Cripple Wolf

by Cripple Wolf (mobi)

  “What the fuck is this shit?” she screamed and threw the bowl at Mindy. The gorilla flinched as the dish bounced off its shoulder.

  “You tryin’ to poison me?” Shirley started digging around her mouth with one hand.

  “I mean, what the fuck is this shit?” With two fingers she pulled a long strand of hair from between her teeth. “Monkey hair? Monkey hair! Fuck!”

  Shirley turned from Mindy and marched away from the contest. The door in the wall opened back up and she walked through it. As she did, she flipped her middle finger at the contestants and yelled, “Mindy, you lose.”

  The Supreme Chef flew over to the gorilla and hung in the air before her.

  “Haha, silly monkey, you have technique but no skill. The other contestants are fresh slices from a New York Pizzeria—you are frozen and reheated in the oven. Torisaru!”

  Red light poured over Mindy as the rest of the room darkened.

  BBBUUUZZZZZZ!!!!

  The gorilla disappeared and the screen flickered back on. The image showed the gorilla strapped onto a table with its head poking though. A team of surgeons, armed with a variety of medical instruments, sliced and diced the metal cap, and top of Mindy’s skull. A few quick cuts and Mindy convulsed as the medical team scooped out the animal’s brain.

  “Oh Mindy,” said the video girl over the footage, “you’ll now have forever to get serving ice cream right.”

  The team cleaned out Mindy’s skull and one of the surgeons produced a tub of ice cream. He took two scoops of vanilla and placed them neatly in the skull with a sprig of mint for a garnish.

  The medical team quickly disappeared from view and a fat, expensively dressed woman appeared and sat down at the table. She daintily produced a spoon and began to eat the desert with great relish.

  COMMERCIAL BREAK

  (Interior of a dirty empty room. The walls are gray stone and the floor is concrete. A single bare bulb hangs down overhead illuminating the scene. A young blonde woman is on her knees. Duct tape covers her mouth. The viewer cannot see, but it is obvious from her struggle her feet and hands are bound behind her. Her nose is coated with dried blood and one of her eyes is swollen and black. Her clothes are torn and dirtied; she’s been through a lot.

  Next to her is a skinny man with long hair. He is wearing faded blue jeans and nothing else. Across his boney, bare chest is a tattoo of crossed Rebel flags. He is baring tobacco stained teeth at the camera. One of his hands holds the girl upright by a handful of hair, the other hand is waving a gun.)

  Man: You know about Edward Lee? Fangoria says he “pulls no punches.”

  (The man jerks the girls about. Muffled screams are barely audible.)

  Man: Fangoria don’t know shit! You know what Edward Lee will do!?!

  (The man pulls the girl so she is directly in front of him. He puts the gun to the back of her head and fires. There’s a loud BANG and girl’s face explodes in a shower of blood, bone, and brains.)

  Man: He’ll put a bullet through your fuckin’ face!

  (The corpse slumps to the floor and off camera.)

  (The image changes to a book cover. “Bullet Through Your Face” by Edward Lee. The cover image is a close-up painting of a bullet exiting someone’s forehead.)

  Man voiceover: “Bullet Through Your Face,” out now on Deadite Press. Buy it bitch!

  ROUND 3

  “Your third challenge is going to be a little different than your first two,” said the video girl, “You have shown that you have technical skill on how to handle food but there is more to cooking that just putting ingredients into a pan and then onto a plate.”

  Another tray lowered down from the ceiling to the center table. This one was even bigger than before but instead of ice cream it was piled high with every type of body part imaginable—arms, eyeball, penises, heads, toes, intestines, kidney stones, and so much more.

  “Before you is a selection of some of the finest cured meats the world has to offer,” the video girl explained. “Your task this round is to create your own centerpiece—your own work of art—using the cuts we’ve provided. The piece is meant to be admired and nibbled from for the entire evening. But be quick about it, you only have ten minutes.”

  The screen turned off and the Supreme Chef assumed his position hovering in the center of the room.

  “Round three, Allez cuisine!”

  The three contestants raced to the table. Amy leaned over the piles of preserved viscera to see what she had to work with. She dug her hands in and shifted the flesh piles around. Something small and white poked through a group of spleens. She pushed them out of the way and grabbed what caught her eye.

  A tooth. An adult incisor to be specific.

  A tooth . . . Bingo!

  That was just the stroke of genius she needed. She dug back into the pile looking for more teeth. She picked up a head in her search and found a few stray teeth buried beneath it. She paused and looked at the head.

  Of course—the mouths.

  She rushed back to her kitchenette, took the largest pot she could find, and ran back to the meat pile. She grabbed every head she saw and tossed them into the pot. After gathering up about ten heads she rushed them to her cooking space.

  Amy reached into the pot and pulled out one of the heads—a woman, though the curing made it impossible to tell age or race. She placed the head on a cutting board and grabbed a nearby steak knife. She wedged the point of the blade between the gums and the top front teeth. She wiggled the knife and the teeth tore away with little problem. Amy repeated this with all the remaining teeth in the mouth (only eight).

