Consumed- The Complete Works

by Kyle M. Scott

  Something tangled amidst steaming, stinking coils of guts that slid from its form like red and purple snakes.

  Its powerful arms clawed at her sides as it pulled itself ever upward and out, casting aside pieces of bone that could only be the ruin of her lower ribcage.

  It turned its gore-soaked head towards him.

  And Butch's mind shattered as it opened its eyes. Two little white stars in a red and formless sky.

  Its eyes were brilliant blue.

  Same color as Daddy's.

  In terror and desperation, he tried to placate the new-born infant. Tried to win it over with fatherly love. He felt simultaneously crazy, shit-scared and dumb as fuck, as he mouthed a gurgling, toothless coo at the devil-child.

  It smiled, but it was no smile of childish amusement.

  His heart plummeted as it grinned evilly, revealing a perfectly formed row of teeth that shone just as brilliantly as its baby blues eyes.

  Butch tried to scream, but there was no time to manage it before the blood-slicked infant climbed from the stinking mess of his wife’s insides and ran on tree-trunk legs towards him.

  With lightning speed, it pounced upon his legs, pinning him to the floor as though he was no more than an infant himself.

  Its sky blue eyes fell upon his crotch.

  The grin widened on its brutish, blood-caked face as it grabbed hold of the zipper on his denims, pulled it down, and reached in with its powerful, tiny hand.

  It pulled his scrotum free of their denim sanctuary and began to squeeze.

  Lightning bolts of torment cascaded through his being as his new-born son clenched his shriveling balls. He watched in abject horror, paralyzed by agony as his testicles swelled like overfilled balloons in its vicious grip, turned a deep dark shade of purple, then burst like two ripe eggs under its merciless grip.

  A red darkness danced around the periphery of Butch's vision as he watched his now ruptured testicles be ripped from his body like little playthings, and cast aside to roll across the trailer floor like miniature pink bowling balls

  The blood followed.

  So much blood.

  A river of it.

  The baby wrung its hand, shaking off the viscous, thick fluid that soaked its hand.

  And climbed toward his face.

  Butch's last thought was that the child had no name.

  He'd have liked to call him 'Freddie'.

  Lisa lay dying, the last of her lifeblood pooling beneath her in a mixture of shit and torn intestines. Her head lay limp to the side, pressed against the carpet where blood coagulated, gluing her profile to the floor.

  She saw it all.

  She saw what her child had done to her husband's crotch.

  How could she not have?

  One of his balls had rolled her way, and now lay rested against her cheek, cooling fast. The other was nowhere to be seen.

  She also saw what her baby did next.

  What it did to his head.

  She had no idea a person's skull could be reshaped like that, or that the human brain was so fragile. So easy to tear into strips.

  It was all vaguely interesting. Enthralling even.

  She'd given birth. It had been all she'd ever wanted, and though the circumstances could have been a whole lot better, she felt a strange, quiet contentment, deep in her fading, slowing heart.

  Her child.

  Her son.

  The lights of the mid-western morning were fading now, and as thoughts and fears for her beautiful baby's future ebbed from her being like waves from a silent shore, she smiled at the little boy.

  He smiled back.

  She wasn't even shocked when he opened his mouth and in a voice as strong and forceful as any grown man, said, “Sorry, Mom. I had to.”

  Had to what? She wondered from her distant shore.

  “I couldn't take any more of his shit...fucking bully…”

  Lisa listened intently, even as the lights of her life went out. She could no longer see her son. She could no longer see anything.

  The infant went on, as shadows coalesced around her.

  “But you know what really pissed me off?” it asked, clearly not expecting an answer.

  “That fucking moustache.”

  Lisa's heartbeat slowed to a crawl, then stopped.

  “It was gay as fuck…”

  PARTY CRASHER

  Let’s all drink to the death of a clown – Dave Davies

  The all-devouring fires of New York still burned. Great black smoke plumes rose above the ruined landscape, choking out the blue skies over the once immeasurably powerful city, like a living, sentient darkness. The far-off buildings, decimated by the merciless hand of war, stood like broken teeth, a hellish grinning desolation, mocking the heavens above.

