Creepy - Starving Dogs

Episode Date: January 8, 2018

What makes us behave the way we do? It's a question that goes back a long way, one that has been pondered over, philosophized about, and more. It's the "more" part where things get interesting...where things get...dark...***Get even more content by becoming a donor at patreon.com/creepypod***Presented by Pulp-pourri Theatre Podcast (https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/pulp-pourri-theatre-audio-drama/id1122370231?mt=2)***Credited to CrashingCymbal***Sound design by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Hey everyone. Before we get to this week's episode, I just want to say a few quick things. First, the amount of support that's come in since switching the Bad Days episodes over the Patreon feed has been amazing. We still have a long way to go, but we're getting that much closer to making creepy a full-time job, and making productions that much bigger. Everyone who's donating $5 or more per month is getting no less than three additional stories per week. This last week alone, Patreon donor's got more than an hour of additional content. And that's just last week. I have a lot more planned.

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Whether these stories truly happened or our simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Starving Dogs Credited to Crashing Symbol Sunday If there is one thing I have grown to greatly appreciate over the last few months, it is my wife's irrational thought

that all psychologists keep their work life absolutely alienated away from their private life. Emily never was one to question my motives and methods. And when it came to matters that I felt uncomfortable about her snooping around in, keeping her distance from unknown territory was a coded command you could always rely on her to be obedient about, much to my pleasure rather than hers. Regarding this, I could tell that Emily's unanswered, curious mind had always wondered what occurred within the small block of these four office walls. After all, I can't really blame her.

Every speckle of dust, every faded and recent coffee ring, every slam of the cabinet drawers and every rattle of organizing stacks of paper into a neat non-overflowing bundle against the desk had its own story. Didn't it? After all, you can't really pin this on the cat. He was only responding to his natural territorial instinct. Probably the last thing I felt when I got the call this morning was surprise. I can still clearly visualize the anxiety elapsing Mr. Krakowski's face

the moment he received the call from his doctor's office, nearly four years ago. And the only thing that honestly surprised me was how he hadn't bitten the dust any time sooner. I would sooner pop myself than to know I would have to live four malcontent years with the diagnostics of lung cancer. On the contrary, though, strong-willed Chucky eased through the enfeebling cancer world wind and simply continued to go about his everyday responsibilities with an odd kind of masked effortlessness, despite the fact that it shredded him from the inside out like an arduous, bone-shattering burden

that he tried so resiliently to disguise. He was an excellent employer and a level-headed boss, well, by our terms he was. Had this expected death come one week earlier, it would have crafted the perfect alibi for me. I genuinely hope that Emily and the kids enjoy Florence for the few days, and I only regret that I can't warn them not to take the Italian experience for granted without a rousing suspicion from my already bugging wife.

There are still plenty of fights you can book now. We have the money paid for another seat. The kids and I both want you here. These are among some of the several NAGs that were aimed at me during the last few weeks and as much as I would love to be with my family, Ficey have instructed and honored me to carry out their latest ideology

in what is expected to be their most controversial yet groundbreaking experiment to date. isolation, survival, poverty, imprisonment, dehumanization. They all link into what is expected to flourish into this ruthless starving dogs experiment. Despondency will be key. Monday. What would the Homo sapient species be like today if the virtue of humanity had never existed, or developed, if at all, later than expected?

it. This invigorating thought has frequently labeled my mind since I was about 16 years of age, and it was all I could preciously be concerned about as I smiled, waved, and gave false words of reassurance to my credulous family as they exited the house for their flight the final time at 5 o'clock this morning. I thought about how this holiday has no meaning to human survival, no benefit to our nature, and simply serves to satisfy the recreational need of the human mind developed by humanity. When you put a lot of thought into it within a short space of time, it's actually scary to think of the amount of services humanity partakes in, not just these days, but in the past also,

for the sake of the virtue itself. A prime example of this, I believe, is religion. I've always seen religion as a value that is never entirely accomplished or satisfied. It seems to me that no belief can have too many members, or even too many missions to serve, of whoever or whatever their followers are serving, or even those who guide their followers for either good intention or power over people. Whatever the reason. The result?

