Consumed- The Complete Works

by Kyle M. Scott

  He needed another drink, and quick.

  “Lisa...shake your fat ass to the fridge like it matters, woman. I need a drink, too.” The bloody woman was still making her way into the kitchen, like it was a goddam chore to get there or something.

  As he watched his wife waddle her way to what passed for their kitchen area, he rubbed his arm in irritation. His muscles rippled beneath his coarse fingers as he scratched at the dark scab, peeling its hard surface off like the skin of a rotten apple.

  The smell from the freshly open would was disgusting. A fetid blend of rotting meat and days-old plucked roses, sweet and bitter and eye wateringly potent for such a small wound.

  Butch wondered at the pain that pulsed from the small hole. He eyed the area surrounding the red, worried flesh and was surprised to find that the bruising had fanned outward in all directions - an encroaching storm cloud prepped to thwart the sunlight of his beautiful skin.

  He flexed his bicep, enjoying the solidity of his musculature and attempting to ignore the slow seeping pus that pulsed from the puncture mark where the needle had went in.

  All Butch's attention, and admiration, was on the rippling, solid muscle. He felt powerful, unstoppable. A man in all his masculine glory, made of granite and God. One part natural born badass and one part Holy Spirit.

  Not like those fucking queers on the box.

  Not like them at all.

  As frustrating as the pain in his arm was, Butch figured it was worth it.

  Years of working out constantly at the local gym hadn't amounted to a hill of shit for him. He was a big guy, sure, but no matter how hard he'd pushed and pushed himself, pumping iron like it would pay the bills, he could never reach the size he so desired.

  Since his early teens, when the local drive-in was still pulling in crowds and the jaw-dropping visions of Schwarzenegger and Stallone – all sweat and rippling abs and perfect, shining artillery – rampaged straight from the flickering screen and into his dreams, he'd sought that perfect body. That testament to manhood in all its majesty.

  He'd worked harder than he'd ever worked at anything in his life, to match those titans of the action movie's glory days.

  It had all been for naught.

  For fuck all and then some more fuck all.

  All those endless nights, sweating and grunting and pushing and pulling on levies and weights and gurneys. All those wasted Saturday mornings, missing out on his friends fishing trips to Birkett Lake, where the beer and weed flowed freely and the town’s local skirts were always up for a gangbang.

  He'd even missed a few Sunday sermons along the way, and that really twisted his melons.

  And the end result…?

  Fuck all.

  By his early thirties, he'd looked more like Steven Segal than Rambo. Still masculine, yeah, but hardly a golden god fit for fucking and fighting in his Midwestern Valhalla.

  All that had changed with that one little jag.

  That initial puncturing of the skin.

  Here and now, one year since his first injection, he was already a hundredfold the man he had been.

  And the money he'd made in return for his participation in the clinic's program hadn’t hurt either. A thousand bucks a pop, once a month, for the last twelve months. Not a bad payday for sitting on your ass, having some prick in a doctor’s frock jag you, watch you and take notes, while you sat back relaxing as your body grew perfect and your strength soared.

  Not a bad fucking pay day at all.

  Butch wiped away the milky fluid oozing from the needle mark, smiled to himself, and reluctantly returned his attention to matters far less attractive than his own formidable physique.

  His fat-fuck wife.

  Goddam bowling ball with vocal chords.

  Lisa was by the fridge now, opening its door with a grunt that sounded less feminine and more pig. She bent over, searching for his beer and treated Butch to a VIP view of her gargantuan ass.

  He felt his stomach turn, and wondered if the only reason he'd been able to bust a nut inside the ugly sow was directly related to the experimental steroids.

  Made sense.

  No way in hell could she make his nut bust without pharmaceutical enhancements.

  As though reading his mind, Lisa called over her shoulder. “I feel your eyes on me, Butch.”

  “You'll feel my fists on you if you don't make with my drink in the next five seconds, Lisa” he countered.

