Hunter got up and turned the music down to a dull roar. “OK,” he said, “I got to plan this one so here’s the way it’s gonna go. Zach was first to go. That was a must, first to go. Check. Caleb, you go second. After you go, then it’s Cheyenne’s turn. Trinity, you go fourth and Josh, you’ll be the fifth one to go. Megan, you’ll go next and I’ll be the last one to go. ‘Last one pays for all,’ right, Cheyenne?” She gave an approving nod with just a trace of a knowing smile. King quotes were her faves, of course. This is the order of tales for this evening’s little love fest and remember, we’re all just trying to gross each other out…so give it your best shot. Like your lives depended on it. Like good stories mean you get to have a long healthy happy life fucking the human or object of your choice and bad stories mean you get fucked and in more ways than one.” He cast a shadowy sadistic smile around the group. The fire light danced off of his pimpled skin and gave him a sinister serial killer characteristic. “Without further ado, let the games…continue. Caleb, you have the floor.” Hunter turned and looked at his section of log and sat primly down. He crossed a leg over the other and stared intently at Caleb. Caleb got to his feet and gave a panty-dropping smile to the ladies.
“My apologies in advance, ladies. This one’s going to be harsh.” The girls giggled and Megan clapped her hands.
“Give it to us, big boy,” Trinity hollered. “Give it all to us! Wooo!” There was general applause and good-natured laughter. Then, it quieted and Caleb began. He told them a vividly violent tale about a beast that grew ravenous at the smell of menstrual blood and would stalk its unsuspecting prey as they slept at night. On rare occasions, the beast would actually catch women menstruating and fucking at the same time. These were a rare delicacy for it. The hormones mixed with the period blood gave off not only the sweetest odor, but the most mouth-watering flavor it had ever know. Biting off a man’s cock fully erect and dripping with period blood was like a lollipop to it. Sweet, sweet candy. It was, of course, this attraction to that blood and the wide swath of devastation it left all along the countryside and all of the surrounding towns that finally led the men to track it down to its current lair. When they crept inside this filthy, stinking tomb of a cave, they found it in the act of harvesting the cunt nectar (as Caleb so aptly put it). It had a naked woman in its claws, she was barely conscious, but yes, still breathing. One clawed hand on each of her calves and he pulled in separate directions like a Thanksgiving wishbone. Her body first split, then bone-cracked, then pulled apart in ragged segments. Her monthly blood now mixed with all of the rest of her blood flowed easily from the two sections of her down its enormous throat. It had turned the larger section of the woman around—the section with her cunt—and was sucking the blood flow from that part of her greedily when they came with guns and swords and slew the mighty beast. Bullets hit it from all angles, opening great craters in its vast head. A sword was jabbed and stuck fast through the dismembered corpse’s left breast and into the creature’s great eye. It fell backward, the two halves of the ex-woman flung against hard rock walls whereupon it splattered even further, and the men carved it up until they could all take home meat and trophies. What these men did not know was that the mighty beast was once a simple farmer, much like themselves. He fell afoul of a beast himself and was thusly changed. As they, too, quickly changed. Now, instead of one ravenous, blood-thirsty beast…there were many. They all hurried home to their wives and daughters, mothers and grandmothers, aunts and cousins…to feast. He finished and took his bow. Maybe not his best story to date, but they all agreed that it was a zinger. Caleb glanced over at Hunter. The fire light danced like forest sprites in his eyes. It seemed to Caleb’s private thoughts that Hunter was taking notes, like for real. That was probably nuts, he thought, but still…
Hunter stood up. “Anyone need a piss break? Ladies? Need to go change your pads or anything?” He chuckled and looked over at Caleb who was also grinning. They all laughed and Megan threw an empty paper cup at Hunter. He deflected it easily and went on. “All right, all right. Cheyenne…your turn, my dear.” He rubbed his hands together ghoulishly and did the wicked movie laugh “Mwahahaha.” He sat back down and let Cheyenne take the center stage. She used her fingers to rake her hair behind her ear and began.
