It was at this point that he’d decided to call an end to the night’s adventures, and had punched her square in the face. That put a stop to her hollering real quickly. He may have broken the bitch’s nose, and she deserved no less.
By the time Jerry finally managed to subdue her, he’d punched her twice more, once in the gut and once more in her pretty face, and had twisted one of her perky little titties so hard she’d begged and screamed for him to stop. It was the knife that had sealed the deal though. Soon as he’d pulled that 4 inches of gleaming, razor-sharp badassery on her, she’d hit the mute button like her fucking life depended on it.
A few well delivered threats, and a final well-aimed hock of spit on her face for good measure, and his romantic evening with Lucy had come to its rather disappointing conclusion.
Within the hour, he was tucked up in his own bed, dizzy now. He had drank so much himself, he couldn’t even cum when he’d jerked off in a last ditch attempt at some fucking satisfaction.
What a rip-off. Down twenty bucks and no pussy to show for it, he bemoaned.
Shopping could be such a downer sometimes.
***
Roland gazed in rapt wonderment at the sight that lay before him. He’d entered this magical place with a sense of anticipation unlike anything he’d ever experienced since his first kill, so many long years ago. His dreams and musing on Snivilisation had been true - his mother, with all her wisdom, had taught him to fear such places, yet he found himself enthralled by it all. What was presented on entering through the strange metal doors was a myriad of wonders once static and unreachable in photographic image, now laid before him like a banquet borne of paradise. His fear of the men-folk remained as keen as ever, but for now, he was perfectly alone. To Roland, this was the gift he had so long prayed for in the chilly, despairing stillness of long winter months.
Even in his rapture, Roland realized he would have to work quickly. His was not so bedazzled that he was unaware of the threat that the town may still hold. It was morning time, and while Roland was a creature of the night that reveled in the twilight hours when mother and Nathan had slumbered, he knew that soon this town would become a thriving, living thing, teeming with those who would see to his end. He’d watched from far above many times as its people slowly began filling the streets. Time was Roland’s enemy here.
Those vengeance hungry men-folk were blissfully absent at present, but soon they would rise, and they would find him. He had witnessed some of the town’s denizens already, and understood that these sleepless, lonesome souls were merely a prelude to what would soon transpire. The coming of the sunrise would bring with it many men, and the men would bring death. For all his strength he was not invincible. He bled and hurt like all living things, and like all that lived and breathed, he feared death with every inch of his being.
So very little time to gather what he needed and so much food to choose from.
He pushed aside his reverie and forced his mind to focus on the job at hand. He had come here to find a means to survive, not to lose himself in the alchemy of men-folk. His mission was all that mattered.
Roland wandered the shelves, confused by the colorful wrappings on the meats, assailed by the potency of the intermingled scents. His mouth watered and his mind reeled as he thrust his massive hands into the raw, tender meats and shoved huge slivers of the beautiful juicy flesh over his broken, jagged teeth and down his throat. It was in the midst of his desperate feeding that another scent caught his attention; a scent that brought with it a glorious familiarity. Drool spilled over his huge lips and ran freely into his filthy, blood coated beard. He wiped himself absent mindedly as instinct and desire fought for dominance within him. He was vaguely aware that his pee-pee had grown hard, and was protruding from his make-shift outfit like the snake seeking out the mouse.
Roland smelled, for the first time in many moonless nights and bitter days, the only meat that truly satiated. Fresh meat -living meat…
***
This place was the fucking pits.
This was turning out to be a shit-infested week for Jerry, and no mistake. Zero pussy, little cash, and a crushing fucking hangover to top it off. And he was stuck in this dump for the next eight hours to boot. The store was dead as disco now, sure, but soon enough the never-ending parade of single mommas would come crawling out of their cesspits with screaming, noisy little bastards in tow, and fuck his already miserable day hard in the ass. Why couldn’t these cunts respect a man’s fragile state of being, and force their goddam offspring to keep a lid on it for fuck sake!
Jerry was never having kids, man. If some bitch ever threw the news his way that he was gonna be a daddy, she’d be kicked in the gut and shitting that baby out before the next sentence got past her lips. Kids were for suckers. Losers and limp-dicks who couldn’t fathom that life was all about the ‘self’. Not Jerry though. No fucking way Jose. Jerry was cut from a different cloth. In this world, there were only takers and the taken; and he was a taker. Damn straight!
It came as something of a shock, and a damned unwelcome one at that, when he heard the familiar, ever-annoying, jollier-than-thou tinkling of the stores entrance-bell. That fucking thing rested above the door like a harbinger of doom, eagerly waiting for its chance to announce some shit-heel customer into the store and into his life. It was all the way down at the far end of the shop, and out of Jerry’s sight, but at this hour it could only be one of two things - some miserable, coffin-dodging old fucker out for fresh diapers, or one of the town drunks, come begging for some early trade on cheap-shit liquor. Whichever, they could promptly fuck right off and dance the jig while doing it.
When the smell hit him, he gagged.
That sealed the deal, then. It had to be some sorry drunk sonofabitch. The air was filled with the smell of stale piss and shit. Whoever the sad bastard was, they had brought hell with them. He reeled from the vile odor, bile rising in his throat as he fought to hold down the vomit threatening to erupt from his poor, punished guts at any moment.
