Would we ever grow used to the visuals of the broken down and abandoned warehouse that served as where the Metal maniacs called home? The grimy and broken windows. The exterior pipes were worn with rust. Bricks that were chipped or missing altogether. The thought that someone not only purchased this abandoned wreck, but also called it home was completely foreign from logic. But where the Metal Maniacs were concerned, logic was not … well, logical.
The interior was not much better for the eyes to behold. Cobwebs and dust dominated corners and flat surfaces. The wide space was lit by strings of mismatched bulbs that Anthrax had hung up in careful arches. An old TV set that seemingly was under threat of being repossessed by the 1980s. A second hand and threadbare couch with a blanket draped over it. A kettle on a hot plate. A pile of neatly folded clothes on a folding table. And beyond that was Twisted Sister’s workbench.
Her workbench wasn’t just messy. It was a disaster of epic proportions.
Multiple tubes of industrial strength super glue were laid out, along with spools of red thread stacked beside fishing hooks and a glass jar of buttons of every size and color. A staple gun sat hazardly at the edge of the table. A small, handheld blowtorch rested on a scorched baking tray. There were scissors in three sizes, pliers and a tray of LEGO pieces sorted with great devotion.
Twisted Sister sat in the middle of it all, perched on a stool like a crow. A doll laid on the bench in front of her, its blond hair matted and singed at the ends, one arm missing entirely.
Twisted Sister: Oh, you poor thing. They left you unfinished!
She had reached for the super glue first, uncapping it with her teeth. She didn’t repair the doll the way a normal person would. She didn’t restore it to what it had been. She recreated it. Where the arm should’ve been, she had set a LEGO hinge joint, bright and wrong and perfect, then reinforced it with glue. She had held it steady, humming under her breath, a tune that had no melody.
When the joint held, she smiled, sudden and proud, and reached for the staple gun. She stapled a strip of black lace along the doll’s torso like a corset. She stapled a ribbon across the back of its head as if pinning on a veil. She had pinned and pressed until the doll looked less like a toy and more like a victim of the SAW franchise.
Across the room, Anthrax sat at a long “table” crafted from two pallets and a door ripped from somewhere else. A laptop sat open with Etsy already logged in. He moved with the unhurried patience of someone who never needed to rush because everything always ended up where he wanted it.
He had glanced over at Twisted Sister’s bench as the staple gun snapped again.
Anthrax: Is that the one with the missing eye?
Twisted’s head had tipped, hair falling over her face but she didn’t bother to fix it as she worked.
Twisted Sister: No. This is the one that pretends it can see.
She had plucked a plastic eye from a little dish, wrong-sized, then pressed it into the doll’s face not where the eye belonged, but slightly too high. She glued it there, held it until it set, then leaned back and admired her work.
Twisted Sister: Better!
Anthrax had watched for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he turned back to his table, picking up a finished doll from a foam cradle.
This one had a cracked porcelain face that had been repaired with gold seams that didn’t follow the original fracture lines. Twisted had made extra cracks, branching like lightning. Its mouth had been altered into a stitched grin. One hand was a clawed hand from some monster action figure.
Anthrax held it up and took a photo of the doll sitting upright, head tilted.
Twisted Sister, meanwhile, moved on to the blowtorch.
A thin flame kissed the edge of synthetic hair, shrinking it into charred curls. She warmed a section of plastic just enough to warp it, creating a subtle melt along the doll’s shoulder, like a scar that had healed wrong.
Anthrax didn’t comment. He simply opened a listing and began to type…
Title: Salvaged Adoption Doll
Category: Art Dollies / Horror Cute
Twisted Sister heard the keyboard and spoke without looking up.
Twisted Sister: No ‘horror!’
Anthrax paused, fingers hovering and then he hit delete-delete-delete….
Anthrax: No ‘horror.’
Twisted Sister: They’re not monsters. They’re survivors.
Anthrax’s mouth twitched into a smile and he giggled audibly. He then typed…
Tags: reclaimed, stitched, surreal, mixed media, adoption, collector art
Twisted Sister set the torch down and reached for a doll head on a stand. This one had no body yet, just a face. She stared at it for a long time, like she was waiting for it to confess something.
Then she had squeezed super glue around the rim and pressed on a crown of LEGO pieces, tiny bricks arranged in a jagged halo. She then pulled out a pack of tiny metal rings, hardware-store junk meant for keychains, and threaded them through the doll’s ears, through the scalp, through the plastic, puncturing and decorating in the same motion. When she tugged the ring closed, the head jerked slightly on its stand, as if it had tried to pull away and failed.
