GUTTER CULT

Content warning: graphic violence!

Viscera stared in horror at the bloody thing in her hands. From her small intestine jutted a bony protrusion shaped like the grip of a gun. There was even a slimy trigger beneath it, replete with a guard. Rather than connecting to the rest of her lower intestines as expected, this flesh-rope seemed to terminate in a meaty beak— which opened to reveal the form of a bony barrel within. She gasped as she turned the thing over, and was greeted by an open hole that pulsated in tune with her rising heartbeat. A sickening red light emanated from within it, as if her blood itself was glowing. A glowing red liquid oozed out of the hole, she couldn't stop herself from prodding it with a finger. It burned to the touch.
The voices behind her grew louder, accompanied by heavy footsteps. "Follow the blood— this way!"
She had no weapons, though the thing in her hand did look a lot like the twisted imitation of a pistol. What if the thing actually worked? With little choice, Viscera grabbed the grip of the gutgun and turned to face the corner her pursuers were about to appear behind. Weakened as she was, years of training and practice kept her steady.
"There! There she—" The hooded figure's cries were cut short by a bright, red light with a streak of white at its center. He screamed as the projectile burned through him in an instant, first through his hooded jumpsuit— singing the white cloth around the hole black— then through his skin— which bubbled and blistered around the site of impact— through his heart— which melted away like plastic— and finally out through his back.
Viscera couldn't help but grin. The gutgun worked, after all— a gift indeed.
Another voice cried out from behind the corner. "Brother Setre betrayed us! She's been touched by the godling! Shoot on sight!"
The use of that word— brother— combined with the uniform on the body before her, made the situation clear to Viscera. Her torturer had donned a different uniform, one she hadn't recognized. But now she knew who she was dealing with— she had been kidnapped and tortured by a cult, the Gutters. It was a rather violent name for a group that tried very hard to appear harmless. The grinning models in their ads always had too-perfect teeth that were as white as the sleek, hooded jumpsuits they wore. What was it they said?
"In God's gut, awaits a glut..." One chanted, stepping out from behind the corner— rifle ready. "...a glut of pain!"
Viscera was certain that the mantra went a little differently in the ads.