  She let out a barely audible sigh.

  He was used to this.

  She knew better than to question his authority or to protest his nature.

  She knew much better.

  He'd taught her time and again what happened to wives who disrespected their man.

  “Move it!” he yelled, the quiet pride at his own physical greatness snuffed out by poison disgust for the dough-skinned pregnant cum-dump he called a wife.

  And that bulge…

  How many kids was she carrying in there?

  Two?

  Three?

  A fucking football team?

  Fuck my life, he thought.

  Soon, though, all this shit would be a thing of the past. The shitty little trailer. The fat fuck of a wife. The cheap beers and the weak weed. Things to be bitterly reminisced over from his ivory tower.

  Butch had no doubt that with his new, enhanced figure, he'd make his way in the world with ease. He'd break down barriers like Godzilla tearing up Tokyo's asshole.

  Everyone would fear him.

  And with fear came the opportunity for profiteering.

  Extortion.

  Coercion.

  He flexed his enormous, rock hard bicep one more time for good measure, and allowed himself a brief respite from his disgust at his world and all that was in it, most importantly, that of his obese beau and his unborn shitting-machine.

  It was then that, like the crack of thunder on a clear blue day, Lisa let out a small scream of pain.

  Fucking hell, he thought, here we go again.

  Bitch can't even carry a child without moaning day in, day out.

  Lisa straightened herself up with what looked like a shit load of effort. In her hand she held his beer.

  About fucking time.

  “Cramps?” he asked her, not really caring for the answer.

  Lisa exhaled slowly, “It's kicking again.”

  She turned from the fridge towards Butch. All his attention was on the beer, not on the pain etched across her flushed, sweating face.

  “Just bring me my fucking drink, will ya?” he demanded.

  Lisa made way, ever so slowly, across the liquor-stained linoleum of the kitchen floor and onto the filthy carpet; her teeth clenched in pain as once again, the baby kicked.

  With a soft cry, she pitched forward, clutching her stomach. The beer slid from her sweating grasp and tumbled to the carpet between her tree-trunk legs and rolling a few times across the worn down rug before stopping.

  What the fuck!

  “You shook up my beer, Lisa. Fucking hell, woman!” he roared.

  He made to reach for the beer, but stopped when Lisa fell to her knees before him. The beer disappeared from view behind her as she let out another pained gasp.

  “Get out the fucking way!” Butch roared.

  She ignored him. Who the hell did she think she was?!

  “Butch, honey...something's wrong.”

  On that matter, he was in full agreement. A lot was fucking wrong.

  Butch swallowed his rage like a burning coal. He took in his wife's appearance. Her eyes were bugging from her head, making her look even less appealing than she usually did. Sweat rained from her forehead in sheets. She had turned a rapid shade of deathly grey and looked about fit to shit.

  Her tear-blurred eyes appealed to him for help.

  And somewhere, deep in the recesses of whatever quantified his soul, Butch found a small modicum of compassion. Of caring.

  Not for her, of course, but for his baby.

  'His' ba
by.

  He sighed, “Okay, come over here. Lemme take a look at you, for Jesus' sake.” - the contempt in his voice not concealed one little bit.

  “I can't get up. The baby's kicking real hard.”

  The tiny pinprick of emotion that had briefly colored the night sky of his heart flickered and died, just like that. All he wanted to do was get some peace and quiet and drink his damn beer without having to listen to her whining all morning long.

  It was looking less and less like a goal that could be achieved.

  “I said, get over here...”

  “Butch, I...”

  “GET THE FUCK OVER HERE!” he roared.

  Lisa's eyes crumpled under the duel weight of fear and hurt. And with a small, almost childlike whimper, she pulled herself to her feet.

  In the time it took her to be fully standing, he could have gotten the beer himself.

  She moved towards him on wobbling, unstable legs, the fat beneath her tent-size slacks jiggling like jelly. Butch squinted as she reached him in three lumbering steps and stood before him, swaying like an evergreen in the wind.