At the photo table, Anthrax finished the listing copy…
Description:
This doll has been IMPROVED, not restored. Visible seams are intentional.
She is delicate, brave, and one-of-one.
Adoption is only for good, loving homes.
If you’re unkind, she will know.
He had added their usual adoption clause, Twisted Sister insisting on it.
By purchasing, you agree:
Display respectfully.
Do not fix her further.
Do not separate her parts.
Give her a name if she asks.
Anthrax hit Save and set the doll gently aside, ready to ship when adopted.
Twisted had finished the one she had been working on and held it up for Anthrax to see.
Twisted Sister: Look! This one is safe now.
Anthrax crossed the space between them, quiet as a shadow. looked at the doll and smiled in appreciation.
Anthrax: It’s beautiful.
Twisted Sister: Only good homes. They have to be loved.
Anthrax had reached up and adjusted a loose thread on the doll’s collar and he nodded.
Anthrax: Only good homes.
He had taken the doll from her hands without rushing, carrying it to his table display and lifted the camera. Twisted Sister watched from her bench, fingers stained with glue, eyes bright with feverish devotion. Behind her, dozens of dolls sat on shelves and crates, all of them transformed into something that shouldn’t exist in a normal house.
And Twisted Sister whispered to the next broken dolly on her bench.
Twisted Sister: Don’t worry. We’ll make you right.
And she quietly went back to work.
The camera found Twisted Sister at her workbench, still busying herself in the devoted action of dolly adoption. She held up what was actually an old-fashioned “Betsy Wetsy” doll from decades ago, but had no idea what it actually was. To Twisted Sister, it was simply another broken little thing that needed her own brand of tender, loving care.
Twisted Sister: Shhh. It’s okay. You’re safe now. I found you. I can fix you. I can make you pretty.
Her fingers began their work in that unholy rhythm. She peeled off what didn’t suit her, she snipped a seam, she pulled fishing wire through plastic like she was sewing up a wound that never closed. She dabbed super glue and pressed in a button where something was missing, then held it there.
Twisted Sister: Amelia Reynolds. Sweet Amelia. You walk around with that pretty face and those neat little manners, and you think the world is going to treat you gently if you just keep smiling the right way. You think if you keep your hair tidy and your posture perfect, nobody will ever grab you by the wrist and find out what you’re made of inside.
Twisted Sister leaned closer to the doll again, speaking to it and to the camera at the same time.
Twisted Sister: You remind me of this. Something people pick up when they’re bored. Something people put down when they’re done. Something that looks so sweet on the shelf that nobody thinks about what happens when the lights go off and the house gets quiet. Amelia is like a living doll to play with, and I know all about dolls. I know them better than anyone, because dolls don’t lie. They just stare and stare until you finally admit what you are.
She flipped the doll over, still working while she talked. Her hands reached for the blowtorch, and she clicked it on with a little spark and the flame danced near a strand of synthetic hair, just enough to curl it into something deliberately wrong. She nodded approvingly as if she had corrected a mistake the universe made.
Twisted Sister: I’m going to do the same for you. I’m going to make you pretty. I’m going to fix the little parts that don’t sit right, the little pieces of yourself that you try to hide. I help my dollies. I take the ones everyone else throws away and I make them special. I make them unforgettable. I make them iconic.
Her eyes widened and she set the blowtorch down and picked up the staple gun. The metal clicked once, twice, her finger testing the trigger.
Twisted Sister: You step into my playground and you become mine to improve. You become mine to hold still. You become mine to play with until I decide you’re done.
She lifted the doll at last, presenting it proudly to the camera like a finished masterpiece. It had been altered in all the ways that made your skin crawl if you looked too long, one button eye mismatched, hair scorched into a curled fringe, stitches where stitches did not belong. Twisted Sister beamed, thrilled with herself, and squeezed the doll’s belly again.
The doll responded by peeing.
A stream ran down Twisted Sister’s hand, down her wrist, and it didn’t stop fast enough to be funny. For one frozen beat, she just stared at it like her brain had turned off, like the universe had slapped her. Her mouth fell open, her eyes went huge, and the sound she made next was not laughter and not words.
Twisted Sister: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
It was a blood curdling scream that ripped out of her like something tearing free, and she flung the doll away as if it had betrayed her, jerking back from her own arm like it was on fire while the camera cut on the sound of her screaming into the dark.
