Daily Archives: September 2, 2011

Butcher’s Choice

Posted by deadendemily on

 

Sweat soaked the back of Andy’s T-shirt as he trudged up the garden path towards the barbeque under the blazing June sun. His friend Steve was moving the burgers around with a pair of prongs. Steve was wearing a bizarre plastic apron bearing a pink-naked woman, the meat’s sizzling mingling with the background music and conversation.

‘Ah, Andy,’ he boomed, ‘you’ve brought the good stuff.’ He nodded to the bulky package under Andy’s arm. ‘And I don’t just mean the booze.’

Andy dumped the cans of beer in the big blue water-barrel.

‘Let’s chuck them on, then’ said Steve.

Andy handed over the enormous package. Steve eagerly unwrapped the white greaseproof paper revealing a massive pile of sausages. He lifted up a string of fat red bangers, shining in their skins. He cut off a section and draped them around the burgers on the grille.

‘Perk of the job, isn’t it,’ said Steve. ‘Being a butcher, and all that.’

Andy grinned as he watched the sausages spit and steam. ‘I guess so.’

‘Where’s Dave then,’ asked Steve.

‘Dunno,’ replied Andy. ‘He said he was going to buy some booze. That was at lunchtime, just before I locked up.’

***
‘How long have you been screwing her?’ Andy was furious, purple-faced, a caricature of a florid butcher in his red apron. ‘Fucking her and fucking me?’

‘It’s not like that,’ mumbled Dave, a tall young man with the remnants of acne on a handsome face.

‘Bullshit,’ roared Andy. ‘She packed her bags this morning. Said she had a key to your place.’

Dave looked at the ground. ‘It’s probably best if I go.’ He turned wearily around on the sawdust floor.

Andy swung the cleaver with a grunt, splitting Dave’s skull even as he turned. He fell like a leg of beef dropped from a hook and the cleaver clattered beside him. Blood spilled from the gaping rent in his skull, obscuring the glistening meat hiding inside. Andy froze in horror.What have I done?

He came to his senses, dashing through to the shop counter and the front door. He locked it and turned the sign to ‘Closed’ before pulling down the blind. It was nearly closing time anyway.

Andy acted quickly. He grabbed Dave under the arms and dragged him onto the block, tearing off his clothes. He used the boning knife and cleaver to slice and unpick the joints, dumping the arms and legs into a gore-stained plastic crate. He worked quickly. He was well practiced, after all.

One slice of the knife unzipped the stomach and revealed the steaming offal. This went into another plastic crate. Except the gleaming brown lobe of the liver, which he kept on the block. The tang of blood was thick in his mouth and nostrils, but he was used to it.

It took minutes to slice the steak-red muscles from the thighs and arms, and a few more minutes to take the chest meat from the torso. He tossed them into the mincer with some congealed fat from the cold store and switched on the machine, putting a metal tray underneath the outlet pipe.

Then he chopped up the liver into sections. It felt warm through his gloves, slippery in his hands. By this time, the mincer was churning emptily above a pile of pink mincemeat. Andy poured it into the bath-like sausage machine with the chopped liver, and opened a bag of seasoning. He poured the powder liberally over the meat and offal and tossed in a few scoops of rusks, before switching the sausage mixer on.

He used the bone saw to reduce the arms, legs, ribcage, skull and torso to small pieces, pausing occasionally to wipe the bone-chips from his goggles. This all went into the off-cuts bin, which he dragged into the cold store. The hunks of human were unrecognisable in amongst the other carcass chunks. He made sure the scalp, hands and feet were on the very bottom. It would all be incinerated anyway.

He dumped the organs in the tripe bucket, in the cold store. He would have to burn the organs after dark, as the cattle arrived gutted and quartered. But a pile of guts was harder to identify than an entire body.

Then, he made the sausages. He fixed a metal tube to the sausage machine outlet and fed the crushed, mixed and minced meat mixture through into the skin-casing, twisting it off a few times after every few inches. The glossy red meat shone through the pale skins as they coiled on the metal tray.

Finally, Andy scrubbed the butchery from top to bottom. He was running late and the cleaning was normally down to his assistant Dave. But Dave was clearly not available to help, and was in fact the main contributor to the mess on the gore-flecked table, blood-drenched crates and clotted sawdust floor. Andy switched on the radio and whistled along as he worked. He would be late for the barbeque, but no matter.

He didn’t have time for a shower, but washed himself from head to toe in the small changing room. It was difficult enough to get rid of the meat and fat stench anyway and his friends were used to it. The clothes went into a bin-liner for later disposal. He gathered up the sausages in greaseproof paper, and picked up the cans of beer from the cold store. Then he left to Steve’s barbeque, whistling the tune he had heard on the radio, as he locked up the shop.

