Consumed- The Complete Works

by Kyle M. Scott

  My palms are sweating. I feel the heat rise to my forehead and feel faint. All my work over the years, my oath to secure my fortune, my dreams of escaping my past, all are within my reach. He need only say the words.

  I close my eyes. My father swings on the noose before my eyelids, smiling.

  I can smell the shit that cakes his body.

  I can smell the defeat on him, hanging their like a vaporous, poison cloud.

  And I can see my mother.

  I smell the gasoline.

  And once again, I drift in my thoughts, to a time long gone.

  As I poured the gasoline over my screaming, flailing mother’s naked form, I thought back over the three years since my father had passed.

  Since he left us behind, with both his solemn wish, and a means to bring it fruition.

  She had fucked and sucked and drank away almost all the moneys that he had left for us. She had torn down our name far further than his petty criminal activities ever could have, and had allowed for our lives to hurtle toward depravity, a tempest of despair. And as she writhed with all the strength she could muster, desperately trying to pull her wrists free from the ropes that bound her to the sex-stained bed she had once shared with my father, and now shared with countless, nameless men, I found myself laughing.

  She screamed my name as I lit the match.

  She moaned for God as I dropped the single tiny flame onto her gasoline soaked body.

  And as the flames erupted all around her and quickly began to devour her flesh, nerve-ending by twitching, agonized nerve-ending, she wailed for release.

  It was a long time coming.

  I stood there, still as stone, and watched her skin blacken and bubble. I watched her eyes melt from her skull even as she still screamed for her uncaring god. I breathed in deep the fumes from her roasting flesh, as her pathetic attempts at escape were overcome by the hungry flames. By the time the ropes that secured her had burned away, she was all out of fight.

  By the time she was little more than a crisp, smoking husk, I found myself hardening in my pants.

  Unbuttoning myself, I leaned over her crackling corpse, and inserted myself into her melted, ruined vagina. The skin peeled away in strips as I forced my erection ever deeper. Looking down to where our bodies connected, I saw bloodied red slime ooze around my hardened member as I pushed in. Apparently she was not all the way cooked.

  Medium rare, you might say...

  “This is for my father, you whore,” I grunted, as I spilled my seed into the melted cave of her sex.

  As I slid myself from the corpse’s entry - bringing along with my penis, a viscous, red and purple ooze - I recall being fascinated by the luminescence of her teeth, too, as she lay there. Even with all the throbbing cocks and warm semen that had coated her molars, they remained as clean and as white as December snows.

  I knocked them out with a ball-pin hammer.

  One by one.

  They now reside beneath my desk, where I can caress them from time to time. I was cupping them in my hands, not five minutes before Sheila and Curt stepped unwittingly into my web.

  As for her body...

  I took me only six days to devour her in her entirety.

  Did I mention she was medium rare?

  After the act, and the removal of her bones, I burned the house to the ground. My only regret is that I could not remain in town to watch its awnings fall and its foundations crumble. Nor watch the fires rise and the black clouds of my past dissipate into the skies.

  The moneys, I procured from beneath the whore’s bed on learning of their whereabouts. And with my father’s solemn wish in mind and in heart, I made for the open road, with a taste on my tongue for success.

  And for meat.

  “How would you like to host parties, Edward?”

  Senator Horne’s voice pulls me from my memories and drags me back into the moment. I wonder how long I was lost in my reverie, but on surveying his plate, I see that it has not been more than a second or two.

  Senator Horne smiles once more - grins, actually. It’s boyish.

  And beautiful.

  And terrible.

  The world around me stands perfectly still.

  “I see that got your attention,” he teases.

  “Yes. Yes, sir. It most certainly has,” I allow him the time to go on, my nerves dancing on a razor’s edge, my stomach twisting in knots.

  “How would you like to host parties so grand, so splendid, that they will be talked of across the globe, whispered of in the corridors of the very highest of societies? Would that satisfy you?”