“W.W.S.K.D.?” Everyone knew this mantra and knew it was her version of “Do re mi fa so la ti do.” She licked her lips in a decidedly seductive fashion. “Boys, boys, boys. Boys n’ their toys, oh what joys.” She was glancing around at each male member in the group and making suggestive eye contact with them. “In honor of boys who love to talk about…” Her voice her grew confidential and wildly sensual. “…pussies…and cunts…and blood.” She licked her lips again and ran a hand down her breasts to her stomach then to her crotch. “Tonight, the King’s little princess is going to divert slightly from the fictional gore to the non-fictional. In honor of our last year of high school and also in honor of our location and the anniversary it represents, I’d like to tell you tale of the werewolf that haunts these woods. Or, maybe she-wolf is closer to the truth of it. She has haunted these woods for nearly two hundred years now and hasn’t showed any sign of going gently into that good night. She was with her grandmother over two hundred years ago in a small village in Lithuania visiting her ancestral crib when the dreaded beast attacked her. It came from the shadows as so often is the case. It slit her grandmother open from her grizzled old throat right down to the bulge of her belly. It fed on her as the young girl—flung carelessly aside—was unconscious. As she regained consciousness, she found the vicious beast, head bowed over her own, drooling and rumbling a low growl in the back of its throat. She wanted to get up and run, but its position held her down, forepaw on her twelve-year-old chest. She couldn’t even catch enough breath to scream. A string of its drool hung suspended just above her mouth and she dared not even open it long enough to take a breath. Unbeknownst to the young girl, a sharp jag of her grandmother’s brittle old bones had lacerated the beast’s gumline. There was…tainted blood…mixed in with that drool. She finally had to gasp for a breath as the runner of drool fell directly into her open fetching throat. She contracted the illness that second. That second that would change her life and countless other lives forever. It had made her unpure. It had made her a beast. It had also made her a warrior. The beast hovered a few minutes more, then, smelling the change in the young girl’s blood, it turned, howled hauntingly and fled into the fog-littered night. She lay there a while longer, then slowly sat up. She was alone. Orphaned at nine when her parents were taken by the plague, she was now utterly alone, her last living blood relative taken from her unceremoniously, she roamed the alien countryside as a rogue phantom. She knew no one, for she would not come close enough to be known for fear of the illness. She had no home, for what home could she possible take that she would not have to flee from on some full-moon eve? She ate as she was able. When the moon came to her as a lover, caressing her soul into darkness, she changed and ate as she had to. When the hunger and change were upon her, she knew none of the devastation and carnage. She knew of none of the burned down villages and the trail of corpses leading others to her. They came. Men. Men mounted on horseback. Men with pitchforks, swords, knives, guns. It was and still is always guns with men. They hunted her across the great and vast land until they finally lost the trail as many of them had also lost their lives. She lived many generations, she studied—when able—the curse, the illness, then—the blessing. She began to understand that the creature wasn’t something she turned into, it was another side of her that she could no longer run from and so turned and embraced it. There was a schism in her mind before this understanding. After, a great and life-altering peace. She began to hunt down murderers, bad and evil men doing the devil’s work. She hunted down the criminal element that thrived on this and every society throughout all of time out of mind. She slaughtered men, even women and on the rarest of occasion, a few children that were so evil, they were already killers before