***
The spitting of the sausages brought Andy back to reality.

‘How’s it going, anyway,’ asked Steve, handing him an opened beer-can.

‘Not so good,’ replied Andy, rubbing his hand over his balding head. He felt tired. ‘Most of the customers go to the supermarket now. It’s only the old folks who bother with a butcher’s shop anymore. Half of the youngsters nowadays think a burger just jumps off an animal or something.’ He sipped his can of beer.

‘I think these are nearly done,’ said Steve as he poked the sausages. ‘Fancy one?’ He grabbed a couple of buttered buns.

Andy’s breath froze in his lungs. His mouth dried up and fresh sweat trickled down his back.

I’ve no choice, he thought.

He took a swig of beer.

‘Go on then,’ he laughed. ‘I don’t like to mix business with pleasure. I see enough of this down the shop to get sick of it. Slap on plenty of sauce though.’

The first bite was the hardest. It stuck in his gullet before sliding down and his stomach churned in revolt. But he had another gulp of beer and took a second bite. And then another.

‘Where can Dave be,’ mumbled Steve through a mouthful of meat. ‘He’d better get here before these sausages are gone. They’re delicious!’

Andy grabbed a roll and lifted another sausage from the barbeque. ‘I’m sure he’s not far…’ he laughed, as he bit into the roll.

By Iain Paton

http://blackdogstories.wordpress.com/

Eating Out

Posted by deadendemily on

Her orgasm was exploding through her body when he wrenched her arm back at a 90 degree angle, causing her to shriek out in pain and ecstasy. The same hand that had guided her to the dark bedroom of this warehouse apartment, somewhere on the far side of the city, now splintered her humerus. It was like breaking a matchstick with your thumb. Tossed from the bed, she realized that while her body flew across the room, her arm had been left behind in the claw of her lover. She screamed.

She tasted cheap, he thought, her pussy wasn’t even washed, it smacked of sweat and feminine odor. He hadn’t had something tasty in so long, upper class, delightful, clean. He supposed that was just because of the money, they always wanted money, he never had enough. There were some habits that seemed to be using it all up, he glared down at the brown paper bag disgustedly, and made a sour face. The things one needs to stay alive. She was pretty though. Her ass was nicer than he’d had in a couple of weeks, very juicy, very tender. But he wanted something that didn’t taste like garbage. Fuck women, they needed to take better care of themselves if they were going to whore around like that.

“How long has she been dead?”

“You’re late, asshole.”

“I had to pick something up on my way over, took longer than I thought it would, you want to answer me?”

“Not really.”

“Fuck you, Fitz, and your fucking filthy Irish twat.”

“Oh I love it when you talk dirty, Rich! Some crack head found her or something, scared the bitch out of her fucking mind. I’d say she’s been dead a little over a day, the bugs have already started to get at her, or what’s left of her.”

They looked down at the half devoured body of sweet Jane Doe, right arm ripped off, leg looked gnawed off, her breast had been torn through like a package of hamburger and her face was about as relevant as steak tenderloin. The elephant in the room was clearly the gaping hole in her midsection that extended to her pelvis, just jagged teeth marks, deep wounds like claw marks and chewed organs. She was a goddamn entree.

“So, is it just me, or does it look like she’s been fuckin’ eaten, Fitz?”

“Yep.”

“Any animals in the area do that?”

“Nope.”

“Am I dealing with something seriously fucked?”

“Yep. This little treat was not just mutilated on a massive level, she was definitely eaten. Forensics found some stuff to indicate there was another person with her when this happened. I don’t know what to tell you, man. I mean it gives a whole new meaning to being eaten out, ha!”

“Shut up, Fitz.”

Rich went over the report a few times before he began feeling nauseous. The pictures were enough to make a normal man queasy, but reading the description over and over again, ‘torn out liver, partial uterus, severe facial lacerations, missing limbs, 8 feet of missing small intestine . . .” he ran to the toilet. Puking chunks of a Reuben sandwich from earlier and some unidentifiable stomach contents, Rich leaned back against his beige tiled bathroom wall that reflected sick in the fluorescent light. The bathroom had always reminded him of motels that charged by the hour, and have so much cum on the walls and floor, in the illumination of a black light one would instantly go blind. He wobbled to the scratchy olive sofa and pulled out the contents of the brown bag. Soon he felt better, he felt the color returning to his face, and his stomach settled. You do what you can to live, he thought, leaning back into the couch and letting sleep overtake him. Dreams are monsters, ripping through his skin, tearing pieces of flesh from his face, shredding through his torso and scooping out organs like a melon baller. The monster smiles with big canines oozing blood. They have teeth, big teeth, big bad teeth that smell awful, they smell like, they smell like . . . like a toasted Reuben sandwich? Rich jumped awake at the ringing phone by his head and damn near yanked the receiver out of the jack.