  The city had become a deathly perfect testament to the unstoppable force of power and progress.

  A graveyard of steel, concrete, blood, and bone.

  Max Bishop turned his eyes from the distant panorama, allowing the warm summer sun to blind his vision for a single moment, before gazing over his estate.

  Eighty rooms, four kitchens, ten bedrooms, a great hall, a games room, a tennis court, and a fully functioning, all-mod-cons cinema that could hold fifty bodies, complete with a selection of the very best movies from a time when movies still got made.

  A staff of thirty (if ‘staff’ they could be called) kept the Bishop estate ticking over, and allowed his family to live in resolute splendor. The scarred world seemed a million miles away.

  Out here in the gardens, flowers of all the types remaining in the USA, peppered the lush vista with the myriad colors of the spectrum. A gentle wind kissed the sycamore trees that lined the pathways, causing their leaves to dance and whisper in the afternoon haze.

  It was paradise.

  Purest paradise.

  The neighboring properties of this beautiful community stronghold were equally resplendent, housing the very finest that the business empire had to offer. A dominion of the elite, worlds away from the never-ending scourge of the burning city that dominated the horizon.

  And well protected from its denizens.

  Max’s property was surrounded by a thirty-foot wall, three feet thick and crowned with electrified razor wire. Cameras scanned beyond the community walls, dead digital eyes, ever-watchful.

  One way in, one way out.

  In addition to the cameras, armed guards manned the impenetrable gates like sentinels, ready to gun down any unwelcome guest on sight, should any find their way to the estate’s hallowed doors.

  Not that it was a problem.

  To reach the estate itself, they would have to breach the community’s borders. That wasn’t going to happen.

  Safety was assured.

  Max smiled, enjoying the lulling breeze as the party played itself out, down on his lawn.

  “What the hell is the deal with this guy?” Dominic asked.

  Max looked down the hillside, across the acres of grass, to where the flock of kids were dancing around the ridiculous dickhead in the clown costume who was, currently, juddering around the lawn like a barfly at closing call.

  “What does it matter, Dom? The kids seem to like him.”

  And they did.

  Most of them, anyway…

  His son, Paul, eleven years old and as full of piss and vinegar as the next marvelously rich kid-about-town, looked like he’d rather eat his own head than spend another second down there.

  Spoiled little shit, Max bemoaned.

  The boy wore a frown that wouldn’t quit, and was clearly not reveling in the clown’s antics.

  Or rather, in the lack of them.

  He figured, though, that his son would at the very least be basking in the aura of being the centre of attention.

  The richest kid on the block.

  The elite among his peers.

  Even if his peers did still piss their pants, now and then.

  It was the boy’s birthday, after all. As long as he fou
nd some measure of happiness, then Max (ever the attentive and caring father) would be happy, too.

  At least that’s what he told himself.

  But the boy didn’t look happy.

  Not one bit.

  The more Max looked down the gentle slope, studying the central hub of his son’s eleventh birthday party, the more he felt that maybe this shithead in the clown costume was starting to grate on his state.

  He took another long, slow drink of his scotch and coke, and let his eyes follow the clown.

  Standard clown garb: big floppy shoes, the likes of which must be uncomfortable as hell to dance around I, a striped red and white outfit that billowed around the guy as he moved, big puffy white gloves that would look stupid on a cartoon mouse. A bright explosion of multi-colored hair (all the colors of the fucking rainbow!) perched atop a bleached white face. And to top it all off, a huge red nose that protruded like a sore testicle from the clown’s face..

  Yup…standard clown clichés 101.

  Right down to the fact that the bastard appears tanked, Max rued.

  The clown was moving in a manner that clearly betrayed the use of some sort of intoxicant. If not alcohol, then maybe something worse. He wasn’t swaying, as such. He just seemed to be completely out of it, a spider from Mars on a moonlight drive.