  She put down the knife and grabbed a soup spoon. She dug the spoon into the left eye socket, careful not to damage the eye itself. The eyeball started to pop forward and Amy flicked the spoon. It popped out and daggled down the cheek from the optic nerve. She picked the steak knife back up and cradled the eye with the other hand. One quick cut and the eyeball was in her hand neat and pretty. She then repeated the process with the head’s right eye.

  One head down.

  Amy picked up the next head from the pot.

  I think I might need more eyeballs.

  The buzzers went off and their time was up.

  “Time! Now show what you have created,” said the Supreme Chef. “Buffo, I’m most intrigued over what you made. Go first.”

  Buffo spun around from his work station and held up a serving tray displaying his work. He had chosen brains as his material. He’d mashed several together into a paste with which he could mold. From this he made a fairly accurate (material considering) replica of the Lincoln Memorial that was almost three feet tall.

  That clown has some weird obsession with the civil war.

  “Inspiring and educational,” said the Supreme Chef, “and what do you have for us Amy?”

  Amy turned to face the Supreme Chef holding out her tray. The Supreme Chef couldn’t tell what was on the tray from the distance.

  “Come closer,” he called.

  She stepped forward. On the counter behind her sat a sculpture constructed from a large sternum. The bone was cleaned of any meat and blanched white. Connected to the bottom of the sternum was a skull. Its top was cut off and the insides hollowed out. Its mouth hung wide open. Beneath both these objects was another head on the floor. This one had its skull intact but set up so the hollowed out eye sockets were staring at the ceiling. Its mouth was open as well.

  Amy displayed her tray to the Supreme Chef; a simple hors d’oeuvres spread of eyeballs, each with a tooth inserted into the pupil.

  Amy held up her free hand, pointing her index finger and indicating for him to watch. She picked up one of the eyes and popped it into her mouth. She chewed all the meat away and swallowed, being careful to keep the tooth in her mouth.

  She walked closer to the sternum/head display on the counter. When she was about ten feet away she stopped, stood still for a moment, and then spat out the tooth. The tooth flew through the air and hit the center o
f the sternum. It bounced down into the opening of the skull and rattled around a few times, then rolled slowly out the open mouth. It fell straight down flew the air into the waiting mouth of the head on the ground.

  Amy turned to the Supreme Chef and bowed.

  “Marvelous,” he said, “just marvelous.”

  He turned to the last contestant. “Finally, Sliceatron. What did you create?”

  The cyborg stepped aside revealing his counter top. All the cyborg had done was grab a torso, two arms, two legs, and a head and assembled them on the countertop in their proper positions.

  “Tsk Tsk, I expected more,” judged the Supreme Chef, “this is amateurish with not even hint of originality. A first year cooking school student would be embarrassed.”

  “SLICEATRON NOT PROGRAMED TO COMPLETE TASK FOR ROUND,” said the cyborg in a jerky static-distorted voice.

  “Oh cyber-man, your precision is unrivaled but there is not even a hint of passion or heart,” said the Supreme Chef with a touch of pity. “You are an ice cream sundae without the sprinkles. Torisaru!”

  Red lights and BBBUUUZZZZZZ and Sliceatron was gone.

  A very thin middle-aged woman pops on the video screen. She has tightly cut short black hair and is wearing a black turtle neck.

  The video girl gives a voice over, “Sliceatron is one of the luckiest contestants to ever be eliminated. In conjunction with the Center for Public Art, he is being donated to one of the greatest living artists of our time—Rita Ainsworth!”

  The woman on screen starts talking, “I see great potential with this ‘metal man’ to create a piece that examines the placement of man in this modern, technologically obsessed world. I will fashion his machine parts into a replica of a television, but instead of a screen there will be an automated mechanical jaw. The flesh parts will be preserved and installed on a conveyer belt that will loop in and out of the mouth.

  “The piece will be a wake-up call to the world and a dramatic statement on mankind being eternally consumed by its own creations. I have recently been selected as the next artist in residence for the art channel, so starting next Monday on channel 93 at eight p.m. eastern standard time, the whole world will be able to view it 24/7 for two weeks.”

  Rita Ainsworth disappeared and the video girl appeared on screen. “Thanks! That sounds super!” she squealed. “Now, we’re going to take a brief break to give our final two contestants a chance to rest and mentally prepare for their final challenge. But don’t worry everyone, we’ll be right back.”

  COMMERCIAL BREAK

  (A very skinny man is running down a dark alleyway. He is wearing yellow jeans two sizes too small, a Goonies t-shirt, bright red shoes, a pink scarf, and oversized grandmother sunglasses. He is fleeing in terror from something unknown. His outfit is not designed for a quick getaway and he runs with obvious difficulty.

  He stumbles over his own feet and falls into a pile of cardboard boxes filled with trash. The camera zooms in on his terrified face turning around. We can now see that he has an asymmetrical haircut that covers the right side of his face. There is a bright blond streak through the front of his hair.

  Image changes to the wall of the alleyway and a large shadow falling across it. We can’t tell much but we can make out the silhouette of a man with a shotgun.

  Close-up of scared boy)

  Emo kid: Who are you? What did I ever do to you?