Either you grow into the world's largest religion of over two billion, both active and inactive members, or all of your members are either killed or arrested at harrowing scenes. in Waco, Texas. People who strictly follow these organized face are really only doing so for one reason. Self-fulfillment. To one day go to heaven, yanna, to be reincarnated, etc. The more I think about it,

I can truthfully say that I cannot think of any other logical benefit of their system other than to fulfill one's humanity virtue. Going to church every Sunday for an hour. fasting for the day for, what is it, two weeks, a month maybe? I can't remember the exact guidelines of Ramadan. Irrelevant anyway, because the commitment's very in extremity, but I believe the principle behind it is all still relatively akin. I'm keeping this diary specifically separate from the rest of my entries for a very good reason.

I keep this diary to express my thoughts and judgments during a vital week of my life when my humanity will be the most strained beyond its usual limits. And for some reason, all I can think about is if the contractor is dropping by tomorrow. Maybe it's Wednesday. I'll have to call about that later. Maybe it plagues my head because I'm just too fond of the sitting room I have right now. The mantelpiece. The blue leather soap on its two stocky armchair companions.

the looming glass cabinet of fancy knickknacks, family heirlooms, and personal memorabilia. Memories For whatever time I step in there for the next, whatever amount of hours until the contractor comes, whooshing images of baby steps, scraped knees in tears, romantic movies with wine, chocolate, flickering television light, dark room, and rainy days with unfinished. Monopoly games are going to flash by me, and all I can't help but do is half willingly accept it. New memories. Old memories replaced with the former of results, discoveries, and observations, day and night surveillance from my office as they hopefully, slowly,

settle into their new habitat. At first, humanity will take full throttle and there will be confusion, angst and suffering. That will either wither and die as nature should rear its monstrously ugly, yet beautifully ambitious head, and create the scenarios that I will be scribbling notes on

and reporting back to Ficey. I wonder when the contractor is coming. We both have a lot, of work to do. Tuesday. Make a wish, is what my mother would say to me when I was just a six-year-old boy gathering fluffy dandelions and attempting to blow all the seeds off them in one striking go. 24 years on and looking back at those seeds forcefully fleeing in opposite direction of their home,

all I'm reminded of is someone holding a 12-gauge shotgun in their mouth and blowing their brains out. Their head dissolving into little mushy pink and red pieces, not flying, but drifting quickly towards the wall and ceiling. I'm not paranoid enough to own a gun at the moment, but maybe as time goes by, paranoia will seemingly convert into jittery common sense and I'll submit to a hesitant deceivment. The contractor came today and removed everything.

It was noisy at times, but it was nice to have some background music because I was starting to become uncomfortable with my new solitude, like an unwanted hive that you just can't scratch enough. The pieces of the now plural organ would make a wonderful artistic design for a horribly eerie empty room.

The revolting presence would go hand in hand and at least then there would be some sort of scenery to accompany your misery. The brain splatter design and a suicide bullet, share the same value right now. Solution. The steel doors are going to be installed tomorrow, and then the walls are going to be painted a blount white.

The old man next door gave me a concerned look when I saw him today. He adjusted a nice little smile on his face while he was watering his plants in that flowery hat, but he had an engraved a look of apprehension beneath his cracked rosy red cheeks. Maybe he can read me. Or maybe it's the less than average sleep I've been getting lately becoming evident throughout my wary self. Maybe I should get acting lessons from the lovable old man next door. The Stanford Prison Experiment is something I have been fascinated by for a very long time. At its very basic core,

24 male students taken under guard and misshaped by psychological torture and abuse. It went horribly wrong, of course. and even after just six days the officers involved wanted more. They had power. They had control. They were the ones given the rights to take rough protocol that they deemed necessary by Mr. Zimbardo himself. My upcoming experiment is too similar to that of the 1971 prison experiment.