  “It would, Senator. Myself and Ruth, both.”

  “Then so it shall be. Your name will become synonymous with rare delicatessens, and you’ll be rich beyond compare.”

  “Oh, my,” I stutter.

  Laughing, he continues, “You’ll live in a mansion of such grandiose design that kings and queens will envy you, as will all whom are uninvited to the feasts you will hold. Your every single wish in life will be fulfilled, women, children, drugs, power. All will be yours, Benjamin.”

  Benjamin?

  I find myself taken aback. “Sir, my name is not Benjamin. It’s...”

  “Your name is Benjamin Athos. ‘Edward Slater’ is no name to be whispered in the halls of the elite. Edward Slater is dead. He dies tonight. The Inn will continue with new staff, as overseen by myself and a number of my peers. Edward will disappear forever, all traces erased.”

  “All traces?” I gasp.

  “All of them. Your mother and father can haunt you no more, Benjamin. You’ll be free.”

  I feel warm tears sting my eyes. A weight lifts from my soul and the world shines immeasurably brighter than only moments before. The sun feels hotter, the air cleaner, the song of the birds outside the window, prettier.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The senator pins me with an admonishing stare, yet there is great mirth there. “Now Benjamin, you no longer call me ‘sir’. We are equals from this day forth. You’ll be sworn into the society tonight, and by the week’s end, you will be cooking for a party of fifty. All the meat will be supplied by us, of course.”

  “My goodness.”

  “You can call me Jeremiah.”

  I smile, feeling my confidence grow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jeremiah.”

  “Likewise.”

  Still grinning, Jeremiah stabs the final slice of Curt’s heart with the fork, raises it to his open mouth, and bites down with perfect, shining white teeth,

  “Put the rest of him on ice. His girlfriend, too.”

  There is a pause.

  Jeremiah adds, “Please.”

  “I’d be glad to,” I say, astonished and delighted by this incredible turn of events.

  “Thank you, Benjamin. I’ll let President Nixon know you’ll be flying out tonight.”

  June 2014

  Welcome to Athos House.

  Perched atop a hillside with a beautiful view of the Californian redwoods; a house whose inherent majesty is matched only by the splendor of its clandestine clientele.

  We serve only the finest delicatessens here, to only the finest people.

  From all over the world, members of our society travel to taste the wonders of our dishes, and to sample the exquisite depravity that lives and breathes within these ancient, stone walls.

  Here, all desires of the flesh can be satiated.

  The carnal.

  The perverse.

  The obscene.

  We of the society are everywhere, and we are growing in numbers. We have houses all across the globe, which cater to our kind, and our kind are legion.

  We are the one percent of the once percent.

  The money masters, the game changers, the power-brokers, the bankers, the war-profiteers and the princes.

  We are the hands that position the puppets.

  The shadows on the wall.

  The chaos behind the system.

  We feed on the poo
r, and the poor serve only to feed our needs.

  We are the predators.

  Of mind.

  Of body.

  Of spirit.

  We are the lions that prowl proudly atop the human food chain, and we are all but invisible to those we do not wish to be visible before.

  You’ve come this far. You’ve learned of my secrets, and the company I keep.

  Why not come a little further?

  The food has already been ordered. He is on his way now, oblivious to his folly. An urchin from the slums below this palace, a useless denizen of California’s concrete asylum.

  Tonight, in Athos House, we will dine well. There will be orgies, of course, and murder most exquisite. There will be screaming, and blood and the tearing of flesh.

  All the glorious evils your fevered mind can possibly imagine.

  And you will have your fill.

  The rich will always feed on the poor.

  Please say you’ll join us.

  Yours

  Benjamin Athos – Manager and Host.

  MR. MOUSTACHE

  I want to break free – Freddie Mercury

  Butch launched the remote at the 32” plasma screen, grunting his disgust as the small black plastic gadget soared across the tiny room and hit the television with a wholly unsatisfying 'plonk'.

