Masters of Taboo Presents: Cannibalism, Digesting The Human Condition (Limited Edition)

by Stephen Biro

  THE MASTERS OF TABOO

  Presents

  CANNIBALISM

  Digesting The Human Condition

  Masters of Taboo Presents: Cannibalism

  Digesting The Human Condition

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Unearthed Books

  www.unearthedfilms.com

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Artwork by Greg Nichols

  CHAPTERS

  FORWARD

  Sutter Cane & Stephen Biro

  PLASTIC BACON

  Nigel Lata-Burston

  DIVE

  Michael S. Simmons

  PREPPERS

  Hart D. Fisher

  SOPHIA AND THE AMAZON QUEEN

  Brent Lorentson

  MAGNUM P.I AND THE AUTOMATTED BUTT-CUTTER

  Brian Harris

  FALLEN ANGELS

  MJ Hyman

  CORPSE INTOLERANT

  Andrew Allan

  ZOMBIE CHRIST

  Armand Rosamilia

  S.K.I.N

  Anthony Sant’Anselmo

  ABORTION ATONEMENT

  Bryan Jackson

  BATH SALTS

  Jack Donnelly

  CHUBBY CHASERS

  Destiny West

  THE DIARY

  Stephen Biro

  FOREWARD

  Welcome to the first book in The Masters of Taboo Series. This book, is a plethora of stories from around the world by writers with a penchant for the vile, disgusting and the twisted. I personally lifted up many rocks and crawled thru, many sewers to find these writers, to bring them to the light. To expose them to the surface of your reality and to allow them, to poison your mind with their tales of flesh eating, madness and hunger.

  I know what you’re thinking, don’t worry… I’m good at that. “Who am I? Why should you care?” Well, for one, I’m a nobody. I’m not famous, I’m not well known, I’m a shadow that some talk about but for most, I’m just the darkness that follows you against the walls when you walk into the light. You wouldn’t care about me, even if I was one of the recent victims of a serial killer that has turned up as a dead body in your local neighborhood. If I was a woman, you may say, “Oh, that poor girl.” Then go back to your life as you pour a bowl of Raisin Bran. If I was a dead man, you will probably think I deserved it. It’s funny, how many think dead women are innocent but dead men are deserving of it, somehow. Judgment of the dead comes in many shapes and sizes but they usually fall under these two degrees.

  Now, the only reason you would care about me, was if I murdered the woman or man and you knew, I was on the loose in your neighborhood. Killing and eating my victims.

  Without any ties to the specific victims I choose. Then you would care for the simple reason, you would only care about your own life. That’s all. No deeper meaning, no actual love for the dead unless it was someone from your family. Even if I killed and ate one of your friends, twice removed from you. You would think it was a shame, might even show up to the funeral and maybe, even think about it for a night or two but then it would be over washed by the drudgery of your life. Your job, your kids, your family, your spouse and even your pet, knowing that someone like me killed someone close to you would only give you a care about your life for a day or two. Then it would be gone.

  That is, until you find my hand, over your sleeping face as I held a rag soaked in chloroform, knocking you out. Of course, the initial panic would be terrifying as you were forced to huff the syrupy smelling chemicals and then wonderous beautiful sleep would overtake you, giving me time to work while you were passed out. You wouldn’t know, as the peace of your unconsciousness would give me the time to murder the rest of your family while you were blissfully unaware of the horrors that were taking place with your loved ones in the next room or even next to you. You wouldn’t know… as I dragged you, into the living room. Tying you up will setting your dead loved ones all around you so they could watch, with lifeless eyes the things I would do to you.

  The instruments of your demise would be set on the coffee table in front of you. You would be tied up and I would be setting up the kill space or the rape room or cutting off pieces of your family to eat or I might even be cooking pieces of them now, waiting to hear that muffled cry as you slowly woke up from your peaceful, chemically induced slumber. As your muffled screams begin to pierce your living room as you see the hunks of flesh, ripped from the corpses of your family and the most amazing smells of

  deliciousness, permeating the house. You would begin to choke… as your mouth waters; as it does to people who work in a crematorium who smell the roasting of human flesh. You would hear me whistling a show tune or maybe even an innocuous theme song from your favorite TV show. As I walk out of your kitchen. After making myself at home with your spice rack and frying pans, preparing your family like a five coarse meal to eat in front of you. Figuring out what to do with you as I slowly ate your family or even your pet dog or cat. Then you would care about me.

  You might think, who is this madman? What made him this way? I don’t want to die. Why did he kill my children? My husband, my wife (depending on the situation) Did he rape my wife before he killed her? Did he rape her dead body? Did he rape my husband before he killed him? Did he rape his dead body? Did he rape my dog? Hell, you might even be thinking I raped your dead dog. I have no clue what you would be thinking as you’re tied up, struggling to get free as I cooked someone close to you in your kitchen but I do know this. You would care who I am then.

  So… I would like to welcome you to the first in the series; Masters of Taboo presents Cannibalism, Digesting the Human Condition. I hope you enjoy your stay here. I know I have. Now if you excuse me, I have something in the pressure cooker that needs my attention.

