.

Jimmy looked up at Alex and Greg.  “Get him in position guys, I’ll get the railroad spikes.”  The two boys left a snail-like trail of anal fluids as they drug the battered priest over to the wall, lifted him up, placed his back flat against the wood paneling with his arms outstretched.  Jimmy came forward, put a spike against the priest’s wrist and hammered it through in three pounds.  Father Clarke let out a thundering howl and convulsed.  Next, Jimmy did the second arm.  The priest was on the verge of blacking out as his bone splintered and chipped.  The three boys stepped back and admired their work.  Blood and snot dripped from the Father, pooling up on the floor.  Alex spoke for the first time.  “Hold on, something’s missing.”  He went to his bag and carefully pulled out a piece of barbed wire.  Bending the dull rusty metal into a circle he forced it onto the priest’s head.  “There’s your crown.”

Jimmy laughed.  “King of the Pedophiles.  That should get you sainthood.”

The three boys headed for the door.  The dying Father gathered up enough strength to speak one last time in a quivering voice,  “Why?  Heavenly Father why?  I’m a man of the Lord.”

Jimmy turned and smiled.  “You know.  You do have something in common with your savior.  In your time of need, your heavenly Father has forsaken you.”

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