“It hurts! It hurts so much! Please,” screamed the young, frightened child. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” But, again, the man doesn’t care nor does he notice the shrieking. He continues his fetishization of pain against the youth. He doesn’t stop when tears well up in the terrified youngling and he doesn’t stop when they shake in fear. He zones in on his work, his motivation for life, his passion: destroying families. In a land not too far away is a man named Toro.
He’s been labeled as both generous and frail, keeping to himself but caring for miscreants wanting to change their lives before they become staples within the crime underworld. He takes them in, feeds them, shelters them from their own parents’ abusive patterns, and listens to their needs. Even the police push those going down dangerous paths to his home. This friendliness with the police in his old age is one of the reasons why no one notices how absolutely deplorable he is toward the “forgotten”. After all, they’re already causing problems at home and for other members of the community; does it matter if they suddenly leave town for something “better”? If anything, it’s common of hooligans to better their lives by escaping their current reality. However, despite these problematic children being easier victims to terrorize, they aren’t the only ones Toro seeks out. Sometimes. . . Sometimes Toro enjoys the thrill of targeting “innocents”; those who have only ever felt the loving embrace of adults who care for them. These are the experiences the timeworn thrives on.
Look at the kid on the woodworking table. Marketh here came from parents who spent every evening eating dinner together, talking about pleasant occasions they experienced throughout their day, and what they were grateful for. Marketh always claimed he was happy he had a mom who tucked him into bed and a dad who played with him before and after work. He would take his parents down to the skate park to show off his new tricks, play hide-and-seek throughout the house, and speak in a made-up language only the family understood.
“Stoooooop! I want my. . . I want my mommy,” shouted the panicked Marketh.
Marketh was enrolled in after-school math classes to ensure he became the best astronaut anyone could have dreamed of. His parents supported any ambition he possessed during his adventurous childhood—baker, police officer, woodworker, and lawyer—but it always came back to astronauts. He might have been an excellent trombone player and a sniper with a dodgeball, but his infatuation as an astronaut never stopped.
“Please! Please! Please! Let me see my daddy! Please!”
In addition to his lively ambitions, barely anyone had a bad thing to say about Marketh. Sure, he was a bit energetic in class but he remained vigilant during lessons he found interesting. In truth, this boy only wanted to make people smile and have fun. This demand for joy is probably one of the reasons why Toro targeted him. This wonderful love for life, laughter, and joy, it tasted the best when it was snuffed out with love, determination, and obsession. But, how did Toro hear about this wholesome soul? Despite never meeting this nestling, his daughter spoke nothing but positive affirmations when discussing her students. Slowly and surely, he was able to formulate a plan to target Marketh without anyone noticing.
*Inconsolable wailing*
“Now, now,” spoke the elderly man eerily. “We’re almost halfway done.” As he slowly turned his body, looking for the right tool to use, he narrowed in on a naked rectangular metal object. Reaching for it, the child flails even harder as Marketh knows what’s coming next. Toro slowly levitates the metallic item over the youngling’s arms and hands again. The suckling doesn’t need to turn their head to know what’s coming next; they feel the rectangle steadily eviscerating flesh and muscle as the needles are magnetically pulled out. Does Toro allow completion, though? No, he never does. He deliberately pushes them back in so the pain lasts longer and so he can fully absorb the child’s screams. A smile never leaving Toro’s face.
Dumping lifeless bodies can be taxing, unless you separate them into smaller segments. Toro has mastered his craft of throwing out his toys after they have lost their sustenance, pushing him to utilize his favorite brand: YETI. Throw a child’s limb—or three—in the duffel bag and he can knock out two birds with one stone; hiking and disposing garbage. Not only can he waste the police and family’s time, but he can calm his restlessness and enjoy the Earth for what it is. With no people, no noise pollution, and no unnecessary lights drawing attention to his presence, he is truly at ease. He can take his time and take in the sights as he commits the ultimate sin: littering.