they were adults. She specialized in men that preyed on women. Men that liked to take from women. Men that took what they wanted and then maybe left the women with their lives, maybe not. Jack the Ripper types and everyday guys who took their day out on their wives. She gave every man three chances to change. She watched them, studied them, then—when no other course of action was sufficient—she devoured them. She clawed, bit, hid, fought and finally made her way into the present. She uses this place, this scenic overlook as a base of operations. She finds…men…pig men…men who would rather give their wives and girlfriends bruises than roses…she finds them and rips them apart. She takes and eats what she must, she conceals the rest. Somewhere not too far from this very spot where we sit trying to gross each other out, she has her dumping ground. A mud pit full of men who were shit in life and now fertilize the ground with their flesh. She is a goddess among the swine, a plague to the plague of men, a disease to the worldwide malady of masculinity. She is the pharmaceutical cure for the pandemic of the prick. She is out there right now, in those woods behind us and all around us, watching us, listening to our childish stories, waiting. The only escape—should she attack—is straight down this four-hundred-foot drop to the rocks and trees below. No one would hear us scream. No one would care until they found the remains of our party—if they ever found the remains of our party. So, drink, smoke, fuck, live… You never know when the claws will come around and tear out your living throats. You never know when you will be looking into the night and find the night looking back at you.” She took a long deep breath, held it in a second and then softly released it into the stillness of the cool night air. The moon accepted it graciously. She glanced around at the still, sullen faces. She gave the smallest sign of a mischievous smile and whispered, “The end,” and then sat back down. They all slowly blinked, looking around at each other in disbelief. Josh slowly stood up and then began an equally slow applaud that began to pick up speed after a few seconds. The others stood up and began applauding as well. Wolf whistles and howls and laughter echoed out over the drop and into the blackness of existence. She stood back up sheepishly and took a small courtesy bow, then returned to her seat. They were all still applauding wildly. She had topped the pimple story with paragraphs to spare.
Zach bowed to her and said, “King would be proud!” She smiled as the applause began to die down, fading to a fond memory. In this group, in these outings and parties, every once in a while, a story and story teller come along that changed the game forever. They thought this story was a game changer. All began to grab for cell phones and drinks. It was break time.
“Ladies on the left, boys and their toys on the right,” Caleb cajoled. They all went to their respective sides. Zach stood next to Hunter, undoing his fly and chuckling.
“Goddamn, that girl knocked it out of the park. Great fucking story. Gonna be hard to top that one, old buddy. Glad I already went. I never knew she had a story like that waiting to come out.” He glanced down and slightly over and noticed something a bit odd. Hunter was holding the head of his dick and pissing like all the times they had pissed together before, but he seemed to have gained a good five inches in that area.
“I’m not worried,” Hunter said up into the night sky. “I got a good one.” Zach kept looking at his member in wonder.
“What did you do, Hunter, get one of those dick pumps? Look at you, you’re a monster.” He said, zipping up his own six inches. They had all taken turns measuring each other on a dare from the girls one night and he knew Hunter was only about an inch over him. But this monster! Jesus Christ!
“Yeah, those fuckers actually work. Oughta get yourself one, buddy. The girls are gonna flip. Don’t worry, I’ll do the big reveal later. Mum’s the word for now, cool?” Zach nodded in disbelief. Hunter zipped up, carefully, and walked back over to the fire. They all began to come back around. Josh and Trinity were bringing more chunks of wood for the fire and as they threw them down on the blaze, a beautiful shower of sparks and flame reached up toward the heavens. A dog howled in the far-off distance. More than half received a long cool shiver up their spines at the sound. Everyone grabbed fresh drinks and sat back down in their spots. “All right, everyone, first off, Cheyenne? Great fucking story. We all say thank you.” Hunter said and she smiled, raising her beer in a toast. “OK, Trinity? You ready to top that last one?” Trinity smiled and stood up as Hunter sat down.