“What the fuck?”

“Well it’s good to hear your voice too, dick.”

“Fitz, what the hell time is it?”

“Almost four, doesn’t matter, I found something on that chick. Meet me at the office.”

Shaken by his dream and still not feeling well, Rich wasn’t in the mood for Fitz’s bullshit. He was surviving on little to no sleep and the brown paper bags were the only thing keeping him sane. He arrived at the office finding it hard to swallow. Fitz was in the lab looking pleased with himself; he was standing over a couple of slides and some computer printouts.

“You’ll never guess what the fuck we’re dealing with, because I sure as hell don’t know, but there is a human being involved in this mess. I don’t know if he’s a fucked up cannibal or what the hell, but it’s a man, and I know exactly how to find him.”

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

“Ok get this, our girl was a regular at the club she was reportedly seen leaving, and the bartender got a good look at the guy who picked her up that night, even talked to him a bit.”

“So what, you saw that body, she could’ve easily hooked up with some asshole and then gotten mauled by whatever after the fact.”

“Oh I know, which is where these babies come in.”

Fitz pointed to some blood slides and smiled knowingly.

“They were found at the crime scene, apparently our man heaved a little after chowing down. Most of the mess was the girl, but some of the blood and tissue didn’t match her. Turns out it’s fucking baboon’s heart! This guy is eating raw baboon’s heart! There’s only one butcher shop in the city that sells something that fucked up! And my guess is whatever description we get from the bartender will match that of the butc—”

Smash! The computer keyboard collided with Fitz’s face just as his theory was reaching its climax. He had been talking so adamantly he didn’t notice Rich unhook the hardware. Rich gathered the slides and samples, along with the printouts of the information Fitz had uncovered. It made Rich cringe slightly that Fitz had figured out the baboon hearts, his little brown bag secret. They staved off the urge to hunt and kill as his kind was supposed to. Well, Fitz will just have to be the main course tonight.

Fitz regained consciousness when the meat hook was placed between his shoulder blades, paralyzing him. He dangled there for several moments screaming before Rich came into view, moving between large sides of hanging beef ribs.

“Rich . .  . I . . aaaahh . . .FUCK!”

Fitz whimpered in pain, but the hook in his back made it too difficult to speak. Rich began sniffing the air, becoming excited at the scent of fear and blood. The image of his friend, a live slab of helpless slaughter, speeded the transformation. Standing naked beneath the speechless Fitz, Rich’s fingers lengthened first, extending into claws, followed by the morphing jaws that became fuller and protruded out while the skin stretched for transformation. His back legs adjusted and rapid hair began sprouting over his body until finally, Fitz stared down at a monstrous wolf-like creature. Rich sat back on his hind legs and then lunged viciously at Fitz, ripping the hook straight through his back. He ate hungrily, devouring his manhood and lower half in the first moments. By the time Rich was done, there was nothing remotely definable about his friend, he crunched the bones and made himself eat every piece of evidence that could identify Fitz as a human being.

Rich counted out the hundred dollar bills he’d taken from Fitz’s apartment and withdrawn from his bank account – he had always been so trusting with him. He licked his lips at the thought of consuming his friend’s kidneys. He could still taste Fitz’s distinct flavor of whiskey and Irish Spring bar soap lingering on the tip of his taste buds. He held a toothpick between his teeth, offhandedly picking bits of gristle from some of the more difficult molar areas. Rich needed something to wash Fitz down with and he knew just the thing.

Her name was May and she was a soft-skinned society girl who had been dancing provocatively at one of the high end clubs on the west side. Her breasts were round and only a little small, but everything was forgiven when Rich had slid off her panties and taken his first lick of delicate top shelf pussy. Wet and fragrant, May was a spring day of sensual eroticism. She was refined and her elegant flesh needed only minor pressure to break the surface. Once Rich smelled the spilled blue blood, his frenzied beast burst forth and he began eating her out for real. Her moans turned quickly to screams which he ceased with a sharp snap of his jaws around her slender neck. Fitz had been dinner;  now May was dessert, no more baboon hearts for Rich, not when the blood tasted so good. He let out a blissful howl and disappeared like his victim’s ingested corpses.

By Emily Smith-Miller