  Max wondered if perhaps he should have inspected the son of a bitch before letting him onto the estate.

  Perhaps Mary did it.

  Someone had to let the prick in, .and she was the one who hired the weird bastard, he justified to himself.

  Sighing, he turned to Dom, his business partner and best friend.

  “Tell you the truth...it was Mary that found him.”

  Dom laughed, “She never looked hard enough, buddy.”

  “You’re telling me. But hell, has there ever been a clown that wasn’t fucked up? It’s not like you choose that career, is it? The poor bastard probably has six kids to feed and a fat bitch with bedsores waiting at home to soak up his seed and shit out another one.”

  “Are you telling me you now care about the downtrodden and the meek?” Dom poked, a wry smile etched on his face.

  Max took another swig on his scotch, relishing the running fire as it coated his throat.

  Max Bishop.

  Multi-billionaire. Financial deity. War profiteer.

  Recognized among his peers as a lion in a man-suit. As remorseless, power-hungry and ruthless as any damn man ever came to be, and damned proud of it.

  “They can all rot, as far as I’m concerned. Don’t worry Dom, I ain’t getting soft on you. It’s just...it’s my kids birthday, you know? What do you want me to do...go down there and kick the clown’s ass? Have him hung by the pool?”

  “I would,” Dom pushed.

  “I know you would, Dom, but you haven’t got any kids. Do you know the shit I’d catch off Mary if I made a scene? She’d have my dick for a digestive. Not to mention my boy would never speak to me again.”

  Max turned to his long-time friend, and muttered conspiratorially, “Not that that would be such a bad thing. I could maybe get a little peace around here, know what I’m saying?”

  Dom laughed aloud, taking a drink from his own beverage. A tall vodka and tonic.

  “Truth be told,” Max went on, “I wouldn’t have wasted a dime on this bullshit party in the first place. The kid’s eleven. It’s not like he’ll love me any more than he already does just because I throw some fucking party for him, is it?”

  “You’re all heart, big fella.”

  “Just don’t tell Mary I said that, or she’ll eat my heart.”

  Dom made the universal sign for lips being sealed, and peered out over the lush gardens of Max’s two-hundred-acre property. “Speak of the devil...”

  “Ah fuck!” Max spluttered. His wife, Mary, was strolling up the pathway from the birthday party and towards the veranda where he and Dom were sat. She wore an expression like looming thunder, rage burned in her eyes like she’d already picked out his funeral garb, and the myriad of flowers that lined the smooth stone pathway seemed to shrivel in the wake of her wrath.

  “Hide your fucking drink!” he hissed, choking on his own.

  Dom was grinning a grin that made Max fleetingly ponder how much time he’d do for murdering his buddy.

  Then he remembered the rich didn’t do time for murder.

  The bastard’s enjoying this! One fucking bullet through the skull…that’s all it’d take.

  And then, like the crack of lightning in a clear blue sky, she was upon them...

  Mary.

  Wife.

  Mother of his brat.

  Bringer of pestilence, Maiden of misery. Eater of worlds.

  She stood before the two men, a bold silhouette with arms perched on hips while her shadow loomed over Max and Dom. Max was dismayed to find that he was shrinking in stature before her wrath, curling into himself.

  The bitch never fails to shrivel my stick, he thought.

  His wife wasted no time. “Are you two assholes drinking?”

  Max winced.

  Dom smiled, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Wipe that smug grin off your face, Dom, before I make a mission of wiping it off myself!”

  Dom lowered his head. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered, more quietly this time.

  Even Dom fears her...

  Dom was known to be just as ruthless among their peers as Max was, and it was testament to his wife’s wrath that his friend was cowed, even if only momentarily.

  Max looked into his wife’s eyes, doing his best to draw her in with the same baby blues that had gotten her into bed (and on all fours) all those years ago.

  It didn’t work.

  Not even remotely.

  “You can drop the wounded puppy act, Max. It’s not gonna work now any more than it has in the last ten years, you shit! It may work on that teenage whore you’ve been fucking behind my back—”

  Dom spat vodka all over the small table, where it seemed to sizzle in the afternoon sun.