“I highly doubt that, but I’m gonna give it the old college try.” She cleared her throat and coughed once. She took a good long drag on her cigarette and, exhaling up into the night sky, threw it on the fire. She looked down at the ground collecting her thoughts and began. She told a ghost story containing elements of demon possession that caused a nun to masturbate with a broken, splintered crucifix. The blood pooled at her feet onto a pentagram opened a doorway to hell and all manner of foul and satanic creatures crawled out and distributed havoc all around the globe. The headhunter tribes of the jungles were eaten alive, the Brits and Scots were all led into the sea, as were the Australians and any other islanders, the Germans were all baked in large Satanic ovens that cooked them into one large casserole for Beelzebub, who was voracious in his appetite and ate greedily of the dish he had long awaited. Mmm, those tasty toasty Germans. The Americans were forced into mass orgies. Orgies that went on for days with no rest. The orgies soon turned deadly as men, women and children fornicated in their own writhing filth until many began to succumb to death in the act. The act, however, did not stop there. Those left alive continued with the deceased and the entire country went on and on until all had perished. The fates of all others on the planet were as varied as they were. Canadians fought each other like hockey players, mangling each other, attacking with no prejudice old and young alike, until none were left alive. Demonic pterodactyls swooped down from the blood red lava sky and ate greedily of the meat in the streets. The skies bled. The way to heaven was shut to humans forever. The streets ran with blood. The rivers, lakes, seas and oceans boiled. Every living thing on Earth was consumed by death and fire. “…and then,” she concluded, “the Earth was finally a nice place to live. The end.” She got a round of applause, scattered and unenthusiastic, but still nice to hear. No, she hadn’t topped the werewolf story, but she was happy with what she had come up with. The only part she “borrowed” was the masturbating nun from her Cradle of Filth tee shirt. But then, no one could top the guys from C.O.F.! She sat down and Hunter stood up, in the last few seconds of applauding her, and put his arms around behind his back.
“A nice place to live indeed,” he said smiling demonically himself. “That’s a great closing line. OK, the time has come for talemeister Josh to have the floor. Take it away, Josh.” More scattered applause and woohoo’s greeted Josh getting to his feet. Hunter returned to his seat.
“Yeah, yeah,” Josh said jovially. “We’ll get to that. Remember, it’s not the final destination, but the journey through the guts of the story that matters.” He scratched absently at his goatee and began to spin a tale about body builders. Body builders who were offered a new type of steroid that allegedly was amped up to the tune of the 25th power. This tight knit group of guys would work out in the gym every day for hours on end with each other, helping and spotting each other, getting each other motivationally pumped up and psyched up for success, knowing all the while that one day they would all be pitted against each other. For now, they were all happy enough as brothers in muscles to work together diligently. The basic train of thought was, “I will win. If I don’t, one of my brothers will, but they will never have to for I will not fail.” The head trainer at this facility was the one who introduced them to ZX-15-K19, cleverly nicknamed The Widowmaker after that old submarine movie. The steroid was injected into the bloodstream and usually within mere minutes, the participant would feel an intense upswing in his heart rate, a tensing up of muscle and, at the same time, a slight numbing sensation that left any worries of charley horses and muscle cramps in general in the dust.
