Texas Chainsaw Massacre

In makeup on a mask he carves bodies and bones. Makes dinner. A wig over his head and an apron over his chest. A generator hums in the distance. A knock on the door and a voice. He places his hammer down next to the slaughtered chicken. The door opens in a creak. The hammer is picked back up. Back up, back up, back up. Metal clangs sharply as the hallways opens into a trophy room of small mammals' skulls. A slam to the trophy and the visitor convulses, kicks, seizures. Another slam with a scream and it stops. Dragged onto a table in the kitchen. Grab the chainsaw. Another voice, another creak. No time wasted as he grabs for the girl. Out into the daylight, his rubber-gloved arms around her, he drags. Lifts. Hooks. Through her spine, up her neck. Feet don't reach the ground, arms lose feeling as her neck stiffens. The chainsaw. The body on the table. Feathers on the floor. Skulls posed with femurs and spines and ribs of animals unrecognizable. A chicken clucks. A generator hums in the distance. A chainsaw sounds the same. Cut, slice, saw. The head dislodged from the body. The hook digs up. He lifts her. Slam once, twice. Convulse, kick, seizure, stop. Lifts again. Into a freeze, a lover and a body and a head. Another creak. Three's company.