The Telemachus Story Archive

The Extermination of Superman
Part 15 - The Final Cut
By Rick Henry

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By Rick Henry.

Chapter Fifteen: The Final Cut -

“I think I’m going to miss you, Cunt-Man. Oddly enough. No streaking alien from the sky to fall on my head, anymore. Yours, of course, already fallen. No more pain, no problem. The relief will be more than palpable.”

Luthor was up close, in front of his bound form on the new scaffold. Staring him straight on, exercising his lordship, taunting the former Man of Steel. Almost nose to nose. “Pretty eyes, I must admit,” he said. Then, his one hand rubbing harshly at the mound of the vanquished hero’s pubis, where his great cock had hung, his larger balls... Luthor, slowly massaging his groin, reminding him further and further what he no longer had there. “A true pussy, now... minus the slit, eh, Superfag? Too bad, no more dick for you! Not even your own.”

Don’t...!” Superman arched, pleading, not wanting the evil hands to touch him. Their violation of what had already been done to him, and the man gloating over it... in his face.

“You just had too much. Of everything. We couldn’t allow that. And thwarting Lex Luthor? A fatal mistake, Superman! Yes, remember —I want you to, who you were. Slave! Alien shit. Not fit for human consumption. Hardly for dogs.... Wonder if they’ll choke—? Should instead maybe feed you to the pigs. A la the good doctor Lector.”

Why , Luth...or?” an empty question. “Did I... harm you, that much? Now, you’ve had your way. Won.”

“Yes, you, destroyed—the Invincible Alien, the indestructible Superman!! By his own semen!!” A significant pause. “Imagine that! His own mind...! Ironic, really. All that strength, you couldn’t save yourself. Tells us what a pussy you really were.... Biceps, big tits, genitals, ladder-ridged abs, shoulders—all for show. Rotten to the core, with your own alien sickness, your own narcissistic perversion!! Filth like you should not exist. Here, nor anywhere.”

“I, I... did some good. Saved, didn’t I?” A child in conflict. In his own mind, he could hardly remember even “why” he was, had been. What Luthor said was true. He was what Lex said he was: he remembered. And, what he’d done. But it was faded, the hero he had been— Luthor, his Master, telling him, yes or no—anything, everything. He believed his Master. His Master had conquered him. He could not fight. Just... glimmers of something: his flight through light and darkness, rain, warm sun, air—a smile here and there, a hug of gratitude. And the lightning thought of Jack in him, suddenly, fiercely—OH, GOD! and he in Jack!! A curtain momentarily flashed open, swiftly drew tight again. He tried to shake his head, the halter held him fast. Blanking out once more.

“Well, today is the day. The hour has come. I, Lex Luthor, ridding the earth of its alien scum!”

Luthor walked around and behind him, to the side.

“Out of kindness, we have chosen to make this as painless as possible. Though you will be more than well able to see, and watch. Piece by piece, as we dismantle you. And finally, we’ll take your head, and put it in the other container, beside your powerless, defeated genitals. It will make a stunning display, along with the costume. So there’s no question... it was you.”

Lex, wanting to increase the torment; realizing there was little left of his victim’s mind to torment him with.

“Not to mention the pictures. You, the stolen Mona Lisa. Your pulled-up costume, moaning, letting Jack ravage you. On your knees sucking me—laying back, pounding your meat—milking your tits in your mirror—heels over head, your own balls in your mouth....”

“Yes... was me . Could. Super—did . I, when I... did I? He did. Was bad....”

“Why we have to get rid of you. Bad, Superman, bad! To save the earth.”

The knowing creature would have hung his head, but could not really move. Whispered hoarsely, “Yes, Master. Time... has come. Reached my date, termination. I yours—do with, as please.” Mind numb. Defenseless.

His last words barely strangled out, as Slagschuster worked at his front, forcing the hideous tube down his throat... impossible to speak. Nonetheless, if his words had not, could not be heard, he had thought them, and tried to articulate. A rough mumble, at best.

His Master motioned, and the man with the pneumatic nail gun came forwards.

“Dr. Slagschuster has marked the spot. There, just place the nozzle there, that small red X,” Luthor told him.