The body builder would then go into near orgiastic fit of energy and begin to work out like a demon. The results were nearly always the same. Demonic muscle mass added to what was already there. There were no initial signs of any type of the usual ‘roid rage’ so the trainers had deemed it to be safe enough. Also, it seemed to leave no trace in the blood so it was safe to take and not get busted for using the stuff. So, the story went of the actual training techniques and methods and how each body builder began to put on a staggering amount of muscle mass. The day of the big show came and all of them were in attendance. All of them were ripped beyond belief. Well above their normal weight classes, they had all gone from welterweight to super heavy weight at a nearly one-hundred-pound addition in muscle mass. Ripped beyond belief. Fortunately for the group, they were relative unknowns and this did not raise much suspicion in their sudden increase in size, after all—it had been a mere two months since they began taking The Widowmaker and what an increase! The prejudging came and went, poses were made and ranks were given. They all ranked high and were then on their way to the final show later that afternoon. They gathered in the back-room area to work out and keep themselves stretched and ready for action. That was when the first sign of trouble reared its ugly head. One of the body builders was lifting weights and straining to his max capacity when his fore arm ripped the full length from wrist to elbow and split wide open. The tightly packed muscles and tendons and veins all exposed before the rest of the group and various guys from other groups, plus trainers and even a few camera crews filming the pre-show work out segment. It was caught on camera, live and in living color. The arm split and everything inside bulged and busted its way through. The skin clung around the other side of his arm like a banana peel partially opened. Blood pattered to the floor and pooled there as well as in his lap as he held his arm to his chest. The weights he had been lifting were removed by a spotter and he sat cradling his arm to his chest like a grotesquely bloody infant. Amazingly, he howled and sobbed like an infant who didn’t get what he wanted. The on-sight first aid responders jumped into action and the paramedics had already been called. He was led out of the room and into a private room where they worked hard and fast to patch him up for the ride to the hospital. Janitors appeared to clean up the blood and it was back to business as usual. There had been eight of them in their tightly knit group, now there were seven. With three hours to show time, they went back to training. None of them could get out of their minds what had befallen their friend. All of them grew silent and nervous with concern. How well had this Widowmaker been tested? And who were the widows it was making? The wives of the ones they went up against in the show or theirs? Show time finally came. They all went to the stage and took their predesignated places. They were heavily oiled and well-rehearsed in their art. They were paraded around on stage for a seemingly endless amount of time. Audience cheering with oohs and aahs thrown in for good measure. Poses were struck and weights were lifted. At the end of all of the showing came the judging. The worst part was the standing and waiting for the audience and judges to come their final decisions. As all of the forty-seven participants stood on stage waiting for their final rankings and for trophies and such to be awarded, the final ugliness hit. The seven remaining members were all standing in the same general area on stage when the meltdown occurred. They were standing there in their Stingray shoes and their Jed North bikini trunks when their skins began to tighten beyond the point of flexing muscle. It felt at first like a body suit that was shrinking and becoming too tight. It wasn’t that they were getting even larger, their skin was literally tightening on their muscles. The first faint sounds of ripping fabric could be heard by others on stage and when the first small patters of blood tapped on the stage, the men from other gyms began to move aside and give the seven space. The audience and judges began to understand that something was happening and gave silence to the breathless moment, rendering the faint fabric ripping sounds more acoustics. The ripping sounds grew more distinct in volume and pitch as the seven men began to howl with pain and agony. The first aid responders began to gather, but stopped short when they got a few feet away. The seven men seemed paralyzed to their spots as their skin shrunk tighter and split in every spot visible. They were quickly becoming red men, Martians maybe. Certainly alien and no longer discernable as living, breathing human men to all in attendance. They were now so entirely split open that they were more blood and muscle and tendons than skin. Shreds of torn blood flesh lay on the stage at their feet. One turned to walk off stage and slipped in his own leavings. He fell hard to the stage with an echoed thump that sent the other six into screaming hysterics. They were clawing maddeningly at their own faces, at the exposed nerves and falling flesh and the audience was now screaming and mostly making for the doors. A scattered handful still watched, intent on getting their money’s worth of blood. Every drop they could get. The men tore themselves apart. When nearly no skin remained on any of the seven, they still clawed, violently. Tearing at muscle fibers and nerves and everything once bundled up so neatly beneath their skin. Blood was everywhere as the seven continued to tear and claw. One by one, they fell to the floor, never to know their rankings, never again to compete, never again to care. The Widowmaker had lived up to its name as their wives were screaming from stage left. After perhaps fifteen minutes in all, only a pile of bloodied carcasses remained on stage. All other competitors had trampled off the stage moments after it had begun. When it was over and the wives had been led in tears away to begin their new lives as the widows’ club, the paramedics came in with stretchers and body bags to begin the arduous task of body removal. One thing they all learned that day from two of the eight paramedics on the scene that thought they could do their job without any gloves or masks… The Widowmaker was communicable.
Individually Wrapped Horrors Page 11