  “—but it won’t work on me! It’s our son’s birthday! And you two good-for-nothing assholes are getting fucked up!? Jesus, Max!”

  Good for nothing?

  I was good enough for buying you this mansion, bitch, Max thought but daren’t say.

  “Honey, it’s our day off. You know we bust our chops when we’re working. Give us a—”

  “I’ll break your fucking heads together, is what I’ll break.” She paused, eying up the two men. “Are you two high!?!”

  Dom wiped the white powder from his nose. “No, ma’am.”

  Despite himself, Max found he was battling an attack of the dreaded giggles. It always happened at the worst times, when his nerves were shot to shit.

  “Shut the fuck up, Dom. I’m talking to my husband!” she snarled.

  “Babe...” Max implored.

  “Don’t call me babe!”

  “Sweetheart...”

  “Don’t call me fucking sweetheart!” she hissed.

  “Mary?” He paused, fighting back the torrent of laughter that threatened to tip his lazy day over into all-out-war. “Mary...we’re just taking a load off. We’re not drunk, or high, or anything else...we’re just two hard working fellas, relaxing and enjoying the party.”

  “The party’s down there!”

  “We’re watching over the party,” Max corrected her. Dom stifled a giggle, and Max was sure he could actually see small flames dancing behind Mary’s hard brown eyes.

  Change tact, big fella. Right now!

  He decided to go on the defensive.

  “Anyway, Mary…why are you complaining about us having a quiet one, when the clown you hired is clearly off his ass to a far greater degree than we are?”

  She seemed to deflate a little, grow more thoughtful. “I had noticed that…”

  “Yeah! What the fuck!?” Dom interjected.

  “Stay out of this, asshole,” Mary spat, her fires rising a little, once more.

&nb
sp; Max fought to keep focus where it was required – away from him, and firmly on Bozo the Amazing Drunken Fuck down the hill by the pavilion.

  “Seriously, Mary...the guy looks like he’s on meth. Didn’t you shop around? There has to be a decent high-class kid’s entertainer out there someplace. We’re rich, for god’s sake. What’s with the bargain-basement Coko?”

  Mary towered over him. “I did shop around, Max, and you know what...? Clowns aren’t too popular these days! Not too many people smiling out there amidst the lower classes! I had to hire from within the community, and Deborah recommended him, the slack-jawed bitch. He cost close to ten thousand dollars.”

  Max coughed aloud. “Ten thousand dollars!? For what?! A couple of hours blowing up balloons and creeping out kids!? You gotta be shitting me, Mary!?”

  “It’s for our son!”

  Max glared down the hill towards the multi-colored fuckwit and the screaming children infesting his lawn, his ire rising rapidly. “I know it’s for our son. Shit, Mary...I got a ten grand hole in my wallet that says I fucking know it’s for our son, but that guy is the best you could do for ten grand!?”

  “You can afford it! And, according to Deborah, he has a great reputation...as working entertainers go! She knows him. Says he’s had a hard year, and—”

  “I’m not in the business of charity, Mary. I didn’t get to where I’m at by being kind.”

  “Oh, I know, Max. The whole world knows about the great Max Bishop and his fabulous empire.”

  “And yet I can’t get a sober clown on my son’s birthday. Might not have been a bad fucking idea going cheaper, or not paying at all! The desperate and the fearful always work the hardest, Mary.” Max took a quick swig on his scotch and went on, “Was he even inspected when he arrived? You know those bastards would like nothing more than to take another pop at me. I’m lucky to be still breathing after last time.”

  “No weapons. The guards held him for a full ten minutes.”

  “Did they check for drugs?”

  “He was checked from head to toe, Max. No drugs, either. Do you really think the guards would have been anything less than thorough after last time? You want to me go down there and ram my fist up his asshole for myself...see if maybe he’s holding!? Jesus Christ! I told you, Deborah recommended him.”