Should you be scared of Toro? Probably. But, how do you know which people are Toro and which people are, for instance, non-homicidal hominids? You don’t. No one does until it’s too late. Toro knows this. Toro exploits this. Toro craves this. It’s why no one questions why Toro leaves in the middle of a Tuesday night every couple of weeks and comes back on the proceeding Thursday. Despite looking frail and weak, his appearance reminding his neighbors of their acquaintances who are immensely enthralled with survivalist camping is never questioned. To his neighbors, Toro is the quirky nature-lover, altering their understanding of what it means to be an antique.
As Toro dumps another innocent junior in the middle of nowhere, he stares off into the void. Reminiscing on the moments they shared. The memories he will cling to for the rest of his debaucherous life. The jubilant memorials he will hold for another one of the children taken from this world does nothing but bring about a car-splitting erection. This 37th soul is now latched to his body for the rest of existence. At least that’s what Toro thinks. Take a life? It’s yours now. Luigi’s Mansion may not have been the most complex video game to play, but it did teach values about eradicating ghouls. If you damage their soul enough, you can place their essence in an inescapable jar.
*Ding dong*
“I’m coming! I’m coming,” shouted Toro as he leisurely maneuvered his body toward the door.
*Ding dong*
“I’m almost there,” he chuckled in the hope it would strengthen their patience. It didn’t.
*Ding dong*
“I’m here. I’m here,” yodels the man as he opens the door. Not to his surprise is a pair of police officers putting on faux smiles in the hope their comrade will acquiesce to their request.
“Hello, Toro! How are you doing today,” asked the more aggressive of the two officers. “We hope you are doing we–”
“What did you say? Give me a second,” Toro stated as he fumbled with his hearing aid. The two police officers tried to hide their frustration but they also knew how much he did for the community and remained quiet. Turning his attention to the energetic one again, he said, “That’s better. What were you saying, ma’am?”
As her muscles relaxed, she loudly stated, “Hello, Toro! We hope you are doing well. Do you mind if we come in?”
Seeing as Toro didn’t have anything to hide, he motioned them to come in. We know he has something to hide, but these virtuous individuals don’t. They only see a decrepit old man doing his best to help the world in his, what they wrongly assume, final months. His casual movements waved them toward the living room as they watched him nonchalantly stroll to where he spends most of his time.
“It looks like you have. . . cleaned up the place,” says the more friendly man as he judges the appearance of the house. But, Toro doesn’t care. He knows he lives modestly. Ever since his life partner left this plane, he has hunkered down in minimalism and reminiscing lasting memories.
“I have. Took me a full day,” says Toro humbly. “Did you all come to help me with that chore? I am always open to visitors assisting me while we talk. I love hearing stories. I don’t get many visitors these days unless it’s you all, children needing support, or Geriatric Gains. I think it would be ni—”
“No, Toro,” the bigger, female officer interjects. “We’ve actually come with a favor in mind.”
“What is it? I’d love to help in any way I can. You know I am here to assist everyone with their troubles.”
“Yes, we know,” the smaller male chimes in. “Some of the young ones may have ended up running away but the others can’t stop talking about how much you’ve made their lives better.”
“Which is why we are here,” the huskily built one states. “We have another one we’d like you to mentor.”
“Oh, how terrible. Their situation must be bad if you are coming to me again,” claims Toro. “After all, you have some wonderful social workers who I, personally, know have made our community a better place.”
Both of the officers give each other an eye. Whether it’s out of sarcasm, resentment, or judgment is not known outside of the two, but they share the same look nonetheless.
“Pretty bad,” claims the jovial officer. “Do you think you could help her?”
“Can you. . .” Toro stutters while finishing the sentence. “Can you give a little more information on this girl?”
“She’s fucked up. What else is there to know,” hastily asks the athlete.
“Okay. Okay. No need to get all huffy. I’ll take her in,” says the soon-to-be ancestor, motioning the officers to calm down. But, the muscle mommy was already walking back to her patrol car. She opens the door with an aggression not seen by civilians. In the distance, Toro hears the bulbous woman strictly order the adolescent to get out but the schoolgirl doesn’t take it too seriously. She slowly jumps out of the heightened prison and dawdles to Toro.
