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This is a question Killed to DEATH

Speedevil asks: What have you killed? Accidentally, or on purpose. Concepts, species, a man in Reno, the career of a well-known entertainer, or anything else.

(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 13:18)
Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

The heaviest cat in the world
I was woken at 3am this morning by an almighty bang from the living room. Got up, went to investigate, and found the cat sitting in front of a completely flattened mouse. She's not *that* big and heavy, and being rather advanced in years can't jump up onto anything much higher than the sofa. Dear knows how she did it or what sort of force she landed on this mouse with, but it was a fully-grown adult field mouse, squashed to about 1/4" thick.
(, Thu 29 Dec 2011, 12:00, 2 replies)
Not even funny in retrospect really
And I’ve been humming and hahing about posting this, but given the level of poor posts this week, I might as well.

It’s one of those things that people say without really thinking about, and when it’s in a film or TV programme, it’s always a huge joke, but believe you me, when it happened in real life, it was anything but.

It all started seven or eight years ago, about a year after I’d been divorced, and a few months into my online dating adventure. My low self-esteem was gradually picking itself off the ground as I discovered that there are a lot of men out there with lives a whole lot more pathetic than mine was. At least I had a job I liked and kids I loved etc. I’d got back into yoga and had joined a gym, was swimming three lunchtimes a week, cut booze down to half a bottle on Friday nights, and yes, I was meeting men on a regular basis – some of whom I spent the night with, a couple even lasted a month or two.

Then I met Bob; he was fifteen years older than me, which I didn’t mind. He had impeccible manners and because he was in his early sixties, he made me feel young. Also, he was recently retired and long divorced, he had a lovely house in Chiswick, a very nice Mercedes and a boat he kept on the river near Henley. This was life as I’d never experienced it – the Royal Opera House, West End shows, posh restaurants, weekends away in nice hotels (when the ex had the kids), and for my birthday, Le Manoir aux Quat' Saisons, I can’t begin to describe how lovely it was. We had a room as well as a table for dinner. Room? It was a palatial suite, his and hers baths, chaise longue, more cushions than a Habitat sale, and waiting for us as we were shown the suite, a bottle of champagne on ice, which Bob opened as soon as we were alone.

I ran a bath as we sipped champagne and before long, Bob was opening a second bottle as I dried myself seductively on the chaise longue, and as he brought my glass over I clasped him around the middle, undid his trousers and gave him the famous mouth-full-of-champagne-blow-job. He was fit for his age and I never failed to help him rise to the occasion, and this was an occasion all right. Like the gentleman he was, he reciprocated with a long and langourous licking as I draped myself over the chaise and he knelt on a pile of cushions. By this time, he’d shed the rest of his clothes and when I’d come twice in a row, I led him to the bed, climbed onto it and crawled up to the bedhead end on all fours, Bob in hot pursuit. I’ve always loved to be fucked from behind with my arse up in the air, and I was dripping from the licking, ‘Fuck me Bob, fuck me hard’ I growled with my head buried in the pillows. I felt him part my lips and gently push his cock into me, working it back and forth slowly,

‘Fuck me harder!’ and he did, grabbing me by the hips, grunting as he thrust, hard and deep, speeding up as I moved against him, catching the rhythm… ‘Yes, yes, that’s it, harder’

‘Oh God,’ he moaned, ‘Oh yes, oh YES!’

…and then he stopped suddenly, ‘Christ!’ he said before flopping forward onto me.

‘Bob, what are you playing at?’ he was crushing me, ‘Bob?’

No answer, he was gasping, he lurched to the side, pulling out of me and landing on his back next to me, spunk shooting out of his rigid cock, eyes wide open.

I leapt off the bed and rang reception, but by the time the doctor arrived and took over from the duty first aider, he was clearly dead.

Maybe he would have chosen to go out that way, I can’t say, but it put a bit of a dampener on my weekend, I can tell you. Still, the food was gorgeous and luckily, he’d paid up front.
(, Thu 29 Dec 2011, 11:53, 16 replies)
How to get rid of thrush
My cat has - fortunately - never been much of one for bringing home gifts or trophy kills. As far as I can remember, he's only done it once.