The man lifted the gun to the thick neck of the alien from behind. Sort of centered, and down below the base of his skull, where the origin of the trapezius, above the prominent knot of the cervical spine, and the furrow of the rhomboids began—was it C-4, C-5? The gun was not loaded, though had it been, it could have driven a six inch nail through a 6x4 in an instant. Instead, it would only be the air pressure alone. He determined the spot, held fast, and fired. A loud banging-pop. But nothing happened. Superman jerked, but didn’t move. Just quivered.

Though he did cry out, a little.

It didn’t seem to be working. It had been a stunning jolt to the back of his neck, at his spine. The man fired again. Superman’s body on the frame seemed to arch, struggle, his cry was louder. Luthor shook his head in disgust. “Again,” he said. “Again!”

There were two more bursts, two more shots.

Finally, the alien’s spinal cord was severed. They could see it happening, how the body slackened suddenly, the tenseness falling from the muscles into a dead weight. He couldn’t scream, but he did. A garbled anguish up from the tubes in his throat, a spitting gurgle and an unearthly groan. He, too, suddenly realized what had happened.

A dull numbness did not creep, but was instantly all over his mighty physique. He could feel nothing from his clavicle to his toes, nothing in his arms, legs or fingers. He was effectively, totally paralyzed. His spine had been torn, broken... his nerves and muscles functionally destroyed. He could barely move his eyes or swallow. The power in his limbs gone slack and limp. It was only the leather restraints which kept him from sliding into a huge mass of jelly-flesh onto the floor.

But he knew in his soul what had been done. They had rendered him eternally helpless. A quadriplegic, no less.

He hung there, scarcely able to breathe. Could see the ragged mess of himself on the scaffold in the mirror.

Luthor came around in front of him, with four ice picks.

“Superman, let me know if you feel anything. Okay?”

With a swift jab, he plunged one of the ice picks to the hilt into the once striated quadriceps of the captive’s leg. There was no reaction. He felt nothing. Luthor again, did the same to his other thigh. Superman watched in pure detachment. Then, seeing no wince of pain, or jerking or spasming of the leg, Lex drew closer... and thrust the metal spiked tool squarely through the mountainous mass of Superman’s biceps, straight-on, into him, from the front broad-rounded side of the powerful, now slack muscle. Nothing. He did the same again to the other arm. Superman just hung there, could not even look down at the desecration of his body—could only see the four handles of the ice picks, buried to their hilts in his flesh, sticking out of him, strangely, as he watched his reflection in the mirror.

Stunned, though he felt nothing.

Luthor called for the doctor. Slagschuster appeared in a few minutes, holding some strange stiff tubes in his hands, though they were clear, and sharply tapered on one end of each of them. They looked to be nearly two inches in diameter.

“I think he’s ready, yes.”

The two dressed men exchanged glances, and nodded. The doctor stepped up to Superman’s torso, and rammed one of the tubes into and through the cartilages of his rib cage, directly into his lungs on one side, did the same on the other side. Superman gasped, yes, his body involuntarily jerked—his breath felt like he was strangling, but it was only momentary.

“Something to keep you breathing, so your lungs won’t collapse,” Slagschuster told him. He called off to the side for some other uniformed assistants, who came forwards. “Tourniquets, please! On the upper arms, on the thighs, just above the joints. Tight, now! It will help keep things fairly tidy.... Position the tubs.”

He looked into his victim’s eyes. “Oh, yes, there will be blood.”

There was a rolling sound, and the large silver machine which had previously been hidden behind a partition was wheeled closer. It was bulky, a bit unmanageable... already looking a tad blood-stained from previous use. It was turned on, and began a soft whirring. Not making any sense, but Superman furrowed his eyes. He knew it was ominous, it triggered a far memory. Something about Jack... he couldn’t perceive it.

Luthor decided to sit this one out, a nice high-backed leather chair; wine and glasses wheeled in, so he and the good doctor could relax, watch the proceedings.

“I told you I didn’t like blood,” he frowned at his cock-mate. “But for this occasion, it might well be worth it. Thought a good Cabernet would go well with the show. Numb the pain.” And he had to laugh at his cleverness. The doctor beside him made a funny twist with his mouth, was already reaching for the uncorked wine.

Then, Slagschuster nodded to his technicians, fully dressed in coveralls, who came forwards again, this time bearing saws. Surgical saws, half the size of normal chainsaws. When they cut, the blades were heated to sear and staunch as much of the destroyed tissues as they could, but it would still be messy.

Luthor rose, and gave a toast, particularly to the bound Man of Steel, now a man to be exterminated, piece by piece.

