A.N: Jeez, I just got this idea from watching a really screwed up movie called "The possession of Michael D." It was on the women's network. Anyways, this is a lot like my "Finger Painting" story, so if you like this, then you might wanna check it out. All in all, I'm pretty happy with this. I have been promising the readers a Halloween treat, and although this isn't exactly the Halloween type, it still gives me goose bumps. Took me less then an hour to write, huzzah, so thoughts would be appreciated.

The Stop Pit Bar

He would always go to that same bar. The run down grease joint where hookers and bikers would spend their time. He remembered it from long ago. His father taking him there, making him watch the woman - even men - do their jobs. He dreaded going, every single time. It would always be the same.

His father, a burly man that seemed like a giant to him, would drag him out to the bar, always this bar. They would sit at the back table, just beside the worn down juke-box, and just watch the people. His father would comment about them on occasion, "She only costs 10 bucks, but she is sure filthy." His voice sounded like what the preacher described as the devil.

His mother was a quiet woman - meek. She never said a word, and always seemed to cringe whenever anyone looked at her. He had always wondered why, but he understood now, when he got older. He learned of their life, of how things worked around the house.

One day, he was out in the back, shovelling the snow off of the porch. His father lumbered up behind him - he would always recognize the sound; loud, almost thunderous footsteps. "We're going to the bar." Was all his father said, in that low voice of his. He stopped shovelling.

That night something was different; his father was quiet. He never said a word, not through the drive, not even when they were sitting at their spot in the back. All that came out from him was, "More beer." Soon the bottles began to pile up, and he began to get nervous. Never had his father drunk so much before, never.

"Michael." His voice was slurred with alcohol. "Don't you ever wish some people could just.. disappear?" He didn't answer him.

His father's red face contorted in anger. "Don't you ever wish you can just beat it into them that they don't deserve what they have." Even in his drunken haze, his father still managed to look decidedly serious.

"Don't you," His father moved closer to him, "wish that they would just listen." He grabbed ahold of his jacket. "Just listen."

His father dragged him out of his seat, like he was as light as the fall leaves. He took him outside, not one single person paid attention - too busy, they said. He was thrown on the cold ground, his father towering furiously above him. He was pinned down by a monstrous boot.

"Don't you wish that you could just kill them?" His father growled, and began to do as he wished.

No matter how hard he screamed, no one came. Not his mother, not his friends, not even a whore from the bar. They all just stood in there, playing their little games, doing their jobs. They all ignored him. That night he lost something, something very important.

It was another cold Friday night in the south, as he sat at the back table, beside the juke box. He was grown now, some said he looked like his father - the same face, they said. He just watched those in the bar, just watched.

A greasy old man was playing pool with two old, worn out hookers. Their clothes just about fell off, and they looked like they had been smoking for their entire life. The make-up they wore covered just about everything on their face, looking appealing to those drunk enough to care.

He got up. He knew what he was going to do. He walked over to one of the hookers - a brunette. "Hey sweat heart, what can I do for you?" Her voice was raspy.

"How much?" His father had once told him that she was only 10 bucks.

The woman let out a crooked smile, showing off rotting and yellow teeth. She grabbed his arm, and pulled him outside. Her hips swung around in that short leather skirt of hers, almost like a leaf, blowing in the wind. She pulled him out back, and headed over to the small shack outside. His father had told him - even shown him - what business went on in there.

He was pushed against the wooden door, the woman began moaning, rubbing all over him. His father had shown him how they work, what they do. He placed a hand on her face. She gave him a long hard kiss - he could taste the cigarettes and beer she'd had.

He felt her hair - so rough, just like his fathers. "Oh yeah, touch me right there baby!" She moaned, stripping herself out of the second skin she wore. Just like his father had shown him, the whores did just what he said.

He gripped her hair and pulled her away. "Ooh, I like it rough!" She moaned, tossing in what was supposed to be a purr. He threw her on the ground. She still went with it. He knew the whores get a lot worse done to them.

Instead of joining the naked woman on the floor, he stood on top her sagging breasts. "Uh- stop!" She gasped, the air getting pushed out of her lungs by the weight of his steel-toed boots.

"Don't you just wish," He whispered, kneeling down to look her in the eyes, " that they can disappear." Tears were building up in her eyes.

He gripped her face hard, forcing her to look at him. "Stop it, please, help. Someone help!" Her screams were so familiar - just like his childish ones.

"Don't you wish," He slammed her head down, "that some people would just listen?" She began to scream louder, sobbing like the girl she was.

Her make up was smudged all over her face. He trailed his hands down to her neck, covered in bruises and hickeys. There was even a tattoo of a butterfly on it. Was it supposed to represent the freedom she was sure to have? He smiled at the thought - no, she would never have that freedom that everyone so desperately wants.

His hands closed around her neck, making her gag. Her shrieks had been subdued by his large hands, so much like his father's. She began to struggle with all her might - which wasn't very much. Like many of the whores working at this bar, she hardly earned enough to feed herself.

"Don't you," He clenched his hands, "wish," Her eyes began to glaze over, "that you could just kill them?" Her body went limp. "Don't' you just wish," He sobbed, still choking the whore,"that you could forget it all?"

He sat back, looking at what he had done through blurred eyes. "Don't you just wish," He looked at his hands, "that it would all stop, dad?" He looked at the shard of glass reflecting the moonlight.

"Don't you just wish, that it would all end?" He whispered.

End

A.N: I kept trying to end it with each of the "Don't you"'s, but it just didn't seem to work. Finally I just gave up and went with this. I really do enjoy writing sick stories, about the twisted minds of humans, it's really fun. Anyways, reviews would be love - I'd love to hear what you have to say about this.