  A big, fat, disgusting evergreen, in need of cutting down.

  “Lemme have a look, for God's sake. I'm sick to death of listening to you...”

  His words caught in his throat as the front of Lisa's loose hanging shirt kicked up as if caught in a phantom gust of air.

  What the hell?

  “Lift that shirt up,” he said. “Lemme look at the young 'un.”

  She did as told.

  She always did as she was told.

  Her belly was a swollen mass of sweating, bulbous flesh. A testament to overeating, over drinking and good old fashioned laziness.

  “It's kicking real hard, Butch.” she grunted through gritted teeth.

  “So you said. Now lemme see a minute….”

  Butch raised his hand and pressed it, open-palmed, onto the swell of her stomach. It slid on the thick coating of sweat that seemed to ooze from her like oil from the earth. He paused, his hand as still as he could manage while she fought to control her breathing.

  The fuck was she complaining about?

  The baby kicked.

  Butch smiled.

  She had a point. That kid was one tough sumbitch. He'd felt the impact from the little fucker's movement right up into his wrist.

  Still, no reason for her to get her titties in a knot.

  He'd have to knock some sense into her. Have to teach her when to be quiet and when to be still. Show her the error of her...

  The baby nestled inside his wife kicked again.

  This time he felt his whole arm ring like a bell.

  Felt it in his goddam bones.

  “Jesus H Christ, Lisa! The little bastard’s got some grit!” he grinned as he pressed his open palm once more upon her mountainous gut, no longer concerned over her size, her sweat or even the impending doom that was his ever-encroaching sobriety.

  He'd forgotten about his beer altogether.

  Waiting intently – more intently than at any other time during this whole nightmare pregnancy – he watched his own hand, keen to feel the baby move one more time.

  It moved.

  “Holy Jesus!” he proclaimed, deaf to Lisa's moans of agony as the tiny body inside her womb shifted and, it seemed, lashed out, one more time. This time with enough force to actually knock his hand from Lisa's belly.

  He looked at his hand in amazement, then back at the baby-bump.

  “Well shit! Looks like we got ourselves a fighter. Damn, that boy's strong. Stronger than a fucking grizzly and I don't mind being the one ta tell it!”

  Something close to real pride rose in his stomach.

  Butch thought momentarily of the steroids.

  Could they have affected the fetus?

  “You know something, Lisa...” he mused, still oblivious to the immense pain that wracked his wife's body even as she stood there, complaint and obedient. “I think we may well have ourselves a special baby boy. And you know what, hell if I don’t think the little shit takes after his ole daddy. Hell if I don't!”

  He leaned forward, eager for more displays of strength from what he was fast coming to believe was a bona-fide little miracle.

  His protégé.

  As Lisa swayed on ever-weakening legs, Butch pressed his ear against her stomach. The cold damp sweat registered only for a moment, as genuine wonder swept aside all other senses.

  All was silent.

  Lisa had ceased her breathing, as though she sensed his desire for stillness.

  Must have been hard for the bitch to keep quiet for three seconds, but he was glad of it.

  He listened, his ear pushed hard against the slight concave of her belly button.

  Inside her, he heard movement. Muffled sounds that betrayed his unborn son's will to be born. To enter the world and kick it in its dick, just like daddy planned to do.

  As he tuned in to the baby's movements, he allowed himself to dream.

  In his mind's eye, he saw a grown man. Tall and handsome as all hell. Built like the side of a barn. Someone to call his own.

  And he'd be straight, too.

  None of that homosexual shit for his boy. No sir!

  This baby here was a man's man.

  Just like Freddy Mercury.

  A man's man with a swinging dick, a love of baby Jesus, and a taste for pussy that would never get old.

  Hell, his son would be just like him. He'd beat those homos down like the mangy, depraved dogs they were. Let ‘em know that the good lord Jesus would provide no quarter for the filthy fuckers.