There may be only one difference, but because I can report my findings to a secret organization who keep their darkest secrets locked and secured filing cabinets, rather than the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps, it's pretty fucking significant. I'm the lead professor behind all this, and I am open to the exceptionally likely possibility that I will be mutilated into one of those power-hungry prison guard examples,

just like a sunset that drains the collar out of buildings and trees in a distant horizon, locked in a room, huddled, scared, basic rations and no means of recreation, meaning, or goal to feed their draining and starving civilization. Emily will be worse affected, no doubt. Michael and Sandra, on the other hand, I'm not so sure. They might be too young to realize a confusion that society places on such an act. Walked in a room, huddled, scared, basic rations, and no means of recreation.

meaning or goal to feed their draining and serving civilization, like male rabbits in a hut. They're from birth, feeding through a drip. I dictate the period in which I wish to observe them. I am their owner. They were family to me once, but now all they are to me are white mice on running wheels in a large black-railed cage on blue plastic.

Wednesday, there are a recent, rotting rodent remains in the raw room downstairs, and I am rereading the last line of my previous century. I paid over 10 grand for all the new installations, and I hate it. They are horribly calm and overwhelming, dazzlingly quiet and eerily too peaceful. Perfect. It's everything I require for my work to go ahead. I have given myself the all-clear. Unfortunately, as soon as I saw that I had diminished a section of my house to absolutely nothing, I panicked and ran back upstairs, little beats of sweat trickling down from my

forehead, whilst I swallowed the quickly recurring lump haunting my throat. I have no idea why, but I just can't stand it. that there was a thing in my house that contained less content than a plastic bag floating in the wind other than for that brief moment that I had experienced it. It was horrifying, white with red. It's such a malignant combination. Like when a rougher slips off the top of a 60-degree angle roof and smacks his temple off the sharp corner of a gray concrete wall.

Red flows out a large gashing wound, and his head drains to white quicker than an endangered chameleon. I sat up in my room quivering from the room's presence, and all I could recollect was the image of the exploding, bloody dandelion. Imagining the brain matter slowly seeping down the white wall, with pieces sooner or later,

trickling to the floor, making a chunky, splattering, sound. While my mind generated this thought, in that moment, all I could think was how ventilating those squishy sounds and vivacious colors were. Suicide was simply not an option. As much as I'm contemplating it at the moment, those nuts at Ficey will do God knows what to my family if I don't carry out their orders. That's why I keep rereading that last line for my previous entry. I fear that there are moments when I am turning into one of them. Those fucked up, rusty brain disregarding slabs of meat and slime that I worked for

and told myself I respected. Ziggy hadn't a chance. He crawled around in my hand so naively, sniffing and curious. At least his death was quick, vassal, fury overlapping me. I leaned back so quickly and threw him harder than a pitcher trying to strike out the batter. Ziggy lay in a heap on the ground. His body frozen and corrupted from the incident. His black beads for eyes staying so still and his little wiry whiskers flickering like the sound of an old projector.

Shortly after the film had concluded, twitching like sensitive eyes to an unexpected set of siren lights. I put him out of his misery the same way a careless smoker rubs their cigarette butt dry into the ground. Little helpless bones snapping and split under the force of my black boot and blood spurted out both sides like a condensed little ketchup packet from a cheap diner. Sandra's beloved hamster's siggy remained glossy, dead, and soaked in blood in the room below. the last feelings I want sender thinking of me are misunderstanding and confusion. Not that I'm a monster. Thursday, depending on whose perspective you were viewing it from.

