Pulp Fiction Gimp Mask Novels & Stories

Next to the door stood an old vanity with a light bulb framed mirror. The top of the vanity was covered with containers of grease paint, cotton balls, sponges and brushes, and some plastic jars of pinkish goo labeled mortician’s wax. Tucked into the mirror frame were a handful of square Polaroid pictures. All of them were James from the shoulders up and each in some variation of theatrical makeup. In one, his full face was painted to look like a grinning skull. One had him completely covered in rotting bandages with moldering flesh poking through. In another he was covered in blood and looked like his throat had been slit from ear to ear. They were all pretty convincing.

He followed my lead as we headed to the balcony. “The photos,” I demanded as soon as we were alone. He pulled it out and handed it to me. The first one had Violet in his aggressive grip. I shut my eyes, unwillingly to imagine the pain the little girl must have gone through. Taking in controlled breaths, I opened my eyes and focused on the masked me. My fingers zoomed in and out. It was hard to pick their faces. “I can't recognize any of them.” “As expected.” He walked closer. “I've sent the photos to an artist. He's an expert in his field.” He informed me. “I'm sure he'd make out a face.”

Even if they saw the resemblance— The eye color would throw them off. It's not like I can just wake up and change eye color. It doesn’t work like that. And then— “And let's not forget the mask,” Melina added. I nodded slowly. “…Yeah.” That too. Between the mask and the eyes— I had a shield. A strong one. I let out a long breath. One I didn’t even realize I had been holding. “Thank you, Mel…” My voice softened. “I feel… better.” She smiled slightly.

A canvas inviting projection, begging to be filled with someone else's interpretation. "He won't be giving me a mask." I bit my thumb. Pain sharp. Familiar. Almost welcome. Blood welled - darker than it should be, threaded with violet. The shade of something changed too deeply to ever be purely human again. I let it fall. The blood didn't smear. It was absorbed.

He used to say my bob haircut hurt his eyes, that I walked around all day with a blank expression and a sickly yellow face, like something not quite human. The insecurity that haunted me for years had his name written all over it. Now, looking at him again, he had slicked-back hair, a bloated face, and a protruding beer belly that even his oversized suit couldn't hide. Years had passed, but he was just as unpleasant as ever. "Fine," I said. "Anyone who'd rather not hear old stories is welcome to leave. Just tell the front desk my name, and they'll set you up with a complimentary bottle of premium red wine on me. Consider it my apology."

Then came the visuals. Frame by frame. I slowed it down, watching closely as I removed the overlay that carried my face. It resisted at first. Of course it did. Whoever did this wasn’t sloppy. They knew how to blend. But nothing is perfect. Not when you look this close. The edges started to crack. The lighting shifted slightly. The shadows didn’t align. And then… The mask broke. Just like that. My face disappeared from the frame. Replaced by someone else. I froze for half a second, my eyes locking onto the screen as the real image came into full view.

“Some people just don’t know how good they have it. Don’t pay him any mind!” Astel took the opportunity to wrap his arms around Ilma’s waist. “Then, you’d better make it up to me.” “Okay, okay. I’ll make it up to you!” As they spoke, their eyes began to grow dreamy. They completely ignored my presence. I cleared my throat. Only then did the two of them stop. Ilma said impatiently, “Gareth, what’s the meaning of this? It’s just a gas mask, isn’t it? Do you have to lie about saving someone on Mounscour Hill? You’ll stop at nothing to make things difficult for Astel!”

I say, and my thumb presses harder and my fingers curl deeper and she cums for the third time while I watch her face in the reflection of the bookshelf glass. I withdraw my fingers and reach for my handkerchief and wipe my hand before folding the fabric along its original creases and return it to my pocket. My glasses also come off and return to the side table, and the mask reinstates with the efficiency of a system that has been rebooted thousands of times and will reboot thousands more. “Fix your clothes.”

This wedding's just a game to cheer me up. I quickly replied. [Oh yeah? Bet one call from me, and he'll ditch you to beg for my forgiveness.] The phone went silent. Hook, line, and sinker. I pocketed the phone and faced the quiet groom. He was fidgeting. "I... I..." I gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. "Elias, relax." He sighed in relief. "You knew all along." After a quiet moment, he looked like he had made a big decision and took a deep breath.

While Marcus and Pamela continued discussing the legal paperwork, I returned my attention to the surveillance footage I'd managed to save. I replayed the parking garage recording frame by frame. The black van. The driver. The man in the hoodie. Then... I paused the video. "Wait." Marcus immediately leaned closer. "What?" I zoomed in on the masked man standing beside the van. His face was hidden. But not completely. The mask itself caught my attention. It wasn't an ordinary disguise. Dark wood. Hand-painted details. Long curved horns. Traditional craftsmanship. I enlarged the image again. Then again.