by Kirk Alex
“What now?”
“He ain’t right. He don’t never be the same after that.”
“I can always count on you to piss on my parade. Can’t I?”
“Don’t mean to. MC Snagglepuss be nervous and shit. Be movin’ wiff a limp, too. Ate too much, for sure. Belly be bloated now. Should take him to a vet.”
Biggs lifted his goggles. Pushed them back.
“You’re kidding, right? A vet? You want to take a rat to the vet’s?”
“If I had me the coin. Why not? I can’t rightly tell what be the matter wiff him.”
“You’re too much.”
Marvin held his rat to his chin, concerned and worried.
“Put the fucking rat down.” Biggs lowered the goggles. “And let the geeks in. They want in on this. Can’t say as I blame them, either.”
Marvin had his pet back inside the original cage. Placed the cage on the floor. He paused at the door, wiping his eyes. Waited for further instructions. Biggs stripped the tape down from Lana’s forearm, refilled his chalice and set it aside on a shelf. He then made an incision across the left side of her neck. Blood spurted.
“Let them in, Marvin.”
The deacon did that. And the rest of the congregation, save for Greta and Patience, save for Swine Vomit and Brother Muck, rushed in, extending their mugs, wanting their share of the pouring crimson. Norbert Fimple simply positioned himself directly underneath the flowing fountain of blood with his mouth open wide and gobbled up what he could, choking and coughing, until he was shoved out of the way by the Rumanian.
Biggs reached for the chainsaw. Yanked on the starter handle. The blade whirred; and he cut Lana’s head right off. Sassy Sassounian was there to catch it in his lap as it rolled off the table. Mr. Fimple had resumed his previous position: all he’d had to do was open his mouth wide, and more crimson showered his face and upper body, while Mildred Elizabeth and others struggled to get their share.
“We put into the earth, so that there can be birth. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
Biggs felt a pat on the head was appropriate here, figuratively speaking. “Amen to that, Sister Mildred. Amen.” While the one had earned his admiration, the other: Pearleen Bell, had managed to raise his ire. “Get your ass up, henpecker.” Looked like she could have used a helping hand. He “assisted” by picking up the bucket and splashing her face and upper body with what remained of the ice water, and returned her to the Mattress Room. When he came back, Julian “Pinko Punisher” Ionesco was requesting to start breaking things.
“I wish to break the bones, Bishop Biggs. I needs it very much.”
Biggs let him.
CHAPTER 217
Now that Lana had been decapitated and the rest of her limbs severed (the meat efficiently separated from thigh and calf bones, arms), now that the fun was over (having taken quite a bit out of him), Biggs felt a break was in order.
He reached for the chalice he had left on the shelf. Sipped from it. He’d have to admit, if he were entirely honest with himself, that drinking human blood was not anything he did out of sheer enjoyment, for human blood did not taste very good at all. His taste buds never failed to remind him of the fact. Eating flesh, on the other hand, was a different matter. He did not have a problem with the way flesh tasted. You baked it or you fried it, at times boiled it, you added tenderizer, added this and the other—and it went down just fine. But the blood, the blood was something he consumed more out of a need to counterbalance all the junk food and candy he filled his body with on a daily basis, to counter the soda and Hawaiian Punch habit. Drinking human blood was one of the few positive things he did for his overall well-being.
Only because he was aware that Biggs’s eyes were on him, did Marvin R. Muck take a cup and hold it under the headless torso for the red stuff to drizzle into.
He had half a cup. Raised it to his lips—and was (only) able to consume a fraction of it.
“That hole in the bathroom wall will have to be patched up. The window repaired. Only I’m too damned tired and not exactly in the mood.”
The bishop and his deacon stood back and watched as the geeks went at what remained of Lana Sepulveda. Lawrence Sassounian had taken a claw hammer and begun removing the scalp with the forked end. He eagerly discarded his old scalp for the new one, picked up the hammer again and whacked away at the blood-covered skull with the claw end until the top caved in and the ensuing opening was adequate enough for him to reach inside and scoop brains out with his fingers and stuffed the pinkish-gray pudding-like substance into his mouth.
