She failed to learn her lesson and waited again, vowing she would not succumb this time, would not afford him any more of her dignity. Whitney Houston would have been proud. She lasted four days, and then pitifully brushed away the flies and dropped it in her mouth like a popcorn shrimp. Linda wasn’t so successful at chowing down for Old Glory this time, though, and her quease gland was wrung like a chicken neck. Shriveled giblets of flyblown dog dick and chyme were rerouted up her gullet in a powerful deluge that doubled her over with sobs, regurgitant flecks stuck in the fur of the Labrador’s head (Sammy didn’t care very much for poodles either, admittedly).
Yes, thinking about her ordeal could fill a tube sock faster than you could recite your social security number.
Linda was a remarkable accomplishment and would have been a primo addition to anyone’s resume, but the piece de resistance was undoubtedly Sheryl Gray, with contribution from her fellow sorority sisters. Slut Necro Lambda, he called it. The endeavor had been a real challenge. The removal of five vaginas took two days, a painstaking process of careful cutting and hacking. He’d botched a sixth attempt, which would have been a complete waste had Von and Greg not volunteered to take her off his hands. A prone Sheryl was then the recipient of the world’s first multi-vaginal transplant. Rather crude exploratory surgery techniques freed enough room for the canals, in effect becoming makeshift passages to her digestive system in most instances. Removal of bone segments allowed for more slightly varied installations of these surrogate fuckholes. Sheryl did not survive this radical procedure, regrettably . . . but that was merely the final ingredient to the thrill.
This unparalleled success earned him the esteemed title of Doctor Butcher from Von and Greg. Sammy let them have a turn with Slut Necro Lambda, under the stipulation that they both had to use the same orifice. Why not? He had plenty to spare. And he still had plenty afterward—the crazy bastards had used the backdoor. It defeated the whole purpose of the operation, but that was Von and Greg for you.
Back to the business at hand, Sammy couldn’t help but notice Mary Jane Turner’s anus looked like the underside of a mushroom. He was puzzling over whether or not this was erotic, and why the incising sounded like nothing more exotic than the dicing of a tomato. This was for culinary purposes, of course, but you’d expect a more significant soundtrack to accompany the theft of someone’s asshole. The flesh could be so banal, even with artistry like Sammy’s to spice it up.
The incision came full circle and the perimeter dropped out. Sammy peeled it off the floor, though not before fully appreciating the anatomical delights he’d uncovered. A more educated person could probably shoot out five syllable terminologies for everything, but to Sammy, it was just glistening and rather stringy rectal meat dripping like a melting icicle.
It reminded him of a pornographic movie called
He left the cellar and his little mascots—a stripper, a prostitute, two college girls (with only one anus between them now) and a nurs — all worthless whores, in other words—and climbed the stairs back up to the kitchen. He set the souvenir from Mary Jane on the chopping block, employing his thumb to slide it from fingers—it stuck like mucus. He plucked up his mallet and brought it down, effectively squashing the wrinkled flesh. From a Tupperware bowl, he produced the remaining cuts of Sue Harper’s buttocks (additional remains recovered 05/11/2002, 05/25/2002 and 06/02/2002), and cranked them through an old fashioned meat-grinder onto a paper plate. A spatula freed the compacted meat from the chopping block, which Sammy scraped on the paper plate. He threw it into the microwave and set it on high, whistling all the while.
The thumping in the attic grew more persistent in anticipation of feeding time. He heard Greg’s Nova in the driveway as the microwave beeped its conclusion. He rushed upstairs to make the delivery. He hadn’t bothered to wash his hands since handling Mom’s underwear (and himself), he realized. Sammy laughed at his carelessness. He unlocked the attic door, chucked the meat inside, and relocked the door from the outside. He heard scraping sounds as the occupant crawled to the newly arrived meal. It would taste like arse, but that was pretty much the point.
Sammy was scrambling back downstairs when Von and Greg walked in. Both parties had their own reasons to distract the other. Sammy came up with the first diversion. “You’re late,” he accused, short of breath.
Von was grateful for the opportunity to stall. “Why you breathing so hard? You just get done jackin’ down?”
“I was upstairs.”
“Upstairs jackin’ down?” Von pounced.
Sammy ignored him. “What’s the matter with you two? You look like Gillian Anderson died and had her remains cremated before you got a crack at her in the morgue.”
Von sighed heavily, feigning a sudden interest in the orange carpet of the den. It was an ugly concoction that looked to have been stitched together from skinned Muppets.
“You two morons didn’t get it, did you? The guy practically gave you his dick on a silver platter and you didn’t take it. Unbelievable.”
“That ain’t what happened, fag face,” Von shouted back. “We did the whole thing the way we talked about, no problem. It was easier than snatching a Latch-Key Kid.”
Sammy didn’t speak for a moment, puzzled. “Okay . . .
“Nuh-uh.” Von sighed again. “Look, we got in, got the package, and got the hell out. It was going great.” Von gave his cohort a disgusted look. “Until Mario Andretti over here peeled out on the prize.”
“I said I was sorry!” Greg protested, even though he’d done no such thing.
“Sorry doesn’t take the pieces of Rochester’s dick out of our pockets and make it whole again!”
Sammy didn’t bother to hold in his laughter. “You got a rocket in your pocket, Von?”
“Come on, this ain’t something to joke about. Rochester finds out Greg ruined it, he’ll use that ransom money to have us killed.”
“So don’t tell him. He’s not going to report you to the Better Business Bureau.”
“But what if he insists on seeing it first?”
“Knowing every second counts, that would take balls.”
“He’s still got those,” Greg pointed out.
“What about you, Sammy?” Von asked hopefully. “You got an extra one stashed around here someplace?”
“Oh yeah, sure, just check the candy bowl on the refrigerator. Of course I don’t. I don’t kill guys. What do you think I am, a gay?”
“No, but—” Von paused. “Wait a minute now. Me and Greg’s killed us a few dudes before. You trying to say that makes us rope smokers?”
“Not necessarily—”
“Because Greg’s the one who did all the killing, so he’s the damn queer.”
“Hey, you’re the one who had you a handful of Rochester’s pork sword,” Greg pointed out.
“Shut the hell up, Greg.”
“Yeah, Sammy, he was asking Von to use his teeth and everything!”
“Shut the hell up, Greg!”
“Both of you calm down,” Sammy interjected. “And it’s actually good that you remember these details. You’ll be able to prove beyond a doubt that you’re the ones who did it.”
“Oh right, I’m sure there’ll be all sorts of cranks lining up to take the credit for it.”
“Would you just hand someone three million dollars because they claimed to have your most prized possession? If it was me, I’m not sure I’d take the word of a dick thief at face value . . . especially one who’s a closet homo.”
“Hey, I thought we were getting—” Greg began.
Von cut him off with remarkable subtlety. “Shut the hell up,
Sammy might have noticed, but a succession of thumping noises overhead mercifully distracted him and grabbed his attention. “I’ll be right back,” he offered and stormed up the staircase.
When he was out of earshot, Von grabbed a handful of Greg’s shirt. “Do you need a written invitation before you’ll use your brain?”