But he seemed very proud of himself as he deposited a thrush by the back door. It was almost as if he wanted me to inspect the damage he'd caused. I'd rather not have. What the cat had done was as close as a cat will ever get to thoracic surgery. I could see the thrush's lung.

I could see the thrush's lung still inflating and deflating.

I'm all in favour of euthanasia, though. I knew what I ought to do, and that I ought to do it quickly. But how? I suppose I could have stamped on its head - but that would (a) have been a bit messy, and (b) have been a bit too visible. So my chosen method of dispatch was via carrier-bag. Using the bag as a glove, I picked up the wounded bird, then turned the bag inside out and tied the top.

And then I whacked it as hard as I could against the outside wall of the house.

I think it worked. I wasn't going to check.

And the cat followed me to the wheelie-bin, wherein I placed what I hoped was by now an utterly dead thrush tartare. All the while, the look in his eye was, "I give you a gift, and you do this? Well, that's the last time I bring you any of my kills to share, you ungrateful bastard".

Which, to be honest, was fine by me.
(, Thu 29 Dec 2011, 11:31, Reply)

I stayed over my gfs house in the country side just south of Norwich. She had 2 cats which were basically feral.. They put food out for them occasionally but those cats still knew how to survive just fine without..
So I wake up at 7am to the sound of her mum crying.. Turns out the cats had brought in a young rabbit and torn it to shreds in the kitchen and lounge. The cream lounge carpet looked like jack the rippers hanky. Took a while to clean that one up. Length - about 20 meters of carnage.
(, Thu 29 Dec 2011, 7:35, 1 reply)
I killed a spider last night.
I was having a shower and I noticed him (actually I'm not sure of its gender) climbing the wall. Water seems to fuck them up so I turned the shower off, and went and got something to carry him out with. When I came back I couldn't find him. But a minute or so after I turned the shower on there he was near the plughole, in the water with his legs all ruined. He obviously couldn't walk so I squashed him rather than leaving him to die in pain. RIP Mister Spider :(
(, Thu 29 Dec 2011, 6:02, Reply)
As ive stated before
I worked in a deer slaughterhouse for 11 odd years through my 20s. My main job was to "stun" the deer which involved using a bolt gun to the brain.
I got board one day near the end of my tenere there and worked out I had killed roughly 100 000 deer in my time.

Least I wont be lonely when I die.
(, Thu 29 Dec 2011, 6:00, 2 replies)
One of our cats FAILED to properly kill a bird. My Mrs found it flopping around in our back yard in quite some distress.

Being the caveman I am, I knew that I could dispatch it with instant humane effectiveness.

Cue the garden shears..

Upon it's position I crept, to the flailing 'rock dove' (common pigeon).

With a deep breath, I extended the shears, then shot at it with the power akin to the power required to snip a thick stem of doc weed.

This did NOT work.

I was now gazing upon a mutilated creature with a broken neck, but all the skin and blood vessels required to keep the head attached and to motivate it to activate it's 'flight' reflex.

Cue five minutes of 'gag inducing' slashing at the said head in order to remove it.

Eventually, I did dispatch the poor creature, but it was far from pretty.

You asked for it. That is what happened.

Oh, the fun.
(, Thu 29 Dec 2011, 4:52, 1 reply)
Mynah birds: intelligent, loud, evil, profitable - and tasty.
Loud, intelligent, evil: mynah birds were the scourge of my parents' home in the 1980s. The damned pests would roost in the large bamboo stand which acted as a windbreak and privacy screen, then decide to hold a massive avian argument at 3AM, destroying M&D's sleep/wake schedule. In order to prevent the damn things from making a habit of roosting there, my father would fire off several rounds of bird shot in the late afternoon to frighten them off. This ended after a month or so when the local police arrived to notify my father his occasional gunshots were disturbing the neighbors. He quickly resorted to a bounty placed on each and every dead mynah bird I managed to deliver to him. $5/bird was a massive incentive in early 1980, so I spent some time zeroing in my air rifle, then proceeded to wait for the nasty creatures to arrive.