“Hello, little girl,” says the elderly man. But, the urchin doesn’t respond.
The officer still standing inside the house gently reminds Gladys to reply to the man who is going to be helping the teenager with her “rebellious” ways, but she only grabs her right tricep and nods at him.
“No worries, little one,” Toro calmly tries to mellow her out but her eyes never leave the ground. “Would you like to come in for some cookies and milk?”
Both cops silently chuckle as if they heard something from the “speaking to the elderly” textbook and, once again, stare at each other with the same look as before.
The juvenile finally agrees to his request and goes into the suburban home you’d find in Sears magazines from the 1920s. The cops, feeling satisfied they did their duty, walk back to their car where they hear about another problem within the community; TikTok pranksters targeting the milk industry. With a sigh coming out of the larger law enforcement officer and a smile perking up in the other, they drive off to serve another act of protection.
As the child tries to slyly look around the property, Toro indifferently heads over to the kitchen to grab treats for his new disciple. She stares at the 7- by 3-foot triangle with a flag inside a case. She stares at the pictures of a young and happy family surrounding the living room. She stares at the woodworking hardware spread throughout the house. She doesn’t stop staring at everything around her. She doesn’t care about the dreams and accomplishments being highlighted. She just wants to know what kind of bullshit she’s going to have to deal with. There isn’t much here, though. There are only happy memories, careers of the past, and sawdust. So much sawdust. Bringing a sense of wonder, she calms down knowing he isn’t going to try to trick and deceive her with flashy keywords or materialistic lectures.
“I hear you’ve been causing a commotion around the city. There’s nothing wrong with having a little fun here and there. We’ve all been young and vivacious. I definitely did my fair share of work when I was your age. I still do,” Toro says with a cocky, yet mischievous, grimace.
“I guess. . . School is boring and teaches the same things over and over again: this guy started a genocide; this woman committed sins to a republic; this child won’t stop protesting; young adults wreaked havoc in a major city; the elderly keep fighting against the betterment of society,” the girl slowly states while roaming around the living room.
“True. True. But, the point of history is to prepare ourselves for any potential traumas in the future. Without history, we are doomed to repeat it,” speaks the aged one, hoping to show vulnerability.
“I doubt it,” says the meek moppet. “People continue doing the same thing and don’t care if it hurts others anymore. Why pay attention if change doesn’t actually happen?”
“Change doesn’t happen overnight. It’s a slow burn. People don’t suddenly alter their personality within a few hours,” Toro tries to emphasize between the forced grunts he mutters while lowering himself into his chair.
“I don’t agree,” sternly and aggressively says the fledgling.
“What do you mean,” questions the grandfather to the marginalized.
“My mom used to spend all of her time with me. We would play with dolls; make cookies; go fishing; visit local museums; travel the world; and so many other fun activities. But. . . that changed. . .” gloomily speaks the juvenile starting to question her own life.
“Why doesn’t she do those things with you anymore,” questions the curious veteran.
“. . .I don’t know if I should say,” Gladys quietly mumbles.
Seeing the pain in her eyes, Toro lightens his voice, “I’ll keep your secret safe with me. I’m almost at the other side, I’ll take your secret to the grave,” smiles the man radiating “slice of life” anime energy.
Considering his potentially genuine kindness and realizing she’s stuck with him for the foreseeable future, Gladys speaks up, “. . . her new boyfriend stepped in and wants her to be with HIS family. He says “I’m a burden” to him and my mom. That “I should grow up and make my own friends.” and “leave them alone”.”
“He said that,” Toro inquires without letting the saliva drip from his mouth.
The melancholic girl doesn’t notice. The crestfallen schoolgirl only stares at the ground, embarrassed, in fear making any eye contact would throw her in a mental prison. After a few seconds, she grimly mumbles, “. . . Yeah. . . he did.”
“Well, how can I help? Maybe we can talk while playing your favorite kind of game,” asks Toro trying to lighten the mood and ease her discomfort.