  (View from the perspective of the emo kid looking up. There is a man wearing a black leather jacket with a white t-shirt. His hair is slicked back in a style that would be stylish in the nineteen fifties. He bears more than a passing resemblance to the Fonz. Unlike the Fonz, this guy has a shotgun that is pointed straight at the camera.)

  Johnny: I’m Johnny and I’m here to save the day.

  (The shotgun goes off.)

  Quick cut to the interior of a bar. It is a smoky dive with a jukebox blaring Buddy Holly in the background. Johnny is playing pinball. He is no longer wearing the leather jacket but we can now see he has a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his t-shirt’s sleeve.

  Next to him is a stunningly beautiful woman. She wears black leather pants and a crass tank-top. She has a giant green Mohawk and multiple lip, nose, eyebrow, and ear piercings. She is a sobbing wreck pleading with Johnny.)

  Jenny: But Johnny, don’t you know I love you? You could leave all this behind and start a life with me.

  Johnny: I have to.

  Jenny: But why Johnny, why?

  Johnny: I . . . I just hate them so much.

  (Image of Johnny standing in the middle of a street, his shotgun slung across his shoulders. He is standing in front of a small art gallery. The sign in the front window is advertising a special exhibit composed of “found art” that promises to be an “eye-opening examination of gender.” Without warning the building explodes. Johnny gives no indication that anything happened.)

  Title cards on top of image: HIPSTER HUNTER BY JEFF BURK

  Title cards change: COMING NEXT SUMMER FROM ERASERHEAD PRESS

  BUFFO

  The room was small, bare, and cold, but Buffo didn’t care. Comfort was not a concern for him—that was for those less enlightened.

  He sat cross-legged in the lotus position. Both his hands were held out, palm up, in front of his body. In one sat a seltzer bottle, in the other a hand-buzzer—these were his offerings to the clown Gods of fun and surprising flavors.

  His mind focused on the red ball that sat on his nose. He concentrated and imagined all of his energy being encompassed by that ball as he extended his consciousness to make connection with universal flavor.

  The boundaries of his body slipped away (as his sect symbolized with face paint) and his mind whirled.

  Buzzing alarms and red lights flashed around Buffo, signaling the beginning of the fourth and final round. He opened his eyes, pocketed the seltzer bottle and hand-buzzer, and got to his feet.

  He grabbed his fake nose and squeezes it twice, saying “honk” each time.

  Buffo was ready for battle.

  AMY

  Amy took off her jeans in the center of the room. She sat down and the floor was cold on her ass but she didn’t even pause. There were only a few minutes before the commercials were over.

  She placed both of her hands on her left thigh and pushed down. There was a clicking sound and the hidden door on her leg sprung open. It was a small compartment, hidden from even the most invasive search, containing a glass vial of clear liquid.

  Amy shut the door on her leg and quickly got dressed. She examined the container she just produced. Her mind flashed back to when she was a small girl and her grandmother, being her only living family, had the surgery on to her.

  Her grand ma-ma had placed the vial into her leg. “One day you will need this. I have read your cupcake crumbs and the future is already decided—you will regain what was stolen from us long ago.”

  “But what’s that grand ma-ma?” said little Amy, looking with wonder at the object being carefully placed inside her.

  “A gift my grand ma-ma gave to me—the secret to ultimate flavor,” said grand ma-ma. “Never take it out. Never mention it to anybody. Not until the moment is right.”

  “How will I know when it is right?”

  Red lights and buzzing tore Amy out of her memories. She palmed the vial. Her grand ma-ma’s response lingered in her head.

  “You’ll know.”

  ROUND 4

  “Alright, you did it,” squealed the video girl. She now had a noise-maker and a plastic party hat. She blew into the noise maker and then continued, “you made it to the final round! This is it, the end of the show. One of you will be assuming the head chef position at any restaurant, anywhere in the world. The other one of you . . . won’t. Gomenasai!

  “You have proven that you know how to select meat, serve a dish, and understand the art of presentation. Now you will answer the most important question—can you cook? You will complete against each other in a cook-off. We are supplyi
ng a secret ingredient that your dish must be based around. You will each have half an hour to prepare and then the Supreme Chef will sample your creations and decide a winner.

  “And without further ado, this week’s secret ingredient is . . . bacon!”

  A massive circular tray of raw bacon lowered down from the ceiling to the table in the center of the area. It was at least ten feet across and the pile of sliced meat was at least a meter high. Amy had never dreamed of so much bacon in one spot at one time. She immediately started salivating.

  “We are supplying the finest bacon humanly possible—cut from the finest cattle, fresh from the fattie farms in Hyōgo Prefecture. You are permitted to use the bacon in any way you wish, but the basis of your dish must be bacon.

  “Under the counters in your kitchenettes you will find a Replicat 7300—the finest in replication technology. The machine will link with your mind and produce any other ingredient you may need for your dishes. The only limit is your imagination.

  “I hope you’re ready.”

  The screen darkened and the Supreme Chef flew to his standard spot in the middle of the room. “Final round, Allez cuisine!”