Mynah birds are very intelligent: the black bastards knew when I was sitting on the deck armed with an air rifle and when I had nothing to threaten them with. Their scouts would warn the rest of the flock away, then quickly give the all clear when my rifle was no longer present. I would stalk away once they had begun to roost, only to return to an empty bamboo grove. The early AM ruckus continued.

2 weeks after I had attempted to claim my first bounty, I discovered a solution to my plight. My mother walked into the master bedroom and quietly exclaimed, "what are you doing?" I was sitting cross-legged on dad's snoring bed (I'll save the details for a future marital bliss thread) with all the bay windows open wide and the screens removed. I was in the process of drawing a bead on a loud black-with-yellow pest and took the shot as my mother asked her question, dropping one of the feathered fuckers. I then turned to her and explained my solution to the mynah bird problem and dad's generous bounty. As our house had been designed by Hans Riecke in the early 80s, it took very little advantage of natural light for interior illumination. This meant I could easily see out of the bay window while the birds couldn't discern my threatening outline inside the house. I managed to kill another 3 birds before the rest of the group became alarmed and took flight. Mom was pleased with the solution, as was dad, and apparently killing a handful of the birds was enough to scare away the flock for a few days. Dad showed me how to clean my kills, and mom would cook them up, which gave us the double thrill of feasting on our enemies' remains. I would freak out the occasional friend who visited after school hours and hung around for dinner when we were serving that day's kills.

The rest of my high school years would see me return from classes to check on the status of the bamboo stand and, if populated, a brief but productive target session would ensue before I headed back out to play. I averaged about $50/week which meant I really didn't need to find any sort of part time job during my high school years, although I did end up working the ginacas and later driving the trucks for the local pineapple plant for my junior and senior years prior to leaving my home island for college in a neighboring county.
(, Thu 29 Dec 2011, 4:42, Reply)
A lot of people who've posted this week
seem to have two of the characteristics of serial killers.

Lying and bed-wetting.
(, Thu 29 Dec 2011, 2:44, 2 replies)
Fed a kitten to my pet python
And put the video online. Can't believe how upset everyone got!
(, Wed 28 Dec 2011, 21:43, Reply)
A chicken
with an AK47 from about 15m with an exploding bullet.

It was a mess.
(, Wed 28 Dec 2011, 21:24, Reply)
Coincidentally - shortly after posting the suggestion.
A cute little rat - that had been eating my food.
Pic in reply.
(, Wed 28 Dec 2011, 21:02, 6 replies)
Am it thurzday tiem yet?

(, Wed 28 Dec 2011, 20:10, 3 replies)
Prescient Pied Piper pisses off particularly pulchritudinous person
It seems far, far too long ago that I worked with a fair and comely maiden and an assortment of shambling apemen who delighted in terrifying this poor lass at every opportunity.
She was a real cutie and in the summers liked to wear the sort of shorts that would have had Daisy Duke returning them as too tight and undersized. Not that anyone complained, it was a pleasant distraction to catch her bending to pick something up and she brightened many a dull day with her wiggle and saucy grin. All harmless fun and mild flirting which spiced up working life. In another age we'd have probably guzzled some cider and had a good old fumble in the haycart but it was the 1980s and she was probably saving herself for George Michael.