  Sutter Cane & Stephen Biro

  Author of Hellucination, The Ultimate Dead Baby Joke Book, The Ultimate Dead Baby Cookbook, Editor and Trans poser of All Work and No Play and the upcoming Symphony of the Devil

  PLASTIC BACON

  A CANNIBALISTIC TALE OF INSANITY

  Nigel Lata-Burston

  It was a lovely Sunday in spring when my wife Jane dropped the bombshell with a nose job request out of the blue over a perfect full English breakfast, ruining my morning and shattering instantly my temporary oasis of calm. Let’s get things straight from the off, I don’t want to beat around the bush; I’m against plastic surgery in any shape or form. You are given what God intends you to have when you pop out of your mother’s nether region, screaming and bawling at your entrance to reality, and anything to change that is a travesty, a slur on creation. Plus cosmetic surgery costs a small fortune. I’m not tight with my cash, I just think that plastic surgery is greasing the bulging pockets of some fat surgeon so that he can swan around in his new Porsche or relax on some Caribbean island with his latest mistress, sipping cocktails whilst thinking of all the mugs back in England waiting to pay him their dosh.

  No, I like my women natural and my hard earned bread is required for
those necessities of life that a man cannot do without, the annual golf club membership and quality time at the pub with the lads. In addition to the multitude of benefits to the aforementioned surgeon, plastic surgery becomes a never-ending spiral for the patient. First there is a nose job, then a breast reduction or enlargement (depending on what was in vogue at the time), next a tummy tuck…it would just go on and on. And I’m told that patients can be addicted to the anesthetic, look at what happened to the freak show Michael Jackson. He was addicted to the anesthetic jabs, I’ve read, sheer bloody madness. Every day, the papers are full of celebrities who look more alien than human with their unmoving tight plastic faces and pumped up breasts.

  I tried to continue chewing on my award winning Cumberland sausage but my spouse had ignited the temper deep within my fragile psyche. Following a personal trauma three years ago, I’ve been on medication to control my outbursts. I’m a patient man, you must understand, it takes a lot to tick me off. However, at this moment in time, all the wrong buttons and levers were being pushed and pulled. But this is just a sign of testosterone, I can’t help being a man’s man, you know? I’m an alpha male, always have been, always will be. I think that’s what drew me to my life in food, the kitchen is my domain where I give the orders and others obey. I like the disciplined environment; you know just where you stand and routine and rituals keep me sane.

  “You want a nose job?” Part statement and part question, irritation and anger obviously apparent in my tone of voice. My head buzzed annoyingly and I’d wished I’d taken extra meds that morning; I really hadn’t planned for this shit. Jane looked at me, an expression of surprise on her pretty face. I may well have detected a flinch, a fleeting glimpse of fear, and I felt an ounce of satisfaction from this.

  “Well, you know I’ve always been self-conscious about my nose, and with my birthday coming up, I just thought…”

  Okay, stop, I know what you’re thinking; my wife has a big conk. In truth, it’s perhaps a little larger than the average nose but it’s not like the snout of an anteater. No, I like to think she has the nose of Jennifer Aniston or Sarah Jessica Parker (not that I’d watch their films for a second, I hastened to add, but I’m familiar with their gurning visages from the photos in my wife’s glossy magazines).

  I’ll cut a rather long and frankly embarrassing story short as there’s no need to dwell on these un-pleasantries for any longer than necessary. The whole scene turned ugly very fast. Cruel words turned to actions, actions turned to consequences. I’m not a violent man, I’d hate for you to see me as some kind of fiend, a domineering bully who terrorizes his wife on a daily basis. It’s just that when offended, I can resort to using my head, fists and feet. It’s all a bit of a blur looking back I don’t really remember everything that happened at the time.

  What I do know is that I wasn’t proud of myself, staring at her slumped figure in the dining room, her back shaking as she sobbed and my knuckles grazed and raw with overturned chairs and broken ornaments as evidence of my actions. I remember the quality of the sunlight streaming through a window, the regular ticking of the clock, tiny details that were (and still are) irrelevant. I apologized, saying it wouldn’t happen again and that I had been stressed, too much going on at work in the kitchens, trying to make ends meet with fewer staff. The restaurant wasn’t coping in the recession, customers were staying at home rather than eating out and we’d had to let good people go.

  And so, in the end, out of necessity rather than kindness, I paid for the plastic surgery for her broken nose and the other harm I’d done to her face. I replaced the damaged ornaments and I mentally kicked myself for my stupidity. I wanted Jane fixed up fast, partly because I didn’t want people suspecting I’d been a bad boy (the last thing I needed was a police caution or, god forbid, bad publicity for the restaurant) and also because, I wanted her at work as soon as possible. With every day away from her job, we were losing her valuable income stream. Health insurance was something we’d never considered and could ill afford.

