home archives guidelines about

August 2008

Such a Bloody Mess
by Christopher Allan Death

Shlop.

Shlop.

Shlop.

Randy ran his finger through the glob of gooey gray matter and smiled inwardly. It felt like he was sticking his finger into a bowl of tapioca: warm, thick, and it had a slightly sweet aftertaste to boot. He remembered making the treat with his mother when he was twelve. First they mixed the tapioca and milk and salt together in a big bowl, and heated it over the stove till bubbles rose to the top. Then they beat the eggs together, whipping them over and over again until the yolks mixed with the whites, creating a soupy, slightly waxen texture. And finally they cooled it in the refrigerator. Or, they were supposed to at least. Most of the time Randy snuck into the kitchen and pilfered some of the sticky goodness before it was chilled.

If only his mother was here now. Randy stopped fishing through the steamy liquid and dried his finger on an old paper towel. His mother had passed on just two months ago. She was fifty-six years old – a proud Southern broad with a zest for life – and did not deserve the grisly fate which she so miserably met.

“Come here, Rupert,” he called. “Come on. Daddy has a surprise for you.”

A moment later, a slack-jawed weasel appeared in the doorway. Its hair was coarse and gray, interwoven here and there by patches of black, which made it look like an anorexic raccoon.

Randy suppressed a chuckle. Actually, it was a ferret, but a childhood defect left it with two front paws and a pair of stubs that waggled when it walked. It was a tragically amusing sight, but he had learned the hard way not to laugh at his miniscule handicapped friend.

“Daddy made a special dessert tonight,” he chirped, snatching a wooden ladle from the counter and dipping it into the coarse gray stew. “But you can’t have any until you’ve finished your supper.”

Rupert arched his back and peered upward with his gleaming black eyes. He would have stood on his back legs and looked adorable like other ferrets, but his lack of appendages restricted him from accomplishing such a feat.

“Would you grab the salt?” Randy asked, stirring the ladle through his molten masterpiece. He could hear the wooden spoon as it scraped around the bowl, sending an electric shiver through his nervous system. He couldn’t wait to taste his little concoction, and he knew Rupert was similarly impatient. The diminutive rodent scurried across the tile as fast as his dysfunctional legs would carry him, and clambered into the pantry.

“Now that’s a good boy.”

Randy set the salt shaker onto the dinner table, and surveyed his banquet. Here sat a leg of lamb, and there sat a beef and bean burrito. Here sat a pop tart, and there sat a day-old nacho platter. The tablecloth was covered with a veritable wealth of goodies. He could feel his mouth begin to water and a tickle in his loins.

That was odd.

Randy looked down, and found that Rupert had clawed his way up his pant leg, and now clung to the fabric beneath his pelvis. Randy breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t that much of a sicko. Sure, he liked food, especially when he had the munchies, but he wasn’t some sort of a pervert. He didn’t attain any sexual pleasure from the act. God forbid. What was the world coming to?

“Come on, Rupert,” he chided. “You know that isn’t polite. Now get over there and sit in your booster seat like a good weasel.”

Rupert scurried in a circle and made a clicking noise in the back of his throat, an act that meant he was unhappy with the situation, but he obeyed nonetheless. Randy was a strict parent, goddamnit, and he didn’t put up with any sass. Just like his mother before him.

“Alright. What would you like first? Chicken or ham?”

Rupert raised his paws and batted at the air.

“Chicken it is,” Randy proclaimed, and stabbed a chunk of white meat with his fork. “Don’t forget your vegetables. If you don’t eat them, you’ll stop growing, your ears will turn yellow, your nose will fall off, and you’ll die of scurvy before your fifteenth birthday.”

Exactly like mom used to tell him.

“You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

Rupert turned in a circle.

“I didn’t think so. Now stop playing with your food and eat. There are starving people in China you know!”

Randy bent forward over his plate and scooped a morsel of broccoli into his mouth. Or at least, what he thought was broccoli. It could have been any variety of moldy cheese, but he didn’t care to check. He just shoveled it into his mouth and chewed, feeling the spongy green substance flatten between his teeth.

“Oh Rupert, don’t feed the cockroaches!” he cried. “That’s people food, not insect food. God damn it.”

The little black insects scurried across the floor, rolling over the piece of chicken Rupert had dropped. Their skeletal legs jittered across the floor, making them look like a dozen gorged spiders on crack. They were hungry little buggers (no pun intended), and they swarmed over the morsel, fending each other away for the long-awaited nourishment. Randy briefly wondered what they would do to human flesh, but the thought was so gruesome that he quickly forgot it.

Gnawing, sawing, all the way down to the bone, peeling back flesh and tendons until there was nothing left. Nothing to gnaw upon but white, pearly bones …

“I see you’re not interested in seconds, so let’s get to dessert, shall we?”

Randy stood from the table and retrieved a couple bowls from the kitchen. Meanwhile, Rupert hopped up and down with delight, aware that something wonderful was about to happen. He was a hearty varmint – always happy to finish the Cheesy Puffs and Bacon Bites – but tonight he was exceptionally excited. He could smell the greasy gray substance from his seat at the dinner table.

When Randy reappeared, he had the wooden ladle in hand. “Prepare for the dessert of a lifetime,” he beamed. Then he dipped the ladle into his skull, and spooned the steaming gray brain matter into a bowl.

“Mmm. Doesn’t that smell good, Rupert?”

Randy dipped the ladle beneath the severed arteries and capillaries and tufts of bloody brown hair, and filled the second bowl with his special stew. This time some of the gray matter leapt over the china lip and spilled onto the tablecloth, which Rupert greedily consumed with his tiny pink tongue.

“Just like mom used to make,” he laughed, slurping at his bowl until the gray broth covered his cheeks and fingers. She would partake of his concoction, too, if the police hadn’t shot her for killing her husband and consuming his remains.

Yes, she would partake. And after she had gulped down a tablespoon of his brain matter a la crème, she would smile sweetly, pat him on the back, and say, “Very good, sweetheart. But next time, not so much salt.”