Wrathbone and Other Stories
Page 13
Waste not, want not. Maurice had more than his fill, and the rich meat and gristle bloated his stomach, but not once had his stomach turned. Not once had he felt even an ounce of regret. The meat tasted too damn good. After what those bastards did to him, they were getting their just desserts.
“Desserts!” Maurice was already contemplating tomorrow’s meal. He sat in the dirt, absently drawing figures in it with the little boy. Devil Eyes tapped him on the shoulder. She pointed up to what looked like a giant bird’s nest approximately forty yards above the ground. It was big enough to accommodate twice as many as those comprising the tribe, a treehouse with a thick, knotted Banyan tree serving as its main support, bolstered by stilts and crossbeams, and roofed with umbrella-sized palm leaves.
Devil Eyes smiled and closed her eyes, pressing praying hands to the side of her face. She grabbed Maurice’s hand and tugged him to follow. But he stayed put, watching the tribe, including the children and the deformed old man, climb up a tree trunk ladder and into their home. Maurice figured he’d head back to the ship for a good night’s sleep in the master bedroom.
Having broken bread with the tribe, consumed the flesh of man, Maurice had apparently earned a place among them. The clearing was his as the tribe prepared for the night, the sun sinking into a thin black line. He marveled at the innocent, almost naïve trust they placed in him, an outsider.
He rested, let his meal digest, then walked over to the pen. He felt good, carefree. His fever had broken. The throbbing in his legs was gone. And the best part: not so much as a twinge of remorse.
“You’ll burn in hell for that,” Doc Asshole called out as Maurice walked by. Maurice stopped.
Olivia ran to the gate. Tears turned her made-up face into a clown mask. “Don’t listen to him, Maury. He’s just a limp-dick asshole, like you always said he was.”
Maurice started walking away. Slowly. Smiling. The rest of the prisoners stared silently, eyes pleading for help just as his had pled for theirs. He’d give them the same answer they’d given him.
“Let me out of here, babe,” Olivia begged, tears beginning anew. “We can fuck all you want. Maury? Let us out, Maury. Maury!”
Maurice had passed the enclosure. But before heading back to the yacht, he turned for one last look. Olivia had fallen to her knees. Somehow, someway, Doc Asshole still stood way up high on his pedestal, looking down.
Maurice just laughed. He pointed at the doctor. “You look a little tough. I think tomorrow I’ll teach these islanders how to tenderize meat and fix a proper steak. A good marinated steak always tastes better when you cook it slowly. We’ll start small, hands and feet probably. There’s always a learning curve. Who knows how many lessons these locals will need to get it right?”
The doctor looked away, but not before Maurice caught a glimpse of a face stricken with horror. Whistling, he returned to the ship, wondering what seasonings would best spice up old meat.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
In his head, Jason Parent lives in many places, but in the real world, he calls New England his home. The region offers an abundance of settings for his writing and many wonderful places in which to write them. He currently resides in Southeastern Massachusetts with his cuddly corgi named Calypso.
In a prior life, Jason spent most of his time in front of a judge … as a civil litigator. When he finally tired of Latin phrases no one knew how to pronounce and explaining to people that real lawsuits are not started, tried and finalized within the 60-minute timeframe they see on TV (it’s harassing the witness; no one throws vicious woodland creatures at them), he traded in his cheap suits for flip flops and designer stubble. The flops got repossessed the next day, and he’s back in the legal field … sorta. But that’s another story.
When he’s not working, Jason likes to kayak, catch a movie, travel any place that will let him enter, and play just about any sport (except that ball tied to the pole thing where you basically just whack the ball until it twists in a knot or takes somebody’s head off - he misses the appeal). And read and write, of course. He does that too sometimes.
Please visit the author on Facebook at facebook.com/AuthorJasonParent , on Twitter at twitter.com/AuthorJasParent , or at his website, authorjasonparent.com , for information regarding upcoming events or releases, or if you have any questions or comments for him.