Both brothers, in other words, were genetic freaks, in varying stages of evolution. Esau had something more semblant of a dick—however lumpen—Enoch had something a bit more close to his chromosomal home.
A tentacle.
“I say, dang! That there was a good cum!” Enoch exclaimed. He stuffed his penile appendage back into his stained overalls. “That pretty much takes care of these two.”
Carol now hung dead by her impaled hands. And Bob lay belly-down, just as dead.
“Yes sir!” Enoch continued. “This was more fun than that them three little bitches came through here on spring break last year. Hell, that little redhead lasted almost a week. I still think she would’ve hung on a while longer if you didn’t keep sticking your whole hand up her.
“I know, I know, A retorted his brother. “It just feels really cool when you got your whole arm up their pussies and you can feel around all that squishy stuff inside. Shit, you flex your fingers around up in there an you can even pull some stuff out.”
Enoch recalled the three girls somewhat wistfully. They’d gotten off the old highway by mistake and were driving around half-stoned looking for somewhere to buy beer when they’d come over to the bait shop. Two of them had died almost immediately under the brothers’ ministrations. But that redhead?
They’d stuck ten-penny nails through her tits’n twisted ’em like handles, they did. Blood squirted out like water from a fuckin’ faucet.
“But the fun’s over fer now,” Enoch reminded. “You find that stringbean gal with the trout cookin’ in her cunt, and ya also fetch that other chick. They’se both still on the island. Me? I’ll go ashore and take care’a the cook.”
Esau winced. “He ain’t a cook, Enoch. He’s a Master Chef.”
“Whatever.” Enoch was about to leave. He pointed down to Darren who scrabbled on the ground with his cut knees. “Ya better take care’a that ’un there. Don’t want him gittin’ out again.”
“In a jiffy,” Esau said. His boning knife flashed, and in all of two seconds, he had slit open the shit-covered boy’s belly open—
“Jab-nab-hoo-glap…”
—and expertly removed the twenty-pound distended liver, snipping off the hepatic veins like strands of wet vermicelli yarn.
“Braaaaaa-lab,” Darren uttered and died. Blood filled up the hole in his gut like a punch bowl full of Cherry Smash.
Esau flopped the liver down on the table. “Sliced Foi Gras stuffed with scallions and buttered shad roe! I think I’ll hang him in the smoker, after marinating in his shit the skin ought to have a real nice tang to it!”
Enoch shook his head. “I dunno, I was sorta hoping you might be able to barbeque some ribsY”
“Enoch, that’s so common! We didn’t feed this boy special for a month just to barbeque ribs! Hell, all that corn-fed shit tenderizes meat better than Adolph’s. Just wait’ll he’s been in the smoker for a spell, I’ll make some Angels on Horseback with some breast slices wrapped around some oysters and salmonberry chutney on the side—it’ll be mighty fine. I just wish that we could keep Mr. Morrone alive to appreciate all I’ve learned watching his showY”
“I’ll bring him back in one piece, but you know we can’t let him go. Hell, we don’t wanna have to move again. Remember Grandpa telling us ’bout all the trials and tribulations he had before he settled in here?”
Esau looked at Darren’s shit-smeared corpse with visions of setting out a feast that even the master chef would be astounded by. Feeling a burst of inspiration, he took a large cleaver off the shelf and with two deft strokes severed Darren’s head.
“What’d you that fer?” Enoch seemed genuinely puzzled by the decapitation.
“It’s like you said, you do the procurin’ and I do the cookin’.” With that Esau seized a five-pound sledge hammer off the shelf and with a single downward blow cracked the cranium open as easy as splitting a breadfruit. “You hurry and find Mr. Morrone, I’ll fix us up some brain souffle for a snack!”
— | — | —
Chapter Thirteen
His chest was wet and sticky; had he puked on himself? Gingerly he touched his chest and almost screamed at the sudden pain. It felt like his whole body was one massive hematoma. Ashton Morrone sat still, trying to remember what had happened to him. All he knew for sure was that he hurt like hell and that he had to piss. Standing up seemed like an enormously painful undertaking; Ashton just wasn’t ready for such an endeavor, so he simply relaxed and let his bladder empty, feeling the warm flow pool underneath him, soaking his slacks.
As the tart smell of his piss reached his nostrils, memory flooded back. He’d been shot, and he should be dead… Galvanized to action by the realization that he was perhaps critically injured Ashton stood up and clutched at his breast. The book tumbled out from his inner pocket, embedded in the thick leather were two tiny bullets. The third had gone completely and penetrated his skin. Touching it ever so gently he could see it just under his skin, an angry black spot in the midst of a circle of burned and bruised tissue. Ashton laughed in spite of the ripples of pain that his chortling sent roiling through him.
The book on crackjaw eels had saved him! That and his own ample girth, a thinner man’s breastbone would’ve cracked like an eggshell.
That effete, mincing bastard had actually tried to kill him for the fucking eels! Why, when he got back to Seattle, he’d own the son-of-a-bitch!
Fuckin’ James, and that turncoat bitch!
Stopping only to take a cleaver from the cutlery drawer, Ashton stumbled into the night, wincing with every step. He’d find that redneck kid and tell him what happened. After all, he was the guy’s hero, Isiah or whatever his name was wouldn’t take kindly to a murder attempt on his culinary idol. Ashton grinned just thinking about what those two rednecks might do to James when they caught up with him!
He chuckled as he envisioned his rival bent over a tree stump and being made to not only squeal like a pig as the two brothers cornholed him into oblivion, but to go through a repertoire of barnyard noises that would astound Old Macdonald.
««—»»
She touched herself between the legs and felt a fishtail, a fishtail slick with blood. Mavis tried to remember how this had happened. Was it the cigarette smoking man who did this to her? Was it Krychek? Those two men, they had to be aliens, no human beings could do the horrible things that they did. She’d always known that the X-Files were real. What better way to lull the public’s suspicions than to present the truth wrapped up as fiction on a TV show? Now she and Bess had stumbled on to part of the ghastly truth and there was no Fox Mulder to help her out. Hell, even Skinner would do at this point.
The thicket of ferns made a good hiding place. If she just waited, Mulder or someone would come for her. If only her vagina weren’t so sore so that she could take the staples out and remove the fish. It was so swollen now that it wasn’t even possible to tell where exactly the staples were, and even the slightest movement made her hurt so much that it was all she could do to keep from screaming. Mavis sat in the dark, reflexively brushing her legs to keep away the ants and no-see-ums that were drawn by the tasty odor of fish and vaginal blood.
The crack of the first twig almost startled her into yelping. It sounded like it was only a few feet away, then a rustle and crackling as something large moved through the dry brush: a bear, or worse, one the two monsters that had stapled a fish inside her? Mavis shivered as something with way too many legs crawled purposefully up her leg and became entangled in her bloodied pubic hair. The sounds were nearer, almost in front of her; she squirmed ever so slightly as the creature exploring her ruined pubes began to try and win free of its entanglement. The tiny legs were all apparently equipped with hook-like feet; either that or it was biting frantically.