“I don’t know. . . I don’t know anyone who likes to play the way I do,” Gladys placidly claims.
Toro, letting her contemplate this thought a little longer, speaks up, “I’ll play with you. Just tell me what gets you randy.”
After a few seconds of unbearable silence, the girl finally mutters. But, plagued by age, Toro couldn’t hear her. Fiddling with his hearing aid, he asks her to repeat herself.
Timidly shouting, the child claims, “woodworking!”
With a youthful vigor rising within Toro, he modestly says, “I think I can help with that.”
“Geriatric Gains,” shouted the delightful 37-year-old man as he rang the doorbell. His accomplice in this mission is just as eager and smiles bigger than this father, despite not fully understanding the gravity of what they are doing. He knows how important it is to take care of the feeble, but the boy doesn’t grasp why they need to be jolly. Probably because the child also doesn’t know these same weathered individuals are enveloped with “negative” emotions; shame, confusion, despair, and sadness. Except for Toro. Toro loves this kind of assistance and engagement. It helps build his brand as the fragile and forgotten patriarch who can’t do simple tasks.
“Ahoy-hoy,” Toro gleefully hollers to the man and child. Noticing the human tadpole, he slightly bends over to ask, “And who is this adorable little man?”
“It’s me! Trayton! We’ve hung out, like, a thousand times,” the hominid sapling shouts as he bounces around.
“Hello, Trayton! It’s nice to see you again,” happily states the aged man. He goes in to shake the boy’s hand but Trayton forgoes this action and chooses to wrap his arms around the senior with a loving hug.
“Aren’t you an adorable one,” the seasoned figure adds.
“How’s it going, Toro,” Andrew inquires with the same grin on his face. Sure, it’s mostly a farce to smile at a large portion of ancients, but Andrew is always chuffed to help Toro with his human need for nutrients. Sure, this ancient assists their community on a massive and personal scale, but his friendly demeanor is what truly gags Andrew with joy.
“I am living life to the fullest,” claims Toro. “How are you doing, though? You brought your little helper again.”
“I know. . . ,” says Andrew as he looks up to the sky through a faded smile. “We had a last-minute emergency and I couldn’t get a hold of the babysitter.”
“You made the right call. Do you need me to watch him?”
“Oh, I can’t ask that. You must be busy with your projects and helping soon-to-be graduates with their college dreams!”
Toro flashes a warm smile and says, “It’s no problem. I’m actually having some trouble with a little project.”
Andrew thinks about it for a few seconds. “What are you struggling with that you think a 9-year-old will be able to help with?”
Toro, hiding his excitement, claims, “I’m just stacking some wood together to make a new desk and my hands are too big to get in the tight crevices.”
“I’m tiny,” Trayton cheerfully screeches.
Curving his back like a human centipede to speak directly to Trayton, “I’m sure you can!”
“Can I help,” Trayton asks his dad in a squeal. “Please, please, please can I, Dad?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to give you more work, Toro,” Andrew hesitantly says; not knowing if it’s a genuinely good idea. He knows Toro is known for helping the youth, especially those facing tumultuous times. He has personally seen the elder assist adolescents from impoverished areas, reaching their full potential through quality time and relatable conversations. Countless knowledge-hungry individuals were able to go to college and graduate because of the lessons Toro taught. To miss out on this opportunity could have major repercussions to Trayton’s development, right?
“Will there be a lot of machinery being used?”
“Only hammers and nails,” Toro nonchalantly says. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine and Trayton will have fun. I am wholeheartedly happy to have a helper who can speed up the finish date.”
Andrew, internally, is ecstatic, but, externally, flashes a small smile and tells Trayton, “Okay! Go with Toro! I hope you have a fun time.” Turning to Toro, he comments, “Trayton knows the area. He frequents these streets with his friends. So, send him home when you get tired or if he becomes. . . too much.”
“Yaaaaaay! I can’t wait,” squeaks Trayton as he latches onto Toro. “It’s going to be so much fun!”