  “Look at these faggot fucks!” he grunted. “Parading around like they own the fucking place. Like they're not goddam wholesale abominations against the baby Jesus! Who the fuck do they think they are, and why are the television people giving them air time!?”

  Butch – real name being Brian Clover – wasn't one for depth of thought. Big fancy words such as 'media' and 'producers' simply made him want to crack a fucker upside the head. In the narrow, weed-infested corridors of his mind, those who worked in the media industry were simply, 'television people'.

  It got no deeper than that, and why the hell should it?

  “They should all be shot,” he mused.

  “Is that right, Butch?” said Lisa, exasperated.

  Lisa, sat beside him and nursing her third beer of the morning, let out a long, weathered sigh, took another sip from the can, and sat it on the huge swell of her belly. The can rested there like a top-hat on a fat bastard, and Butch felt his anger swell even more.

  “Yeah, that is right! The bible says these fucks are all going straight down to hell. It says it right there where Jesus was on the mount. Someone should help them along the way...the military maybe.”

  “Okay.” she sighed again.

  “Don't you fucking sigh at me, woman. This is serious stuff, right here!”

  “It's just a parade, Butch. Calm down.”

  Butch could feel his heckles raise. His temperature rising, and his wide bearded face flushing with anger, he looked his wife of three years in the eyes.

  Best to look there, when the rest of her looked so fucking disgusting these days.

  How in the hell had he ended up with this goddam whale of a woman?

  She hadn’t always looked like this. When they'd met in Pinker's Whisky Bar back in the day, she'd been quite a stunning example of womanhood. Tits that hung just right, pointing dead ahead like swollen fists ready to strike, hair streaming down her back, a midriff that a man could wrap a single hand around and an ass that begged to be pounced on.

  He'd done just that.

  Twenty minutes after meeting the drunken bitch they'd been out back in his truck, fucking like jackrabbits. He hadn't been able to come – too much alcohol in his system for a finishing flourish – but he'd made damn sure that she knew who was boss.

  Fucked her till she howled like a dog.

  Fast forward a few years and here they were, shacked up in a tiny-ass trailer with nary a pot to piss in, and a fucking brat on the way. A little boy, according to the scan that she'd had a whiles back.

  Butch supposed that was something. At least he'd have a son to run around after him doing chores and such, after the first initial few years of pissing, shitting and crying, of course.

  He figured he's spend that happy time at the bar with his friends. She was the one dumb enough to get knocked up, she could raise the little shit.

  Lisa, eight stone of sexiness going on twenty stone of dick repellent, was worth a damn when it came to housework. The sink was always full of dishes, the bins were never short of overflowing beer cans, and the tiny yard looked like a garbage dump.

  The woman was useless.

  And these days, he'd rather dip his dick in a lawnmower than venture anywhere near that used up snatch of hers.

  In truth, Butch felt a little sorry for himself.

  A lot, actually.

  A whole lot.

  Work in Silver Springs had dried up long ago, and his disability welfare hardly made a dent. There was barely enough cash to keep him in liquor, and practically no money for food, though to look a Lisa, you'd never have guessed it.

  He was at the end of his rope.

  And this goddam fairy-parade on the news wasn't helping his mood. Not one little bit.

  He turned from his slob of a girlfriend, and watched in horror as the seemingly endless troop of garishly dressed homos danced and cavorted on the once beholden streets of downtown New York.

  What a sight.

  There were men wearing feathers in their hair. Men in skirts and frilly stockings. Men sticking their filthy fucking tongues down each other's throats as an old Queen song blasted from the speakers of a big trailer truck that they writhed and danced on.

  That was the worst part...hearing his beloved Queen being played at this fucking sausage fest.

  Freddy Mercury would be turning in his grave.

  Now that was a real man. Bulging muscles, good strong moustache that wouldn't have looked out of place on Wyatt Earp, and a voice like a fucking angel.