Norbert Fimple wanted in on this and fought to get his share.
“No class. In Europe you would not eat this way.”
The Rumanian tossed them plastic spoons. Mr. Fimple dug inside the skull and scooped up brains. His arm shook so much and his eyeglasses were askew to such a degree that he could not quite get the spoonful in his mouth. Sassounian bent down, clamped his own jaw around the other’s spoon and sucked the brains in.
“No class.” Julian “Pinko Punisher” Ionesco insisted was his opinion of the evolving situation. “No class, no upbringing. Like animal. No respect for friendship. In Rumania you did not do this. Your family would beat you if you did not show respect and eat the proper way.”
“Bullshit,” Biggs said.
Miss Betty and Mildred Elizabeth had chopped a slice off one of dismembered Lana’s thighs. Attempted to eat it raw this way. Added salt and pepper. It still lacked something. Adding to this dilemma: one of Miss Betty’s fake teeth broke off. That did it.
“This meat ain’t cooked. Teeth just ain’t strong enough to eat it like this.”
Big Tex had a suggestion: “What we ought to do is get a couple of them skewers. Stick some meat on them; tomatoes, onions, green peppers—and roast ’em. Make kebobs. Marinate the meat. Stick the works in the furnace. Maybe add tenderizer. What do you think, Bishop? Add A-l Steak Sauce, maybe Tabasco. What do you think of that, Bishop?”
Biggs agreed to go along with it. “Only we can’t do too much of it that way. We’ll let Greta cook up some of her stew, too. Maybe gumbo. How about that, Norbert?”
Norbert Fimple’s expression seemed to say he more than approved. Big Tex picked up on it.
“‘Course he’s gonna like it. Lookit that grin. Man loves to eat. Speakin’ of grub: the more we eat, the more we shit. Feel it comin’ on. Gotta go take a dump. If all you good folk will excuse me.” Big Tex left to use the john at the other end of the basement. “Be right back, ya hear?”
CHAPTER 218
Biggs searched the metal cabinet for the skewers. Found one. Made it upstairs to the kitchen to dig up a couple more, as well as the required vegetables to make the kebobs.
He was back in no time. Had the chunks of meat and the veggies on the skewers, alternately, and the geeks followed him out to the Furnace Room. Biggs unlocked the door. Went in with the others. The furnace gate was opened, and he let the geeks, his “schutzstaffel,” stick the kebobs in there, over the flames, to roast. Reminded them to turn the kebobs over periodically so that the meat and onions, peppers, etc., roasted evenly.
They handled it okay. No problem there. About time they did something right without it turning into a major fiasco.
It wasn’t long before they got restless and wanted to withdraw the skewers and start chowing down.
“Not yet. Doubt the meat is done.” They heeded the bishop’s advice, but not for long—because before he knew it, they had the kebobs out of the oven and were trying to get at them.
Stuff was too hot. Got dropped. Didn’t prevent them from converging on the shish kebobs on the cement floor like jackals attacking carrion.
As expected, Mr. Fimple was the worst of the lot. Trouble was the kebobs were too hot for anyone to take an actual bite. Those who were foolhardy enough to attempt a nibble, or better, without waiting to give the food the proper time to cool, did so with great regret, burning lips and fingertips. Those who simply stood back and watched it
happen, like Marvin, Cecil, and Miss Betty Rutterschmidt, could not stop jeering and chuckling.
Soon, though, the kebobs were cool enough, and they went at it, devouring the meat and vegetables like hungry beasts. By the time Leo Nix returned from the crapper he did not look too pleased with what was going on.
“Ain’t nothin’ left but skewers. Ain’t right. Nobody gives a shit about nobody else around here. Used to be Church of Re-Newed Hope stood for something. You coulda left a bite for me. I gotta live, too. Damned Yankee buzzards. Butt-breath gutter trash. Ain’t no hope for none of y’all in here. That’s the Lord’s truth.”
CHAPTER 219
Marvin had had enough of all the “bughouse boo-shit” going on in the basement. Had picked up the cage Snagglepuss was in and gone up the flight of stairs to his room on the first floor. He placed the cage on the threadbare carpet next to the grimy foam mattress, opened the gate to the cage and scooped the fancy rat up in his hands.
