MelaninQueen
African historian. BLM activist.
- Feb 19, 2024
- 18,929
Trap 8: The Hunger Maw
Victim:
- Name: Lamarcus "Master" Small
- Age: 35
- Appearance: Morbidly obese, nearly 400 lbs, with sweat-slicked skin and a greasy goatee barely covering his double chin. His belly spills over his too-tight hoodie, the fabric stained with old grease and crumbs. His small, beady eyes dart around nervously when confronted.
- Background: Former owner of Sanctioned Suicide, a notorious forum that encouraged vulnerable individuals to take their own lives. After being ousted, he rebranded himself as the puppet master behind incels.is, looksmax.org, and neets.net, creating cesspools of misogyny, self-hatred, and radicalization. Despite his online persona as a “mastermind,” he is a coward in real life, dodging reporters when confronted. Known for his obsessive junk food consumption, his weight and eating habits are a frequent subject of ridicule.
Setting:
Lamarcus wakes up strapped into an industrial feeding chair, his arms secured with thick leather straps. His mouth is held open by a cold steel dental gag, forcing his jaw wide apart. The air is thick with the stench of rancid grease, rotten meat, and something far worse.
Before him, a conveyor belt carries a never-ending stream of grotesque fast food: moldy cheeseburgers dripping with congealed grease, deep-fried animal fat glistening with rancid oil, and towering milkshakes filled with a chunky, bile-like substance. A massive mechanical arm hovers over him, holding a grotesque metal feeding tube.
Directly in front of him, a large mirror is bolted to the wall, forcing him to watch himself. His reflection is bloated, sweat pooling in the folds of his flesh. The chair shudders as the tape begins.
Jigsaw’s Tape:
"Hello, Lamarcus. For years, you have feasted on the misery of others, encouraging the vulnerable to throw their lives away while you sit, safe and well-fed, behind a screen. You have created a kingdom of decay, a world where suffering is your currency and self-destruction is your legacy."
"But today, the meal is yours to swallow. Before you is a feast of your own making. You must consume every bite, or you will face the consequences."
"If you refuse to eat, the chair will tighten, slowly crushing your obese frame under the weight of your own gluttony. However, there is a way out. The feeding tube contains a key, hidden deep inside the filth. To retrieve it, you must bite down—hard—until you find it. But be warned: the tube is lined with razor-sharp blades. The more you bite, the more you will suffer."
"Will you consume the pain of those you have harmed, or will you choke on your own greed? Make your choice."
Lamarcus’s Reaction:
"No, no, NO! I don’t deserve this, man! This is some bullshit!" He thrashes in the chair, but the straps hold firm. His breathing grows frantic as the conveyor belt lurches forward.
The first item—a dripping, grayish cheeseburger with writhing maggots between the buns—plops onto the tray in front of him. The mechanical arm jerks forward, forcing the feeding tube into his stretched-open mouth.
Outcome:
Option 1: He refuses to eat.
Lamarcus clamps his lips shut, shaking his head violently. The chair responds instantly. The straps tighten with a mechanical whirr, digging into his bloated flesh. He screams as his ribs creak under the pressure.
The belt keeps moving. More food piles up, the stench growing unbearable. Flies buzz around the rotting feast. His body shakes, his face turning red as the straps tighten further. POP—a rib cracks.
SNAP. Another. His wheezing turns into a high-pitched whimper. His organs are being crushed under his own weight. Blood vessels burst in his eyes. His vision fades.
The final thing he sees in the mirror is his own grotesque, swollen reflection—before the chair caves in completely, suffocating him under his own mass.
Lamarcus does not survive.
Option 2: He tries to escape.
Desperate, Lamarcus bites down on the feeding tube. SHHNK! Razor-sharp blades slice into his gums. Blood fills his mouth, mingling with the rancid, chunky bile pouring down his throat.
He gags, but keeps biting. More blades dig into his tongue, slicing deep. He lets out a muffled howl, eyes bulging as he gnaws through the pain. His teeth crack. A molar shatters. Blood dribbles down his chin.
Finally—clink. The key.
He chokes, coughing it up along with chunks of his own teeth. His fingers fumble for the lock, slippery with saliva and blood. Click. The restraints release.
Lamarcus falls forward, coughing and heaving. He is free—but his mouth is destroyed. His tongue is in ribbons, his teeth shattered beyond repair. His gluttony has cost him the one thing he relied on most.
He will never eat solid food again.
Final Message:
"Congratulations, Lamarcus. You have finally learned what it means to swallow your own poison. But I wonder—now that you can no longer feast, what will sustain you?"