The stink was getting stronger, now. The bastard must be just around the last aisle. Jerry could hear the clicking of shoes on tile…hear the drunken fucker, no doubt, as he shuffled along looking for the whiskey aisle. And was he humming a tune!?
This shit isn’t happening. Not today. No fucking way.
Jerry ducked his head under the counter, and quickly found the baseball bat his fat-fuck manager kept at hand for aggressive customers. He wasn’t sure if he planned to use it on the lush’s head or merely threaten his drunken ass. He would like nothing more than to knock the bastard’s teeth out, but he didn’t much dig the thought of getting up close and personal with someone who smelled like they’d been dipped in a fucking un-flushed toilet.
He grabbed the bat, and rose to face his inebriated adversary.
And came face to face with a nightmare…
***
Before him, towering over his head stood something that must have climbed straight up from the very bowels of hell. A man, if it was a man, so hideous in appearance, that Jerry was frozen to the spot, helpless. The baseball bat fell from his limp hand, and the disgusting reek that poured in waves from the creature was met with his own stink, as his bowels loosed.
The creature’s eyes were like those of a fucking frog. They looked like they may pop out its gigantic head at any moment. Its hair hung in strings around its enormous, bulbous head. Its yellow skin was pulled tight across its skull, giving it the appearance of some diseased freak-show attraction, inexplicably brought back to some hellish half-life. Its teeth rose like broken gravestones over its swollen, purple lips, and as Jerry’s horrified gaze took in its massive muscular frame, the nightmare only worsened; taking on ever more surreal dimensions.
It was wearing a fucking dress!
Barely covering its rippling torso was a goddam summer dress. Once patterned with flowers and now stained almost black with dried blood and excrement. And worse, so much worse, was what hung from between i
ts legs.
The skirt was raised at the front, and rising from the filthy rags was the biggest dick Jerry had ever seen. The thing was huge, erect and pulsing with terrible desire. Boils ran along its length, some of which had very recently burst. Horrified…Jerry noticed a strand of semen swinging from its shining head. Whatever this god-forsaken devil was, it was up for some fucking partying..
Oh Christ, this thing is gonna fuck me, he surmised, through waves of nauseating terror.
Without realizing, Jerry raised his hand in idiot greeting to the thing towering before him, and whimpered, “C-can I help you, Sir?”
The monsters cracked, bloody lips parted, and it smiled.
And that’s when the walls of Jerry’s sanity came crashing down, and the screaming began…
***
The sun was riding in the sky now, bringing welcome warmth and light to the dark corners of the forest.
High up in the hills, Roland looked back with pride upon the town below. The screaming had started only moments before, followed by several wailing sirens Roland had heard on many hunting trips. The entire town was awake now, and far beneath the mountain, all was chaos.
Roland wandered peacefully through the beautiful Tennessee dawn. Safe once more in the sheltering sanctity of the wilds.
He had gotten a little carried away with himself, and let his guard down. But it had all made for great entertainment.
Ascending though woodland glades and high up into the mountains, he finally arrived at home. He set down all the shopping bags but one, and then proceeded to seat himself on the edge of his favorite cliff, where he could pass the hours and dream of the world below.
After a time, the distant cacophony of screaming and shouting died down, and Roland focused only on the sweet soundscape of the forest that was his home. Birds sang their familiar tunes in the bushels, and a gentle breeze whispered through the treetops.
It had taken Roland five bags to put all the pieces in - one for the head, one for the arms, another for the legs, a larger bag for the torso, and one final bag for his special treats. He hadn’t meant to get carried away, but when the boy had begun screaming, it became necessary to silence him quickly. He’d grabbed the boys head in between his huge hands and squeezed until the noisy young man’s skull had partly given way with a satisfying crack, and was delighted when the eyeballs had burst from their sockets. The screaming had stopped then, though the boy was strong, and had even kept breathing as Roland tossed him onto the tiled floor, tore off his clothing like so much paper, and rammed his pee-pee into the shopkeepers asshole, just like mother had taught him.
Smiling, he reached for the first of his treats from the bag by his side.
As he sat there, snacking on the bloody, flaccid pee-pee of a boy whose name he would never know, he wondered how long the meat would last this time. Not long, most likely. After all, there was no need to ration his portions now. Not with such a healthy supply so close at hand.
And shopping was just so much fun…
KENTUCKY FRIED
Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned. Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned – William Congreve
It was 7.48 AM, on a cool and grey Monday morning in late August, when my dear wife, Kate, burst into flames by the breakfast table.
It’s not the sort of thing one had come to expect of a typically average, and dare I say boring, Kentucky dawn...
A joyless, secret jerk-off session in the shower in place of hot morning sex was absolutely part of the deal, and an endless stream of moronic morning television clogging up the old pineal gland was, of course, the norm as well.
But the old ball and chain just up and flame-grilling on you for no goddam discernible reason? No -that shit does not an ordinary Monday morning make.
