Grimoire Diabolique

which the small intestine was severed at this proximal point and stitched to the inside of the stoma. Dr. Prouty’s modification, however, bypassed this final step, and merely extricated the severed intestinal length.

In less-than-medical terms, he’d cut a slit in Mrs. Vinchetti’s belly, reeled out some gut, and snipped it.

He’d left the lower end of the intestine to dangle. The higher end he’d stapled to Tony’s lips via the McCrath Model SS40-C.

“Looks like a hose runnin’ from her stomach to Tony’s yap,” Vinchetti observed.

“Yes, a…hose,” Dr. Prouty offered, “from which chyme, mucosa, and partially digested intestinal material will empty.”

Another familiar Vinchetti chuckle. “The low-down prick likes stickin’ his dick into my wife’s shit, let’s see how he likes eatin’ it, huh?”

“Precisely.”

“It’s almost like you hooked her ass up to his mouth!”

“In a manner of speaking, that’s correct, sir. However, I thought you would enjoy a variation of that description. What I’m referring too, of course, is my decision to transect the jejunum rather than, say, the sigmoid colon.”

“Huh?” Vicnhetti expressed his incomprehension.

“It’s the large intestine that wilts the majority of moisture from the feces, sir. But severing the digestive tract at the jejunum will detour that effect.”

Vinchetti’s brow creased. “She’s gonna shit in his mouth, right, Doc?”

“Yes, but with intestinal matter that hasn’t been fully subjected to the complete digestive process. What voids into Tony’s mouth will be essentially diarrhea.”

Vinchetti cracked his hands yet again. “The Hershey Squirts! Neat-o!”

“Yes, sir,” the doctor continued to elaborate, “and given my previous preparation of goat cheese, raw garlic, baked beans, and canned dog food, it should make for an interesting mix.” (After the ileostomy, Dr. Prouty has emptied this mish-mash of ingredients into Mrs. Vinchetti’s stomach through the esophageal tube by means of a surgical aspirator pump.)

Tony’s mute face began to redden, as Mrs. Vinchetti’s bowels began to move.

“He’ll have to eat it,” Prouty said, “or he’ll drown.”

The gray-pink length of intestine began to squirm. Muffled gargling could be heard, and Tony’s cheeks billowed hugely at each blast of diarrhea..

“Gorgeous, Doc. You’re a true star.” Vinchetti patted Prouty on the back and led him out of the room.

Dr. Prouty tried to rein his enthusiasm, to control himself. “So, um, we’re done now, sir?”

“With them two? Sure. We’ll let Tony chug on that for a while before I have the boys feed ’em both to the pits.”

Warm joy surged through Prouty’s veins. “So then… I can go now?”

“Sure, Doc, you can go just like I promised—”

Prouty nearly squealed in delight.

“—after pigs can fly and fuckin’ Santa Claus come down the chimney to hold my dick for me when I piss,” Vinchetti finished. “When bears wear funny hats and the pope shits in the woods.”

Prouty’s heart seemed to drop to the floor. He stood and stared. “But…sir. You said—”

“Yeah, I know, I said you could leave if you fucked Hymie in the ass and got your nut before Tony.” Another slap on the back. “But there’s one thing you gotta learn, paisan. My word ain’t worth a tick on a dead dog’s balls. Never trust a goombah slime-bag mafia fuck like me, Doc.” Vinchetti walked on, belting laughter, but then he turned and winked. “Me, you, and that fancy stapler of yours? We’re gonna have ourselves a lot of fun in the years to come. Later, Doc! Have a great day!”

Dr. Prouty watched his boss disappear down the hallway.

Oh, well. It could be worse. There was always the hook.

— | — | —

MAKAK

Casparza was repulsive—a human blob. He couldn’t pack the food into his fat face fast enough. Look at him, Hull thought, disgusted. Just another greasy spic blimp.

But the girl—she was beautiful, and all class. She’d said her name was Janice. Too old to be squeeze, Hull decided. Mid- or late-twenties. He’d heard all the stories; the fat man was a kiddie-diddler—anything over 15 was over the hill. So how did Janice figure into it? She looked like a typical American businesswoman. Come to think of it, Hull had seen lots of Americans milling about the plush villa. What were so many Americans doing here? This was Peru.

And the black guy? Hull had noticed him at once. Weird. The guy was just standing there off by some trees. What is this? Some voodoo fucking freak show? Hull thought. The guy had dreadlocks past his shoulders, and he was wearing some dashiki-looking thing with something hanging off the sash. Hull had never seen a black man so black. Like anthracite. And the guy hadn’t moved. He just stared at them from afar, blank-faced.

“So, Mr. Hull,” Casparza bid. “This is most irregular. We rarely deal direct, especially small-timers. But I know some of your people. They say good of you.” That’s nice to hear, you fat shit.

Casparza weighed 400 pounds plus. The grinning face scarcely appeared human—comic features pressed into dough. He wore a preposterous white straw hat, and pants and a shirt that could tarp a baby elephant.

“The goddamn DEA interdictions are killing us,” Hull informed him.

“They’re killing the major cartels too,” Janice pointed out. Her voice seemed reserved, hushed. Perhaps she was Casparza’s spokeswoman. She had straight, pretty ash blond hair and wore a rather conservative beige business dress. A tiny pendant hung about her neck, but Hull couldn’t make it out. She primly held a lit cigarette, though he had yet to see her take a drag. She hadn’t eaten, either. The servants had brought food only to Hull and Casparza: some brown mush called aji, a stinky napalm-hot fish stew, and slabs of something the fat man had merely referred to as “meatroll! My favoreet!” Dessert had been anticoucho, collops of fried sheep heart on sticks.

Hull hadn’t eaten much.

“And now my amigo would like to buy from me,” Casparza went on. His accent hung thick as the rolls of flab descending his chest.

“That’s right, Mr. Casparza. Our middlemen are getting blanked out. The Bolivians can’t be trusted, and the Colombians are losing 80 percent of their orders to seizures. My whole region is going nuts.”

Which was an understatement. Peru had been the number three producer; now it was number one. After the hostage thing, the Tactical Air Command had clobbered the Colombian strongholds and Agent Oranged a hundred thousand acres of their best coca fields, and now there was talk of dropping a light infantry division into Bolivia. This was bad for business; Hull had money to make and customers to please. He needed ten keys a month to keep his region happy, but now he was lucky to see two. The fucking feds were ruining everything. He’d had no choice but to come to see Casparza in person. The fat man had a secret.

“You guarantee delivery,” Hull said. “Nobody else does that. You’ve become a bit of a legend in the states. Word is you haven’t lost a single drop to the feds.”

“This is true, Mr. Hull.” Casparza’s huge black hole mouth opened wide and sucked a piece of sheep heart off a skewer. It crunched like nuts when he chewed. “But my production surplus is no very good. “

“The influx of orders is maxing us out, “ Janice coolly added.

“I understand that.” Hull trained his attentions on Casparza, though the girl’s strait-laced beauty nagged at him. At first he thought the pendant around her neck was a locket; closer peripheral inspection showed him a tiny bag of something, or a tied pouch. She’s probably some whacked out New Ager from California, Hull snidely considered. He hated California. It’s probably a pouch full of crystal dust or some shit, to purify her fucking aura. But of course that didn’t mesh with the rest of her looks—primo, neat as a pin. And there was something about her eyes—just…something.