Shaving this morning after a sleepless night was either an ill-informed decision or a controversial stroke of luck. I lay in bed all night, screaming to the impossible possibility that my sanity is crippled and common sense is shattered into tens of sharp piercing little pieces. If Krakowski could only see me fall apart like this, he would pick up one of those pieces and slowly steer it into the side of my forehead, like a steady twisting screwdriver. Speaking of injuries anyway, my shaking hands slipped during my shave today, scraping through the delicate skin between my jaw and throat. Red bloody blobs dotted on my white shirt and white collar. It's staying at first, and it came as a shock to me as I am usually cautious going through this regular routine. It was a pretty deep cut, but it was distracting me from the inner anguish that floated freely around inside my head like carousel horses. Those dribbles of blood sliding my neck wiltz, I shut my eyes and allowed my dizzy eyes to drift happily in circles around my head.

It was like easing into a batch of morphine. and release itself was arousing me. At first I was a little uncomfortable. But if this is what humanity has created for me, then so be it. Even writing about it now, I am gleefully establishing the experience and forgetting all about this shit. I will encounter in a few days. I received two expected packages from Ficey in the post today. One box contained Bluetooth-operated CCTV.

cameras and USB devices for security and monitoring for both outside and the white room. Well, the other contained needles in a large, bubbly, like plastic package, which contained a chemical that you could tell was hazardous just on the basis that it was clearer than water and as temperately lukewarm as healthy flesh. The setup was pretty standard, and aside from the odd flicker or flash of line every few minutes or so, the quality of the camera has exceeded my expectations. As effective as they are, though, video quality has minuscule wealth to me at the moment. The thought that these CCTV footage is will be on all day and night for the next few

years is honestly goddamn terrifying to me. An age where technology's influence is exceeding too rapidly and nobody seems to care generates huge concern for me. The machines are one day. going to see more than we can and can already observe events at times when we cannot. Maybe staying up the whole night was a good idea. What if Faisi had me wired right now and I'm just vulnerably allowed everything they sent me into my house? What if they're testing me? To see if I'll comply with their demands and slavishly carry out their dirty work. If my family are going to die,

they're not going to die by the hands of Ficey. But I'm still left in a tough situation. If I don't do it, I die, and I don't know what even more horrible act they will carry out of my family. If I do, I survive, but fuck knows what happens to them if they're going to be locked up for three fucking years. All I can hope is that they will carry on through this ordeal, and they will never have to see me ever again. I can live isolated away somewhere where I am no threat. to society. Or maybe I could just travel over to Ficey headquarters. And blow all their fucking evil heads off.

I punched a hole in my wall with tears in my eyes. I told myself only two days ago that I would never own a gun. Getting stressed again. Dark hail clouds shrouds shrouded my thoughts and I'm getting stressed again. The bandage patch on my neck is getting itchy and I'm getting stressed again. Mirror at my sleepless face again. The crusty healing wound was speckled with blood like dust and I was getting stressed again. I think I'll just take one more slice at it.

Good thing those needles are right on my bedside locker. I think I'll do our much blood on the floor. But I can't call an ambulance because maybe I'm paranoid now. Should I get that gun sometime? I think I would regret for everything. Friday. There's a giant scar on my jaw and several little scars on my upper left arm from when I got carried away last night. This is the first entry that I've written during the daytime and judging from the brightness outside for this time of year.

I would say it's around 1,500. Check the clock downstairs. 1521. I literally just awoke 20 minutes ago and I feel really dizzy. I passed out after a strenuous period of heavy blood loss. It's a good thing that I fainted when I did or else there was an untenable chance that I would have traveled further south on the great scraping stress train. How would I explain the scars to my wife? I guess I'll have to make up some more rational excuse for the gaping crack on my jaw and hide the little reminders under a thick jumper.