There were white socks lying about. Marvin picked one up and wiped his friend down some more. He stretched out on the mattress when he was done and held his pal to his chest.
Muck attempted to collect himself. There was no way to relax, no way to forget what Cecil had gone and done to his other pet’. Mothafuckah.
He’d raised them from the time they was small, and now they was gone. Buried back there among the weeds and trash in the backyard. Wasn’t right. He didn’t give a turd about much in this life, never had much and never would, prob’ly, but they was his buddies. . . . Tears rolled down the sides of his cheeks.
He tried to sleep. Had his eyes closed. Sleep wouldn’t come.
Well, he opened one eye to check on Snagglepuss. Snagglepuss was doin’ all right, resting up. Dozing, it seemed like. Grinding his teeth, though. As usual. Marvin rubbed the back of his friend’s neck with his thumb. Did it gently.
“Yeah, worked you hard, didn’t he? Wasn’t my fault, homie. You seen me. Couldn’t get the mofo to think of somethin’ else to do.”
He stopped rubbing his pet’s neck, and held him in his cupped hands. It took an hour or so of struggling to doze off, but it happened eventually, and Marvin slept.
CHAPTER 220
He didn’t wake until after 3:00 p.m. the next afternoon. Looked up. Snagglepuss had left the place on his chest and had entered his cage and was lapping up water from a tray.
No doubt about it, Muck’s own belly was empty and he was thirsty. Needed to take a leak. There was no denying his pole was hard.
He rose. Opened his door. Stuck his head out into the hallway. It was quiet. Wondered where Cecil was and what he was up to? He walked to the john, urinated and returned to his room.
What was there to eat? He hated that dog food and ground up meat stew Greta be always makin’. Let the retard’ eat that shit. Ain’t my style. I could go for some real food, like that omelette Cecil got hisself at Slim’. Only that kinda meal take’ jack, jack I ain’t even got. If I had me a hot dog wiff onion’ and mustard, now that could be real good, would taste real good. Yeah. And a super large Coke. Shit. Man ain’t gonna gimme no coin to buy nothin’.
He looked at the two shelves consisting of four cinder blocks. Bottom shelf had on it a plate, bowl, some silverware. On the top shelf sat a jar of Skippy peanut butter, creamy, a half-eaten loaf of “day old” Wonder Bread. Day-old; what Cecil usually be buyin’. Day-old. Get’ him a discount that way.
Day old would be all right, ’cept this bread was more like month old. Dry and hard. Moldy in places.
He took a slice out. Broke the moldy sections off. Tossed them into a corner. Reached for the butter knife. Opened the jar of peanut butter and scooped some out. Spread it on the slice. Took a bite. It was way too dry. He cursed.
“Mothafuckah almost be like a walking ATM machine and can’t buy me no real food.”
There was an unclean mug that hadn’t been properly washed in weeks. He grabbed it. Walked out again to the john. Filled the mug with tap water, and returned to his room. Sat up on the mattress with his back against the wall, and chased the slice of peanut buttered bread with the tap water. Went down hard. He hated it. Maybe Greta Otto’ stew was better after all. He didn’t know, wasn’t sure. He was sure of one thing: this peanut butter and hard bread was boo-shit.
CHAPTER 221
He ate what he could of it. Stood in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door. Took his shirt off. Too fuckin’ skinny these day’. No food. Losing too much weight. Gonna be lookin’ somethin’ like a skeleton pretty soon. Like that short nigga next door. All be Cecil’ fault.
I can’t eat what them retard’ be eatin’. Can’t be drinkin’ all that blood neither, me.
He looked down. His dick was still hard. He thought about sneaking into the Mattress Room where Cecil had that hot ho Peach chained to the wall. Maybe get her to suck the black mamba, maybe shoot a full load in her mouf, fuck her in the ass and pussy.
