2 - A Centopeia Humana

Martin lived in his mother’s basement in East London. The walls were stained with damp, and the only light came from a flickering CRT television. He was a small, sweaty man with thick glasses and a breathing problem. His job was collecting tickets at a concrete parking garage, a world of grey echoes and exhaust fumes.

The climax came when Martin’s mother, suspicious of the smell, waddled down into the sub-level. She held a rolling pin. She saw the twelve-person centipede writhing on the floor, a chain of moaning, weeping flesh. For a moment, even she was silent.

The filming was erratic. He used a heavy VHS-C camcorder, his thumb constantly over the lens. He would whisper-mumble to the camera: "For Mr. Six. He will see. I am the true fan." a centopeia humana 2

One victim, a bodybuilder named Ashley, tried to fight. He tore his restraints. But his mouth was fused to the stomach of a woman in front of him. When he pulled back, he ripped her flesh. He collapsed in a spray of bile, and Martin calmly re-stapled him, humming a nursery rhyme.

The second was his neighbor, a noisy gossip who always complained about the smell from his basement. The third was a security guard who caught Martin sleeping on the job. Martin didn't choose randomly; he chose people who had humiliated him. Each kidnapping was a petty revenge, a stitch in his masterpiece. Martin lived in his mother’s basement in East London

Then she screamed. "You disgusting little freak!"

The Sequencer

He didn't have surgical tools or a sterile lab. He had a rusty staple gun, a roll of duct tape, a set of dull kitchen knives, and a stolen wheelchair.