“Noooooooo!” Monkey-Face Joe cried. “Evil mushroom-devils! You must die no matter what!”
So saying, the brave little caveman threw himself over the cliff and landed on top of the huge star-crabs. The added weight caused the tangled mass to descend faster, and just as it hit the molten rock—
—Joe jumped off the monsters and over the rim of the lava-pit.
The squirming space-demons instantly sank to a fiery, bubbling death.
“Zogga Dogga Yog-Sothoth!” Tony crowed. “Monkey-Face Joe is a hero!”
The sun was just beginning to rise, so Lava Larry and Tony Tar-Pit cooked up some steggy steaks for a hearty victory breakfast. Buggoth and Bloodfang frolicked without a care as the cavefriends gnawed on the delicious dinosaur meat.
Little did they all know.…
Nine months later, Yargoona—impregnated by Buggoth’s alien seed—would give birth to the world’s first ghoul.
A ghoul is not really an undead creature, as many historians and students of the supernatural have supposed. It is actually a human/alien-demon hybrid, which can be summoned through full-moon rituals involving bloody sacrifices. Yargoona’s baby grew up to be especially hideous, with a hairy muzzle of a face, thick black hair, vicious talons, gnashing fangs, a massive phallus that hung down to his knobby knees, and two insatiable lusts: warm flesh and hot blood…
But hey, boys will be boys.
Der Fleischbrunnen
Der Fleischbrunnen was based within a warehouse with boarded windows. There were no signs on the building, which was—and still is, in fact—just one of many dozens of warehouses in the industrial sector of a filthy, boring city. This city is located on an island, and very few people there speak English—or German, for that matter. You would never be able to find the building, based on those few vague facts.
But then, you would have no reason to seek it out. It is empty now.
My grandmother on my mother’s side grew up in a poor family from a small fishing village in Crete, which is not the island in question. She had been a very beautiful woman in her prime, and had married well. Several times, in fact—always to very wealthy men. I’d been her favorite grandchild. I used to call her Jia-Jia, and when I was little, I was surprised when I learned that Jia-Jia was Greek for ‘grandmother’ and not her actual name. I knew all the adults called her Ellie, but I thought that was something adults called old women. Ellie was, in fact, short for Elena.
When she died last year, she left me fifty-seven million dollars and several companies in different countries. I have plenty of business experience—I worked for decades in the soft-drink industry, in marketing—so I felt confident in my ability to continue her legacy.
One of my grandmother’s businesses was in that filthy, boring city I’d mentioned. A month after my grandmother died, I called Mr. Pileggi, the man who was running that business.
I had a nice talk with him on the phone—he had a little trouble speaking English, but we were able to understand each other. He seemed very helpful. He made arrangements for me to be flown to the island, so he could give me a tour of the business. He even made plans for a car to pick me up after I got off the plane. It would be early evening, so the driver would take me directly to the restaurant where I would be having dinner with Mr. Pileggi. I was only going to be staying two days, so I wouldn’t be bothering with any luggage—only a carry-on bag.
The day came for my trip. The flight went as scheduled. I arrived on the island, got off the plane and found the car. The driver, a dark-haired man with a huge smile, opened the back door of the maroon Buick for me and I got in. After he took his seat behind the wheel, he turned around and said, “Where to, my friend?”
This caught me a little off-guard. “Oh. The restaurant. I’m having dinner with Mr. Pileggi. Nick Pileggi.”
The driver raised his eyebrows. “What restaurant? We have many here.”
“I can’t remember the name,” I said. “But I do recall it wasn’t in English…I asked Nick what it meant, and he said, ‘The Hungry Bear.’ No wait—‘The Fat Bear.’ Does that help?”
The driver shook his head.
I tried to remember more of my conversation with Pileggi. “We talked about the name for about five minutes—but it’s just not coming to mind. Maybe it was French…or German…?”
“We have no French restaurants,” the man said. “So maybe German.”