Did he dare chance it? Cecil would be pissed as hell. Fuckin’ Trusty Lusty. Gotta be his way, he say—or no way. Well, he did let him have some tang now and then. Sure did. Shaggin’ Dixie was good, real nice, but he be needin’ more pussy, always be needin’ more.
Stella. What about Stella? Hangin’ from that hook in the cooler. Was stupid of Cecil to do. Why let that bitch die a slow death like that?
Yeah, I know: ho be a cunt—but why let her die? Don’t even make no kinda sense. If he tried to get some of that, Cecil would be on his ass for it, too.
Could lick his own dick. Only lickin’ it make his neck stiff. Man could break his mothafuckin’ neck that way. He could jerk it, play wiff hisself. Shit; it don’t never feel as good as real tang.
What about Greta? The cook. How would he talk to the psycho ho? Never even seen what that big mama be lookin’ like behind that mask she all the time got on. Do it matter? Not really. All that matter the ho got what he like’: big ass—and a mouf for suckin’ dick.
That six-inch-tall toy monk figure standing atop the tv caught his eye. He’d ripped it off at a magic shop down there on Hollywood Boulevard.
Bald-headed monk. Wiff a brown robe on, just like the kind Cecil like’ to wear at his sermon’, the kind he have them retard’ wear while he be playin’ the preacher up there in the Prayer Hall, readin’ from the Bible.
He picked up the toy monk. Pressed down on the head with the palm of his hand and watched a stiffy spring right out through an opening in the robe. No shit. Hard-on. Monk wiff a hard-on. Woody. Woody the Monk. Folded arms across his chest.
He left his room. Walked to the basement door. Knew better than to turn the knob. Locked; it was locked. Fuckin’ Trusty. Got to keep everything locked. What the fuck? I want that ho to blow me.
He knocked on Biggs’s door.
“What do you want?”
“I want that big-ass ho Greta to suck my black dick. If that be cool wiff you.”
“You want The Leaper to do what?”
“You be sayin’ I can’t?”
“I’m saying it’s probably not a good idea.”
Fuck that, thought Marvin.
“Need some trim, me.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Basement door be locked, Cecil.”
The door opened. Biggs was in his boxers, sleepy-eyed. He had the bullet-proof Kevlar vest on, the .357 in the shoulder holster. Paranoid, thought Marvin. Mofo don’t even take the vest off when he go to bed.
Biggs stepped into the hallway with the keys, and Marvin followed him to the basement door. Watched him unlock it. Asked him once again if it was all right “wiff” him if he got some from Greta.
“Entirely up to you. Only don’t come crying to me if she hurts your feeble-minded, wannabe pimp ass.”
Biggs opened the door. Marvin remained standing there.
“What else?”
“Yo. What chu gonna do wiff Peach?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Like to have me some of that. Ho be hot.”
“Ain’t got to tell me twiced.”
Marvin descended the stairs. Basement door was closed behind him. And locked.
CHAPTER 222
Marvin held the toy monk in his hands. He’d teased the cook with it from time to time.
The less she liked being teased the more he was inclined to keep at it (so long as Cecil stayed out of his way and left him alone).
Well, you seen it: Cecil give you the green light, and he knowed what you be up to.
He stood there in the doorway to the Bunk Room. Greta was to his left, sitting by herself on the bare cement floor of the foyer-like area, her back to the wall. The small black-and-white tv up on the shelf was on. About the only available light in here. Some of the other retards were in their beds, dozing or watching the tube or mumbling to themselves. He didn’t care what they was up to or even where the rest of them was, so long as Betty Lou was not around with that big-ass Bible to beat on his Jones wiff. Prob’ly out there in the play area readin’ her book. Thought he seen one or two of ’em out there by the bookcase where the red nightlight was. Good for her. He’d have to keep his eyes open and stay sharp.
His eyes were on Greta. Ho had her boots off and she was applying fingernail polish to her toes with her right hand. She was also quietly shedding tears underneath that mask, only Marvin was not aware of it, not that he would have given a damn or let it interfere with his immediate plans. Not able to help himself, he continued to stare at all that flank and heavy tits hanging under that gravy-stained black sweater. The negligee she wore under the sweater hardly covered the woman’s muscular thighs.