As Andrew walks back to his car, he waves at his son. Does this gullible father know it may be the last time he’ll see his son? No, they never do. People will always have trouble accepting those they know are the most likely suspects to cause harm to their children. For some reason, despite decades of recorded history focusing on the macabre, parents never expect their kin to be victims of horrific acts. But, off Andrew goes, blindly trusting this powerless, yet passionate, old man. As Andrew goes off to his next delivery, Trayton runs inside with Toro’s hand on his shoulder.
“So,” Toro turns to face Trayton. “Where do you want to start?”
*bang bang bang* As the nail seamlessly slides into the minor’s hand, nothing but screams can be heard. Granted, no one else hears this wailing because they are far beneath the foundation of the house, but it’s there. The bawling and tears are always an everpresent cacophony in Toro’s underground.
“Toro. Stop! I promise! I’ll be good. I won’t mistake project again,” hollers the child. They scream and plea hoping this desperation works, but, just like the other dozen of nails, it does nothing to deter Toro from stopping the penetration of flesh. Don’t worry, though, these three-inch spears aren’t impregnating the child’s orifices. No, Toro is not that depraved. Instead, he focuses on the most sensitive, non-sexual locations: hands, feet, arms, legs, ribs, lips, and ears. He doesn’t go IN the ear, just slightly pierces the nubs as if the victims were getting their first piercing from a shady tattoo shop on the outskirts of desolation or, more commonly, by a teenager working at a business who can’t afford store rent, but kiosks.
“Mommy,” begs the youngling at a frightening volume. “Just tell me what I did wrong and I’ll stop. Please!”
Does Toro feel any semblance of remorse or guilt while doing this? No, never. He wouldn’t be able to reach level 38 if he did. This lack of empathy may be attributed to all of the lead entwined in his childhood and adolescent homes, which have been shown to have done substantial damage to him, his siblings, and his parents’ brain chemistry. But, the main, and incredibly true, reason he continues to destroy happy homes is because, well, he’s just a bad person. He’s not evil. He’s not a demon. He’s not someone who is mentally broken. He’s a normal human with normal beliefs and desires. Sure, he’s killing kids, but he’s still an average person. Anyone has the potential to commit these heinous acts against children, women, and men. Sure, people who grew up with everpresent violence, adapted to the struggles around their environment, or developed a taste for gore are probably going to go down this path. But, people who have had bad days, are bored, are entitled, are intoxicated, or are ignorant also have the same ability to perform atrocities amongst their brethren or loved ones.
“Daddy! Where are you,” pleads the offspring of the career-focused adult. Between each sniff and sob, the child violently shakes hoping to break free of their imprisonment. But, alas, Toro is good at what he does. No matter how much they struggle, they aren’t getting out of his custody. Their last screams, pleas, and screeches will be met with Toro ejaculating his pants. Their last sight on this Earth? Toro’s battered and devious smile. In truth, there is no way to stop this perversion because of the reputation he has built. In the coming years, children will go missing and people will overlook Toro because of his cultivated image. Finally, when Toro enters the next realm of life, heaven or hell, his crimes will be discovered by his grown children who never visited him. They will speak out against what he did. They will publicize each of the crimes he committed. They will tarnish the legacy he has developed over decades. But, does it matter? It won’t bring back the children who died. It won’t replenish the marriages that were eviscerated. It won’t appease the fears a community now holds. It will only be commodified.
No one will truly know how much of a predator Toro truly is. Until his children share his crimes against the community, his positive influence will have cemented him as a loving and caring noble within the community. Before his death, he will remain a man who helps those in impoverished and dangerous situations rise above these predicaments with a smile on his face. Everyone will continue to see Toro as the elderly man who had a long life of despair but did his best to bring joy to others. Despite everyone’s belief of him being too feeble to cause problems, he does and won’t stop until his heart stops beating. Toro will continue to wreak havoc in this city against those who don’t deserve these cruel services for another decade. All because the community can’t fathom someone as innocent, weak, and loving could be the perpetrator of crimes against humanity.
“Mommy, I can’t feel my legs and hands anymore. Please come get me…”
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