It was noted by one Derek, who bore more than a passing resemblance to a stubbly Anne Widdecome (perhaps that should be a MORE stubbly Anne Widecome?), that it was the time of year that rats were oft to be seen frequenting the inside of our pig barns and that a plague of them was surely to fall upon us any day soon.
Now this, you must understand, is the sort of wisdom accompanied by a knowing wink and usually imparted by curiously assembled yokels, or ludicrous old wives's tales to the rest of us, and therefore to be immediately scoffed at.
"Oh fuck off Derek, you twat, there's not really plagues of rats, just a few extra now and then" we yelled at him; "we" being the lovely gal and myself. The other closely related oafs agreed with Derek of course.
Nothing more was said and the matter forgotten until about a week later when the office door burst open and a weeping, shaking girl declared "RATS! thousands of rats!"
Taking this opportunity to stifle a small condescending chuckle I consoled her with words of bravado and marched off to take a look at the 3 or 4 rats I expect to encounter.
Wrenching the sliding door aside I stepped in and immediately 2 steps back as hundreds of beady eyes stared back from everywhere; and I do mean everywhere. On the beams above my head rats were tripping over each other there were so many, the floor was alive with them, they crawled and scurried in the pig pens, over the pig themselves, up the walls and in the feed bags. It wasn't nice at all and to be honest I had to stifle a scream myself, there were simply TOO MANY and as I backed slowly away there was a noise behind me.
At this point the young lady had returned to this horror movie scene armed with a fairly useless looking garden fork and followed closely behind wearing his big smug gurning grin, Derek.
And then Derek did something that surprised us again. He pushed her inside, switched off the lights from the outside and held the door shut. The scratches on that door were not caused by the farm dog accidentally locked in again, but my myself and this poor young woman as we tried to batter it down.
Once it was open the chase was on and Derek ran, shuffling, giggling and stumbling through the yard with the avenging fork of death close behind.

I'd like to say I returned to wreak bloody death on the horde with a blunt instument but in truth the only thing that died on that day was my dreams of getting up close and personal with her in any dark space after that. She'd heard me scream like a girl and was now terrified of rodent infested shadowy buildings herself.

You bastard Derek, I wish she'd turned you into a colander.

/edit/ Oh, and the rats? They moved on. 2 days later there wasn't one to be seen. I don't know where or why but I was very glad.
(, Wed 28 Dec 2011, 18:19, 6 replies)
Zombie Freezer
Some years ago my Grans chest freezer died.

Being naturaly lazy people, and not owning a vehical with the capacity for the white behomoth, we decided to give the thing a buriel at sea.

We towed it a mile or so out and cast it adrift.

A day later it was back, caught in our own salmon nets.

Learing from our stupidity we towed it out about a mile agian, then turned left for a bit. This time it was caught in the nets of a guy from the next village along the coast.

He did a bit better than us, coz it was another three days before it was back in our nets.
(, Wed 28 Dec 2011, 17:52, Reply)
When I was 11, I got a hamster
He was an awesome hamster, tame almost as soon as I got him, never minded being handled.

He got old too, nearly three years, in fact. Eventually, however, his health started to decline. He lost weight and could barely walk. I knew it would be fairest for him to take him to the vet and to get him put down.

Ringing the local vet, they quoted £100 to do it. Being 13 at the time, I didn't have that, so I asked my parents for it and I'd pay them back by doing extra chores and not receiving pocket money. They refused.

He continued to deteriorate over the next week or so, but he clung on, even though he ate almost nothing and barely drunk any water.

I couldn't bare to see him in this state any more, so I picked him up, stroked him for a bit, and then with one swift twist, snapped his neck. Needless to say, it was a harrowing experience.

Still better than a hamster my mother had a few years later, who had cancer. She didn't even contemplate seeing the vet. She just crushed paracetamol into the poor thing's water bottle and left it out in the shed so that she wouldn't have to deal with it dying.
(, Wed 28 Dec 2011, 17:24, Reply)
When I was a kid I used to spend most summers on my grandad's farm. My cousins would regularly go out with an air rifle and come back with a couple of rabbits for the pot. My father was determined to show that he was no city-type and could hunt like the rest. So he took me and the air rifle and we stepped out into the fields. There were hundreds of rabbits, but they all ran away before we could get within range. But my father was determined: we couldn't return empty-handed. So we kept at it. Eventually we saw a large, stupid looking rabbit, sitting up by a fence post. We crawled through the mud, getting closer to the rabbit, which had still not moved. Eventually we were close enough, if muddy, and my dad lined up the gun. He aimed, he shot, the rabbit fell over. Ecstatic we rushed over to claim our prize. Which was a large, rabbit-shaped clod of earth. We sloped home, dejected, and muddy.
(, Wed 28 Dec 2011, 11:20, 1 reply)

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