“Superman, I now give you full permission, as your Master, to remember. Remember all you were, how you were... what you could do, what you have done. Who you were, in all your glory... and now, what you are not, nor can ever be again. A man of fantastic strength, and beauty, and power—the ability to fly, even—ever doing good for the sake of humankind. Oh, how muscular you were, are... incredible huge pecs, big tits, mighty shoulders, tiny waist, powerful thighs, arms so magnificent, only your cock and balls, your nipples, superseded your joy at the sight of yourself, every time you looked in a mirror—worshipped nothing more than your own being, which you idolized every moment, your own God—seeding your own self daily, savoring your own flesh... like a dog, able to lick his own balls, eat his own vomit. Such were you, such you are; but now, no more. The night has come, the dawn of eternity has drawn near.

“Watch now, un-earthly faggot, inhuman trash... as we return you to dust, to nothing worth breath, nor for living on this planet. Particle by particle into dog food. Such was the fate of your lover, Jack. How sweet, how ironic! You and your mate, now... each for each: bone of your bone, flesh of your flesh... mingled together at last, and served to the dogs of the street. And what is left, relics for a museum, tales of a legend. No more alive. No more real.”

There was only a mournful “Ummmnnh, ummnpph, unnnhhhh-mmmhhh!” wailing, from the thing on the scaffold. And then, they began.

Re-startled blue eyes widening further, realizing what was to be done.

“Feet first, and then the hands.”

The technicians moved in, severed the articles from his body: foot by foot, hand by hand. Then took the chunks of them over, and dropped them into the incessant whirring, the soft crunching of the meat grinder, as it began to devour his bones, his meat, his flesh.

In horror, he watched. His bulky, thick calves, being severed from the knees, each side. Then, the heavy forearms, one by one. All disappearing into the labored whirring of the grinder, as it ate him, still alive.... He felt nothing, of course. But in his mind, in his brain, he was aware of his destruction; and to see it, hopelessly, as he was being eradicated piece by piece, along with knowing how Jack had been disposed of now... he was not even able to wretch, though his guts recoiled. His mind could not truly grasp, accept, the impossible shock, the enormity of it all.

His great biceps and triceps, upper arms, were removed from the shoulders. His magnificent thighs from the hips. Disappearing into oblivion, into the munching jaws of the grinder before his very eyes! Hearing it, seeing it, not comprehending, but knowing it. Dying from within.

Until only his torso was left, the breathing machine keeping him alive. His head. They had to do that, his torso the housing for all his vital organs, which would cause instant death otherwise. To prolong things, allowing him to watch as long as possible. Their final disposal problem, later.

“And so, the once great Superman is no more. Turned into dog meat. Left-overs, for the museum of history.” Luthor was speaking aloud, so Marsden could hear from the observation deck above. He had left, to more astutely keep tabs on the alien’s life-function monitors outside.

Kal-El—yes , he could see. Armless, legless, now: the bloody stumps, torso trimmed, whittled to the basic, rectangular, structural block of his being... a ragged, blood-dripping trunk of once incomparable male beauty, warm sculpture. Face still above and open, brows deeply furrowed, cheeks gaunt, sallow.

They finally removed the tracheal tube from his throat, too hoarse to speak, only moments left... unconsciousness could fold-in any second, heart could stop, the shock to his system—“someone” carefully undoing the webbed halter from around his chin and forehead. Then, with rough fingers, deep into the mass of his dark hair, firmly lifting up, stretching, extending the column of his neck... his fine mouth, O-ing, tanzanite eyes glazing, a near-blank of final, widened terror in them: broken anguish, resolved peace.

The quieted sawblade now snugly anchored alongside the lower based edge of his neck to the left, above the clavicle, below the Adam’s apple, waiting... his view, easy in the mirror.

Luthor gave a last toast, nodding to the executioner—a smile of perfect satisfaction across his fleshy face, eyes twinkling above the rim of the wine glass paused at his lips.

“’Revoir, Superman !!” a cocked, raised eyebrow.

And chortling like an idiot. “The late, great... SU-PER-MAN!!” in victorious disdain. Lex, sipping at the rich red of his wine. “Alien fag.”