“Now let me think…What would be German for ‘The Fat Bear’…?” My command of the German language was virtually non-existent, but I gave it my best shot. “How about—‘Der Fattenbearen’? No, that’s not right. ‘Der Flabbenbruin’? No. I think ‘fleisch’ means fat or meat…How about ‘Der Fleischbrunnen’?”
Later, after the adventure was over, I found out that I’d had both the language and the type of animal wrong. And ‘bear’ was something different in German anyway. But evidently that wild guess had hit upon something, because the driver’s eyes shot wide open and he said, “You are having dinner at Der Fleischbrunnen?”
“There is such a place?” I said, amazed by my luck. “Well then, yes, I guess that’s where I’m having dinner. It’s a restaurant, right?”
The young man stared at me. “I’ve never been inside. Maybe they serve food. I don’t know. I thought it was a club. A private club. Members only. Mr. Pileggi is a member there?”
“I guess so! So let’s getting going. To Der Fleischbrunnen!” I was getting a little impatient, because it was a couple hours after my usual dinner time and I was getting hungry. But at least I was well-rested, since I had fallen asleep on the plane.
The driver gave me a worried look, but then we started off down the road. On the way, he said, “My best friend’s sister, she once went to Der Fleischbrunnen. She never told us what happened there, but later that year, she had a baby and it was born dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“The baby was all wrong. It was too small and bony, and its eyes were…funny.”
“That’s very sad, but you can’t blame a restaurant or a club for something like that. And she only went there once, right?”
“Once was enough,” he said.
I was surprised when he turned down a road that was lined with huge, unlit buildings. Eventually he parked in front of that unmarked warehouse with boarded windows. “This is it,” he said. “You get out here. I don’t like looking at it. It makes me remember that thing. That devil-baby.”
“But this isn’t a restaurant!” I said. “There aren’t any lights or cars or customers or—or anything!”
“Just get out!” the driver said. He turned around—his eyes were streaming tears. “Get out right here! I’m going home now! Get out, Mr. Fancy Big-Shot!”
What could I do? The man was extremely upset. I figured I’d be better off taking my chances on the street, even though it was getting dark. I’d done some reading on the island before my trip, and it had a very low crime rate. The lights of the city were less than a half-hour walk away, so I really wasn’t in any danger.
So I got out.
The man screamed “To Hell with you!” as he drove off.
I had a few protein bars in my carry-on bag, so I fished one out and ate it as I thought about what to do next. It was a warm night and nobody else was around, as far as I could see.
I decided to check out the warehouse. Der Fleischbrunnen. Why? Just for the heck of it, really. Plus, I was curious. Seeing the place evidently had brought back some unpleasant memories for the driver. Why would a club have anything to do with a deformed baby? Had the place ever really been a club? After all, it was just another warehouse among many others. It looked like it had been deserted for decades.
Bag in hand, I walked up to the door and jiggled the knob. It was locked, but a woman’s voice on the other side said, “Yes?”
I was completely startled, since I’d figured the place was abandoned. “I’m looking for a restaurant called Der Fleischbrunnen,” I said.
The
woman laughed. “Restaurant? What makes you think we’re a restaurant?”
“Well, is this Der Fleischbrunnen?” I asked. “Is Nick Pileggi in there? Can I come in?”
“Yes, this is Der Fleischbrunnen, and no, we don’t have a Nick Pileggi in here.” A bolt clacked and the door swung open. Inside the entryway stood a thin, elderly woman with an angular, incredibly wrinkled face. A few wispy tufts of white hair stuck out from under her lime-green turban. She held an odd little lantern that appeared to be made mostly of yellow glass, with a stone base and handle. There were no lights behind her in the building. “We’re not a restaurant, mister. Do you still want to come in?”
“I’m supposed to be meeting with Nick Pileggi,” I said. “But I don’t know the address. I have his home phone number, though he’s probably already at the restaurant. Wherever that is.”