  Butch shivered at the thought of what Freddy would make of these dick-dirty sumbitches.

  Now the television people were interviewing one of the queers. Some skinny little runt wearing bright red lipstick and dark eyeliner. Butch tuned out the girlish sounding creep and reached for his Scotch. The ice had melted, watering his drink down a little too much for his taste, but he choked it back regardless. Sobriety on a hot Sunday afternoon, when the whole world had gone fudge-packer crazy, was not gonna be an option for this ole mid-western fella.

  No damn way, hose.

  “Can you get me another?” Lisa asked, holding up her can and shaking it to let him know it was empty.

  Butch could feel his ire rising even more. The bitch had a nerve on her.

  “Here's an idea, Lisa...how about you defy the natural order of things and drag your fat ass off the couch and get it yourself. How about that? You could use the fucking exercise.”

  Lisa practically spat out her vitriol. “I'm eight months pregnant, Butch! Just do a girl a favor and grab me a beer, will ya!?”

  “Girl!? You're no fucking girl. Girls have tits that don't sag down to their belly button, and asses smooth as the moon's surface. You're no girl, bitch.”

  “Whatever...just get me a beer.”

  Butch had expected more of a fight from her. It seemed the more he insulted her, the easier she took it. Women sure were strange, that way.

  “Fuck off, get your own. And while you're up, how about you change the channel? I'm sick of watching these freaks piss all over God's good word.”

  “Well maybe if you hadn't launched the remote...”

  “Just do it, bitch!” he yelled. Lisa visibly recoiled from his words. Her fear filled him with a sense of power, and he relished the stark shock in her eyes.

  “Okay...Jesus...” she whimpered.

  “And don't take the Lord's name in vain.”

  Rising slowly, Lisa made for the television and flicked the switch, turning it off altogether. Butch thought about starting on her, but decided not to. After the shit-show he'd just witnessed, he wasn't sure he'd ever want to watch the damn thing again.

  Gay pride...shit
on a stick.

  The whole country was celebrating the newly awarded rights of these animals. What about the good God-fearing people? What about them? Who cared about their rights? No one…that was fucking who.

  He couldn't even take solace in the knowledge that those faggots would all burn forever. Not when they were having such a fun time rubbing their perversions right in the face of good upstanding Americans while they were here on this Earth.

  What the fuck had his beautiful country come to?

  He gazed towards the window, wanting to look anywhere but at the television or the waddling blob of a mother to be, and tried to let the morning's glow sooth him.

  It didn't work.

  For one thing, the grime that coated the one window of his trailer gave the illusion of a day smeared in shit, and the flies that buzzed incessantly around the bins outside sounded louder than a fucking mower right then.

  For all intents and purposes, the effect was that of being sat, smack bang, in the centre of a giant, festering pile of shit.

  He'd really have to get his bitch to sort those bins out.

  Huffing, he stared out into the trailer park, searching for something...anything...to take his mind off the crap that he'd just seen.

  Those two guys kissing had been too much.

  Too damn much.

  Outside, through the shit-colored glass, nothing was going on. Most of the park’s inhabitants would be lain up in bed, nursing hangovers with fresh alcohol or, if they were lucky like Steve Jordan right across the road, dipping their wick in some young filly with nary a care in world.

  Butch had never felt so sorry for himself.

  Never.

  He fingered his moustache, styled after the great Freddy Mercury's very own. He enjoyed the feel of its bristled texture as he ran his huge calloused fingertips across its length. It felt good only for a second, before his mind turned once more to the two faggots making out at that damn parade.

  It should be illegal for any homo to sport such manly facial hair.

  It should be punishable by death.

  That was all that was good for them.

  It seemed to Butch like all that was sacred was being flushed down the pan. Ass-fucking perverts, godless atheists and all those fucking blacks running amok...all shitting on both the flag and the good book.