“Ggnnhhh-nnnhhhhh...” the alien tried to say, too late—the revved teeth of the saw beginning to chew, cut into the rich column of his neck, the fingers of the hand in his hair, holding him fast and still. LIFE!! NOO!! Ohhhhhh, if someone could only—would—to suckle the huge crowns of his nipples again, caress the arced, bursting curves of his pecs, take the mass of his maleness—LOVE!! BE—!! DO!! Hold him, hold them...!! –—

The last thing Kal-El saw, knew—thought, said—though muffled... the spirit of his beloved, boldly clear and waiting ... before the blades took off his head—“Jack, Jack!! Oh, Jack...!!!”

Irrevocable, momentary darkness. An arc of stars.

Then, Jack kissed him. Their arms around each other. Rainbows of light, beauty... trading their breaths, their heartbeats, their fingers....

* * *


Months later, the curator of the Smithsonian received an odd, express shipment for the museum direct from Lex Luthor’s Global International Enterprises. Upon opening it, he and his colleagues were staggered with surprise and disbelief. But the evidence was irrefutable. It was a request, and payment for a display in the Museum of Unnatural History. The shipment contained a tall, rectangular specimen-jar of a male’s incredibly large penis and testicles, another smaller, shorter one, with his humongous, ring-pierced mammillae, and another nicely squared one, containing the severed head of a handsome young man—known the world over as Superman!! (His startled, anguish-filled, blue gemstone eyes sewn open... the terror still etched on his face.) There was also the parcel with Superman’s famed costume, ready to be hung, and properly displayed along with the other remnants of his former existence. Along with twelve dozen, one and a half pound cans of packaged dog food, bearing a round label, with a panting German Shepherd on the front of them, and the printing: “Superman’s Demise Dog Food.”

A plaque, also enclosed, to be displayed with the entire contents, genitals, nipples, head, clothing and cans, which read: REMAINS OF THE ALIEN, FORMERLY KNOWN AS “SUPERMAN”: AN OTHER-WORLDLY, INHUMAN SPECIES—NOW EXTERMINATED. Compliments of Lex Luthor.

Included were several carefully selected pictures/edited dvds, to reveal the authentic depravity of the extinguished creature... the reasons given for his extermination: a threat to the morality of all humanity and civilization, regardless of the supposed good works he had done or been known to have accomplished. He had been, in essence, a malevolent force, disguised as an angel of light, deceiver of the known universe. It was explicit, such vermin should not be allowed to infiltrate or exist among humankind.

Luthor felt very comfortable, of course, admitting he had been the vanquisher of the “being.” After all, no court in the world would accuse him of murder... for having eradicated a loathsome extraterrestrial. That which was not human. And a bane to the whole earth.

A new wing was built, and dedicated in his name. The main, and most popular display of all: THE EXTERMINATION OF SUPERMAN. Though the films were never allowed access by the general public. Rumors persisted, stories abounded. The former superhero had been a perverted, depraved humanoid of immense power, and the ability to use it for evil.

And was therefore considered non-essential, not worthy of breathing.

He had been terminated for the salvation and preservation of mankind.

By the righteous.

Cocksuckers, indeed... never being allowed to win.

* * *

Lex and Marsden, their cocks buried deep to the hilts in each other’s throats: ever draining, drinking, draining.... Happy at last. Business as usual.

Oh, wasn’t there something about going to Gotham? Perhaps a more difficult job than the alien. Batman was human. Didn’t have the same weaknesses. Oh, well. They’d find them.

Nut him, too. And that hunkly kid, Robin.

If Superman could be taken... the rest, a piece of cake!!

* * *

Author’s Notes:

A person in a vacuum chamber will not “explode,” though the lungs may rupture, and gas bubbles can be formed in the blood. Confusion, unconsciousness, paralysis, stroke, brain damage, or death may occur, depending on time-length of containment. Erroneous references to such were purely for fictional purposes. It is also unlikely anyone being dismembered would remain alive, much less conscious during the process. But some have historically been known to be tied-off tightly, severed in half at the waist, the upper torso seared with a hot copper plate, and remain alive momentarily for further torment.

Alas, much like Superman (milked to extinction), most men are destroyed from within : the loss of their semen—no deposit, no return—given/taken, without love. What a miracle, one’s life-force, essence... designed to be used and treasured wisely.

Rick Henry/Richard McHenry, author of CHRONICLES OF THE MIGHTY AND THE FALLEN, an upcoming m/m erotic fantasy novel, “Game of Thrones” ambiance.

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