The old woman smiled at me. “Poor man. You are far from home, yes? And lost! Ridiculously lost! You have no idea where you are! We don’t have a phone here, but there’s plenty to eat. Let me find something for you. Then we’ll decide how to get you to this Pileggi fellow.”
She took my hand and led me into the building. We headed down a hallway lined with large paintings—some were so huge they stretched from ceiling to floor. I couldn’t make out too many details by the light of the old woman’s strange lantern, but basically, they all seemed to depict elderly people with their hands raised in the air. After we’d gone about ten feet, she let go of my hand.
I pointed my forefinger like a mock gun—thumb raised, trigger-style—at one of the paintings. “Stick ’em up!” I said in a Bugs-Bunny-like gangster voice.
The old woman stopped. “Stick what up?”
“All these people have their hands raised, like somebody’s pointing a gun at them.” I pointed my finger like a gun again. “When criminals rob somebody, they say, ‘Stick ’em up!’ and the victims put their hands in the air. Well, they do in American movies, anyway.”
The old woman laughed. “Oh, I never go to see movies. I don’t watch television, either. Isn’t that terrible? I feel I am missing so much!”
I shrugged. “You’re probably better off. At least you’re living your life, instead of just watching other people you don’t even know. Most of them are just made-up characters anyway. Except for the ones on the news. But why don’t you watch TV or movies? Is it against your religion or something?”
The old woman continued to walk, and gestured for me to follow. “A man who also lives here, he went to a movie, a few years ago. Something about the light made his eyes bleed. The same thing happened to a woman who lives here when she tried to watch a television. The light—there is something about the way it flickers, so fast, so strong. It is not good for us.”
“So you live here with some other folks?” She didn’t answer my question, so I went back to the original topic. “Well, movies and TV don’t flicker for me. You and your friends must have really sensitive eyes. Is that why you’re using that lantern?”
“Yes, exactly right.” The woman led me into a large, dim kitchen, lit by a few yellow candles set in wine bottles. The place was a complete mess, with filthy pots and plates scattered on the table and across the counters. “Forgive the way our kitchen looks.” The old woman wheezed out an exasperated sigh. “The others here, they leave it all for me to clean up. And I’m the one with sore hands! Every year they get worse. I wish you were a doctor. Then you could give me some pills for my poor, aching hands.” She turned to look at me. “Maybe you are a doctor…?”
“Sorry.” I watched as she opened a breadbox and took out, not bread, but a large leather pouch. She opened it and pulled out a long, lumpy chunk of what looked like beef jerky.
“Here,” she said. “Dried lamb. Very delicious.”
I took the shriveled mass of meat from her. She pulled out one for herself and began to gnaw on it. I smelled the meat—very spicy, lots of garlic and maybe oregano. I chewed on it a little—it was really very good. Pretty soon I’d eaten my share, so she gave me another chunk to chew on.
“So what’s your name?” I asked.
“Oh, you must forgive me! I should have introduced myself when we first met. My name is Maria.”
I suddenly realized that the old woman had a bit of an accent—an accent so familiar I’d taken it for granted. “Hey,” I said, “you’re Greek, aren’t you? I’m half-Greek. My mother’s side of the family.”
The old woman stared into my eyes. “And what is the name of your mother’s family?”
I told her.
The old woman nodded. “I see. And your grandmother. Was her name Elena?”
This time, it was my turn to nod.
“Of course!” Maria grabbed another stick of lamb jerky and began to gnaw with great excitement. “By any chance did you come to this island to claim a family business?”
“Yes…” I said, suddenly unsure of how much I should reveal about myself. It was unnerving, watching her tear into that meat with such happy fervor. I guess she still had all her own teeth.
“Of course, of course,” she gushed, mostly to me but I think to herself, too. “This Pileggi you mentioned, he must be the fat man who comes by during the day! We’ve never known his name. He doesn’t stay to talk to us. The pig, he’s not nice like you! Maybe you should fire him and be the one who works with us!” She suddenly threw back her head and laughed, once, twice. “You don’t know, do you? You own this place! You own Der Fleischbrunnen! So how did you get here, anyway? And why did you think it was a restaurant?”