If I sound a little nonchalant about the whole event, please understand it’s not because I’m a heartless man. I love little doggies, I love my sweet little Grandma enough to clean up her poop on the odd occasion I visit her and find she’s made a boo-boo. I pay my taxes, (grudgingly, I admit), and I only drink in moderation.
I’m an all-around decent sorta guy, folks.
It’s just that I fucking hate my wife.
At least what she’s become.
Hated, I should say.
Before 7.48 this morning I was a miserable sonofabitch if ever there was one. If life is indeed a movie, mine’s was a tragi-comedy directed by Edward D Wood Jnr. A cliché dipped in despair. A deceptively short movie - I’m only 27 years old, after all - that somehow managed to feel like a fucking trilogy, where each movie hits the four hour mark with little to nothing of consequence ever occurring; at least until today anyway.
I’m prattling on. Forgive me my rude-ness. I really should introduce myself before I recant my tale, shouldn’t I? Give you some info on the background to my story? That way you guys may judge me a little less harshly. Come to see my perspective, as it were.
My name is Donald Mathias, or Donnie to my friends. I was born into a god-fearing all-American family of moderate social standing, and lived a relatively simple existence throughout my childhood and into my teenage years. Like most young bucks, my teens were full of experimentation; both sexual and chemical. I dug my Rock’n’Roll and I dug the ladies. I liked a beer as much as the next born and bred Kentuckian kid and I never met a bag of weed I couldn’t get along with. I worked mornings in a local bar called Hershel’s, and while earning very little; I was as happy as a chap can be. I wanted for nothing and nothing wanted for me.
When I was a spritely 17 years of age, I moved out of the old folks place and rented my first flat with my good buddy, Derwood. He’s the sort of fella that everyone loves instantly, and he was back then, too. He’s a little acid-damaged these days, perhaps, and a mite too keen on the Scotch; but a good guy, nonetheless. A stand-up cat, as my old man would say.
The rent was cheap and living was easy in those early days. What money we both brought in we threw together. A percentage of our earnings would pay our utility bills and the rest would finance our deep-seated desire to live the life of bums.
Derwood worked just a ways down the street from Hershel’s, in a chemist of all places. He earned a little more than myself, but in our self-contained world, money was a means to an end - the middle-man between the boring stuff, (work), and the good times, (the rest). In Derwood’s eyes, (and of course, in my own), a penny saved was a penny wasted, especially when the world was full of liquor in need of drinking, and weed in need of smoking. We had a fridge jammed with a ready supply of our favourite beers, a widescreen television that could give fucking Skynet a run for its dollar, an Xbox console with a neat selection of games, and that tried and tested space age bachelor pad accessory of the ages – friend to all men – The Pinball Table.
No man could ever ask for more, other than the sweet and tender love of a good lady now and then, and that was never an issue either.
I won’t lie to you, guys. I’m no Don Juan, at least not in the looks department.
I’m not fuck-ugly either though.
I’m never gonna steal chicks from Gerard Butler, but I could definitely give good old Steve Buscemi a run for his money and I’ve been told enough times during my encounters with the opposite sex that I’m cute.
So I figure it must be true, at least to some extent.
That said, cute is cute, and no chick has ever compared me to Brad Pitt or Wolverine, no matter how much high-grade acid she’s eaten before commenting.
Nope, I get by on slightly-above-average looks and the moderate dose of charm I was lucky enough to inherit from my old man. I got my fair share of the ladies, sure, but it was Derwood who was the pussy magnet.
This guy, man - he looked like some sort of Greek God of Old, sent here with the dual purpose of making all us other men feel vastly inferior while effortlessly scoring with each and every girl the rest of us mortals always dreamed of having, but never could.
I never begrudged the handsome bastard, thoug
h.
How could I?
He wasn’t the jock type, nor was he a bully- he was kind to everyone he met and he never turned his back on a friend.
Where most of the truly beautiful people in our world are insufferable dickheads; Derwood was a true gentleman, as affable and humble as he was striking and sexually magnetic.
Being a mere mortal man, I guess I should have hated him, but, like everyone else in Louisville, I loved the guy from the inside out. Not least of all because we shared all the same passions, being in no particular order worth detailing: Weed, LSD, Science-Fiction, girls, and man’s greatest endeavour –the aforementioned and almighty Pinball).
Also, the guy’s parents named him fucking ‘Derwood’, man.
It seemed to me like his good looks amounted to the universe sorta helping to even out his chances in life, since his drunk-ass parents had so skilfully fucked him over at the very first hurdle.
Imagine learning to talk and use big-boy words, and then finding out that your old folks had named you for a deep-woods dwelling, caravan coasting hillbilly.
Imagine school.
Just imagine that shit.
Anyway…I must admit, it also helped our friendship greatly that wherever Derwood went, the girls surely would follow. And I had no qualms about looking after the dejected ones that never quiet reached my friends standards.
No sir. I got my share of good loving and then some.
So what if the truly stunning ladies ended up in his bedroom…I got the cuties. The, ‘girl-next-door’, types. And that was more than enough for me, kids. There is a lot to be said for being the wingman to an Adonis, and let no man ever tell you any different…
Consumed - Volume 1: An Extreme Horror Anthology. Page 6