  The surgery was carried out in a private clinic somewhere in Eastern Europe following a civilized consultation in a small but stylishly furnished office in the city. A groundbreaking revolutionary technique would be employed to fix the nose and reduce the facial bruising. The surgery would use genes from genetically modified pigs resulting in a faster recovery time. We felt assured by the kind looking but toffee nosed agent and the price for the work was in the right ballpark.

  When my wife returned from her overseas trip a week later, she was a changed woman. Her nose was smaller, cute as the proverbial button. She had what she called the “Cheryl Cole” option (my wife made picking a nose sound like a customer deciding on a starter at the restaurant). And life was good. Well, for a while, anyway; my mood was lifted, my reliance on pharmaceutical drugs was significantly reduced and my sleep was largely uninterrupted.

  The problems started around a month later. At first, I noticed her nose looked a little pinker than usual. I’d passed this off as mild sunburn but over time the color grew darker, angrier. There was mild discharge, a runny mucous fluid, that did not look healthy in the slightest and which brought back memories of the Mattel Slime toy I had as a child (“It’s gooey, drippy, cold and clammy,” I could hear the old advertisement’s jingle in my head as if it was only yesterday). I was genuinely concerned for her health as she did not look well at all.

  After a particularly hellish day in the restaurant, I returned home to find Jane weeping loudly in the downstairs cloakroom. Opening the door, the scene that met me was shocking but, in hindsight, strangely fascinating. Her face was puffed up and red raw, her eyes little black buttons peering out from under a protruding, perspiration covered brow. Her damp blond hair seemed thinner and matted as I could see her scalp beneath, pink and shiny. The nose had worsened significantly, taking on an almost snout like appearance, the swelled nostrils dark passages from which protruded short, thick hairs which reminded me of a bluebottle’s legs. In short, this wasn’t a pretty sight and I felt my stomach tighten with revulsion. “What…the fuck?” may have been my words. The sentiment was certainly that. At that point, eloquence and good manners were forgotten.

  A bizarre and ghoulish grunting noise emitted from Jane’s malformed and cracked lips. I could see that her tongue had swollen to the point that it was almost filling her entire mouth. It was longer too, flopping over her lower lip, pink and glistening. Despite the shock, I felt something in my loins responding. On a very primal level, something deep inside me responded to this. I’m not a pervert but we’re hardwired for certain things, aren’t we? Like the curve of a woman’s body, the shape of a breast, a wet and inviting tongue. I tried to focus on the situation at hand but I felt momentarily lightheaded and the buzzing in my brain became amplified. I felt dizzy and disorientated and held onto the doorframe for support until the fog in my head started to clear.

  I decided a period of bed rest was in order, at least until I could think straight. Her movements were sluggish as I helped her upstairs and into our master bedroom. She seemed confused, bewildered at the miraculous but frightening transformation occurring in her body. On a cellular level, something truly awe inspiring was happening. I felt I was an explorer, about to discover something that had never been witnessed by man before. I was certain that I would never be the same person again.

  I rang the surgery’s agent in London but received only a standard automated message. The European number just rang out, no reply. Checking on the computer also brought about frustration, the website had disappeared, replaced with a standard domain name advertisement. I then called Jane’s office and told them that she would be off work for the foreseeable future following complications from her recent operation. They thanked me for calling and sent their best wishes for Jane’s speedy recovery.

  In the truly dire economic climate we’re in, I don’t have the luxury of staying off work and looking after my sick spouse. The restaurant needs me as chef de cuisine and I have resp
onsibilities that cannot be underestimated. I’m an important man and I have duties to perform on an almost daily basis. Returning home the following night, my head pounding from a combination of stress and hunger, I found Jane naked on the kitchen floor, her head in the overturned bin, hungrily devouring scraps of food. Her sweaty body had ballooned, the skin tight as if she had been inflated. Her hands and feet appeared useless, the fingers and toes had swelled to the point where there was no space between them. Trotters, I mused, studying them closely, marveling at nature’s complexity and beauty.

  Deep down, the lizard part of my brain whispered to me, advising that I should run and get away from this macabre nightmare, this dreadful piggish vision. I should head to my car and find a sanctuary from this temporary insanity that had gripped my overtired and confused mind. Instead, I dragged Jane to the attached double garage, straining with the weight and size of her new shape, and made her a private sty. I had an old paddling pool, emblazoned with gaudy colors and shapes that we’d use when friends visited in summer with their kids. I filled this with around 10 liters of water from the hose on the wall so that Jane would have fluid available whenever she needed it. She was running a high temperature and she would need plenty of liquid to remain cool. I filled an old bowl with scraps of food so she wouldn’t starve whilst I was away. We’re in the middle of the country so her protests would not be overheard. All in all, I felt like it was a decent habitat and I congratulated myself on my initiative and the environment I’d created at such short notice and on a limited budget.

  As I went to lock the internal door leading into the kitchen, flicking the switch to kill the overhead fluorescent lights, she turned her head slowly towards me but I could see no recognition in her eyes. If they are the windows to the soul, my wife was lost to me. All that was left was a poor dumb sow, leaving my mood lower than it had ever been as I closed the door quietly behind me.