Actually, memory refreshed. I still have to clean up Ziggy's remains. The blood had dried onto the wall and it took strained elbow grease, which was in limited supply thanks to my little episode last night to remove it. Then I mopped and scrubbed the floor and threw Ziggy into the bin. I thought I would be more mentally affected by the action I had carried out on Wednesday. But honestly, I feel like I'm immune to dastardly performances at this stage. It was times like these that I wish I had kept in touch with Tim a lot more. the one person back in my youth days who actually cared for the interests I ranted on about,

who listened and showed interest for the experiments in psychology theories I had idolized when I was in my early 20s. During my secondary school days, I'd stood up for him a lot and really helped him fit into social groups. He never would have had a chance to become comfortable in if it weren't for my guidance. And if it weren't for my assistance. Now I really needed him, but he's way too busy with his current low-paying health and safety internship, in which you will rake in the financial benefits of greatly in a few years' time. I just can't help but feel that if I still had Tim to talk to in my life right now,

that this problem would have been solved a long, long, long time ago. But then again, Ficey have never really taken, know are an answer that much in the past, especially to someone who has shown as much loyalty as me towards them. Regardless, I want to be able to share this problem with him, but we haven't spoken in over a year and it's too late now. Rather than him just waltzing down here and saying a howdy-do to me, he would need to plan his journey and set a time when he was free and not working, I would feel like I'm intruding,

which has extremely obscure of me to say because he always had the time for me back in the day. I still remember to this day. That moment I came up to him in line for a vending machine and asked Tim, would you be willing to skip to the front of the queue right now if you knew there were only one Mars bar left? Had I asked that to anyone else, they most likely would have turned around to give me a horrendous look. Tim was different. He had a sort of restrained respect for everyone.

despite had they made him feel uncomfortable or uneasy. Respect, patience, and passiveness, or his most appreciated virtues and qualities that sometimes got annoying if you were around them for too long. But traits you miss if you hadn't experienced for a long while, although there is a 99.9% chance of it not happening, I wish that he would just come and rescue me from this ever-so-e daunting nightmare that I am in the middle of right now.

Like a whirlpool of black molten hot tar. A few days ago I had talked about how the development of humanity had some crazy, disturbing effects. You think about them for an extended period of time. In any case, however, my mind struggles to think of a disadvantage when it came to the life policies that my good old friend Tim had. He would die before letting anything happen to his family. The family gets back tonight.

I wonder how they'll react when they see the steel doors. Saturday. Screaming. Lots of screaming. Emily is going to shred her vocal cords if she doesn't give it a rest soon. The walls are soundproof though, so her valiant efforts are going sadly unrewarded. You would think that this hostile reaction would provoke me to let them out. But not really.

It's just kind of irritating, to be perfectly honest. The children are huddled up to her for support. They're frightened out of their wits, and Emily is really not helping. I'm muted the volume on the screen, so now it just looks like black and white footage of lost footage from an old abandoned laboratory or something like that. Anyway, this is the last time I will be writing in this diary, as the rest of my research will be going into separate books that I will. will be constantly submitting and updating to the Ficey Corporation. The research should contain nothing personal or biased and must be strictly fact-based. Every day, it is to be recorded on these tapes and special notes and hypotheses will be kept in a folder

labeled excerpt, starving dogs. At request, however, one of my fellow colleagues asked me to scribbled on one excerpt for her and keep it in the folder as part of my research. They want a very minimal study done on the captor himself, as they deem it unnecessary, for some odd reason. They see it as irrelevant. Anyway, I decided to rewrite this one on a separate piece of small paper and store it in the folder.

New memories. Bold memories were placed by the former of results, discoveries, and observations. Day and night surveillance from my office as I hopefully slowly settle into their new habitat. At first, humanity will take full throttle and there will be confusion, angst, and suffering. That way, the weather and dies nature should rear its monstrously ugly, yet beautifully ambitious head and create the scenarios that I will be scribbling notes on and reporting back to Ficey. As for this diary, it has a sentiment.

mental value to me now. I shall keep it locked up in the cabinet above. One day I may go back over it and read my thoughts on the week leading up to what could have been a very important breakthrough of my psychology career. Unorthodox? Most definitely. Ambitious. We shall wait and see.

He is still screaming. This diary was found on the upstairs floor. just beneath the suicide victim. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us at CreepyPod on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, or email us at CreepyPod at Gmail. All stories told on this podcast. can be found at creepypasta wikiya.com

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