I told her about my conversation with the driver, and when I was finished, she laughed again.
“That is good, good!” she crowed. Then she looked me in the eye. “I shall tell you this. In all the universe, there is no such thing as a coincidence. No such thing as an accident. You think you came here by mistake, but all is happening as it was meant, by powers beyond our control. Events are like the teeth on the gears of a clock—they fit together and move each other along, and when all is done…Then, my friend, we shall both know the time.”
She bit off and chewed some more dried lamb, swallowed, and then continued with her ravings. At least, they seemed like ravings at the time. “Oh, I can tell we are going to get along! Yes, we’re all going to be good friends! That fat man, he treats us like animals—your grandmother, a very dear woman, she simply had no idea. She stopped visiting us after the fat man began managing the place for her, so we were never able to tell her! Now come with me, come, come, come! It is time for you to see what you have inherited! It is yours, all yours! Der Fleischbrunnen!”
She grabbed her lantern and ran past me, out of the kitchen, whirling around every few steps to gesture for me to follow, follow. She was a very nimble old lady—I’m surprised she didn’t fall and break a hip.
“So what’s a Fleischbrunnen, anyway?” I shouted to her as I ran. “I guess it’s not a fat bear—”
“No, no, no!” she cried. “It is German for ‘meat fountain’! Hitler named it that when he visited the island, so many years ago. Such an odd man—and such greasy hair. The smell of that grease filled whatever room he was in. It smelled like bacon mixed with lilacs. Sickening!” She stopped right in front of an enormous wooden door. It was open about six inches, though I couldn’t see in from where I was standing.
“Hitler used to come here? World War II Hitler?” I said. “I own a business that used to have Adolf Hitler for a customer? Lady, that is just too weird for words!”
“Oh, really, my dear friend, my good sir? You think that is weird?” She licked her lips. “Then tell me what you think—of this!” So saying, she pushed the door wide open. She really was terribly strong for her size and age.
There it was, right before my eyes, in the middle of a huge chamber lit by yellow candles in lanterns. It was surrounded by dozens of extremely old men and women. Some were slowly dancing with their hands in the air. Others were carrying wooden buckets, and large wooden spoons, too.
B
ut what was it, you ask?
It looked like a five-foot high volcano of pink flesh, spouting up from out of a wide broken area in the floor. A thick, bluish slime rolled slowly down from the mouth of the hideous thing. Some of the elderly workers collected the ooze with their spoons and plopped it into their buckets. All of them kept whispering the same long phrase or sentence over and over. I couldn’t make out everything they said, but a foreign word which sounded vaguely African—‘gah-tam-bah’—was repeated often.
I walked through the door, right up to the horrible little hill. As I reached out, about to touch it, Maria hurried up to me and grabbed my hand.
“No metal,” she said. “Never metal.” She pulled a ring off my finger and put it in the breast pocket of my jacket.
I touched the side of the mound. It vibrated slightly, and pulsed, too. It was rubbery and very warm, almost feverish. A glob of the blue slime trickled down the meaty hill and wet my index finger.
I raised the finger to my nose for a sniff. It smelled like a mixture of sweat and rice pudding with cinnamon.
“Do not taste it!” Maria whispered. “It is highly addictive.”
I had no intention of tasting it, though I did appreciate the warning. I wiped my finger on my pants.
One of the old women carried a full wooden bucket out of the chamber through a side door. A few seconds later she returned without the bucket, with another woman by her side. They talked for a moment, and then they began the whispering chant. They raised their arms and began to circle Der Fleischbrunnen—the meat fountain.
I pointed toward the side door. “Where does that go?”
Maria took a newly filled bucket from one of the women and walked toward the door. “Come with me,” she said. “You deserve to see it all. The miracle belongs to you!”
This new room was a candle-lit laboratory. Maria walked to the center of the lab and dumped the contents of the bucket into one of three stainless steel vats, all heated by gas jets.
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