They called him the Flesh Farmer, though his name was Karloth Kurtz. Few people in the back alleys of London knew or even cared to know his true name. All they needed to know was that he payed very well for fresh flesh and that he was to be feared.
Urchins and work-house rats and runaways were fair game, nobody would miss them when they disappeared. They’d find their way onto Karloth’s damp and dreary operating table. None walked away without some wild and drastic change. Some never walked away at all.
When the stitches healed and the scars paled Kurtz would unveil them at his gala'ball’ - really just a sick parody of the glamorous parties held by the city’s elite. Only the most perverse or monstrous individuals were invited to the ball where they were allowed to bid for the twisted mockeries of humanity that Karloth paraded before them.
***
If this isn’t your thing then you probably should look away now. :p
I hope we all remember the good doctor from ages ago. I’ve been wanting to invest in a slight return to some of my older, darker stuff. And he seemed like a good way to do that. This is definitely darker than recent imagery.