  Suddenly, all Butch's woes for the world were fading away.

  Fatherhood, blessed be Jesus, had given him hope at long last.

  Those damned parades, the degenerate scum that supported them, and all the liberal heathens in the world couldn't stop the progress of true masculinity.

  No sir!

  This was a good day to be alive. A good day to start anew. He had the body for it, the will for it, and soon he'd have a son who could stand by his side. Someone he could call his…

  The baby kicked again.

  Hard.

  Butch never heard himself cry out, and if he had, he'd have found a way to convince himself it had never happened, but cry out he did.

  He did, however, hear the loud crack, like a bunch of sticks being broken all at once, as his baby's foot caught him under the jaw and pulverized the bone beneath.

  Stars peppering the skies of his vision, Butch pitched backward, his hand reaching for his face as agony washed through him in sickening waves. He was amazed to find that his jaw seemed to have moved a few inches to the right.

  He was even more amazed as the broken shards of his teeth slid from his rapidly swelling mouth, riding on slick little rivers of blood.

  The taste of copper filled his mouth as he spat out little white chunks of tooth onto the carpet.

  “Whuh the fuh…?” was all he managed to utter before he pitched backwards with his legs crumpling beneath him, and landed hard on the trailer floor.

  His vision still swimming, and unconsciousness knocking at his mind's door, he looked up in dismay at his pregnant wife. The pride he'd felt was replaced by stark, numbing fear, as her gut writhed and stretched and contorted in all directions.

  Butch's sanity – what there was of it in the first place – began to crack and come undone, as Lisa wailed her pain and the child inside her fought for its freedom with unnatural, hellish force, moving beneath skin that stretched like plastic.

  Beneath the thick layer of her flesh, he could make out small hands.

  The muscular contours of an outstretched leg.

  The push of a head.

  It looked like the kid was tearing her apart from the inside.

  Whimpering, he tried to push himself to his feet, wincing as his jaw swung loose, sending fresh jolts of pain up through his head and into his numbing brain.

  He'd almost made it when, like a great tree bein
g felled in the forest...

  … a great big fat sweating fuck of a tree…

  …his wife came tumbling down towards him.

  He watched in slow motion as her enormous frame gave way to gravity and she cut through the air above him like a juggernaut. She was out like a light, probably pushed to unconsciousness by her own agony, much as he would soon be with his.

  He screamed as she fell upon him, her huge mass, pushing him back down to the carpet with an expulsion of beer-tinged air and shattered teeth.

  She lay atop him in a mockery of a lover's embrace, her face pressed hard against his. Red drool flowed from her slack, open mouth and splashed into his eyes, making his world one of red and pain and confusion. Butch choked on her blood, coughing weakly, desperate to be free of her mass as her belly met with his and the little bastard inside shook, rattled and rolled.

  He could feel the power of the little body as it pressed out from her stomach and down onto his own, stealing the last of the oxygen from his lungs.

  And then he heard the tearing. A sound that was wet and sickening.

  He felt warmth wash over his own stomach and, shifting his eyes downwards, he saw her body jerk in spastic motion.

  Saw the explosion of red burst from all sides of her gut and spray his torso a thick, dark red.

  Heard the crack of bones as the tiny monster pushed its way out into the big wide world.

  He could just make out a small, bunched fist as the kid punched its way free of its fleshy prison.

  Butch's mind reeled.

  Finding the last of his strength, he wailed as he grabbed his wife by both arms and lifted her like he was bench pressing the whole damn gym.

  Silently, he thanked baby Jesus for the steroids he'd been taking all year long.

  With a roar, he cast his wife aside, over to his right, where she rolled to the floor and continued to shower blood up from her torn and shredded gut like a little fucked up volcano.

  She lay there still, and Butch, his strength utterly spent from his exertions, rolled his head to watch in horror.

  Something was crawling from the wreckage of his wife's stomach.

  Something covered in blood and amniotic fluid.