Who cared about grammar or spelling, or the restrictive conventions of so-called literature? His work was unbound by the formulas of lesser writers, a new style that was beyond the petty concerns of plot, characterization, or theme. Only Bert Granchi was the true successor of the masters of his genre, and only he could tell the terrifying tale of his unearthly vengeance.
Bert shaped the gruesome demise of the Maxons in his mind as the big Ford Crown Victoria hurtled on through the night. He had gotten to the point where Jerry was being engulfed by the vast vagina when the car slewed around and stopped suddenly, slamming him against the back of the trunk, jolting the exquisite prose out of his mind and replacing it with the fear of what would come next.
Bert Granchi, heir to the grand tradition of Lovecraft and Poe, wet his pants.
The lid opened, framing his tormentor in the light of the full moon behind and above his rangy frame. Bert blinked until his eyes adjusted. Two other figures moved into view, one of them holding a flashlight. The hands of these others reached in, dragging him over the edge and dumping him on the grass, where his nose was assaulted by a horrific stench. He gagged behind the duct tape, and thrashed against his bonds.
Maxon reached down and wrenched the gag away from Bert’s mouth. Bert screamed at the pain of losing a healthy portion of his skimpy mustache and beard to the adhesive.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Bert,” Maxon said. “Did you enjoy the ride?”
“Fuck you, asshat,” Bert said. One of the others kicked Bert in the ribs. He sucked in a big lungful of putrid air, then retched on the ground.
“I don’t think he cares for the way old Bossie smells, Jerry,” a voice said.
Bert wriggled away from his vomit. He saw a dark mass on the ground ten feet from where he lay. It looked like the carcass of some large animal. He spit the last of the puke from his mouth and said, “What is that? A cow?”
Jerry Maxon laughed. “Of course, you idiot. Why do you think we call her ‘old Bossie’?”
“She stinks.”
“Well, naturally. Bossie’s been dead for, oh, a week or so.”
“All right, fucker. I’ve smelled your fucking cow. Cut me loose and go away.”
“Cut you loose? Why would we do that?”
“Because you have to, asshat. You can’t just leave me tied up out here in the fucking country, next to a dead cow!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Bert, old pal. We’ve got something a little more interesting in mind.”
Laughing, Jerry’s friends picked Bert up by his elbows and dragged him closer to the rotting carcass. He tried to puke again, but there was nothing left.
“Don’t you hate the dry heaves?” the man on his right said. “I know I do.”
The other one agreed. They stopped beside the cow. Maxon reached down and pulled on its ribcage. It opened up like a giant clamshell.
“We cleaned your new home out as much as we could,” Maxon said. “You won’t have to move in with a bunch of guts and such. Just well-seasoned beef. Does that suit you?”
“What the fuck are you talking about, you cock-sucking uncle-fucker?”
Maxon grabbed Bert by the face. “I’m talking about sewing you up in the corpse of this fucking cow, you son-of-a-bitch. I’m talking about protecting my sister from your shit. I’m talking about making sure you keep your fucking mouth shut from here on. Is that clear enough, asswipe?”
Darkly Gothic writer Bert Granchi shit himself.
Maxon wrinkled his nose. “That doesn’t help the aroma around here any.”
“You can’t do this! Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just being, you know, who I am.”
“Yeah, I know you were, Bert. You think you’re the bad boy of the new Gothic revival, and you’ve just naturally got to piss off anyone you feel like, and they don’t get to say squat about it. Fuck that. It’s time you learned that there are some people you just don’t go around pissing off. I’m one of them. Drop him boys.”
Bert hit the ground hard.
“Okay, let’s get this over with.” Maxon said.
Bert heard the snick of a switchblade opening. The rope holding his bound hands to his ankles was severed.
“Can’t stuff you inside all bunched up like that,” they told him. “That wouldn’t be very comfortable, now would it?”
Next he felt his clothes being cut off. “Hey, what are you guys, faggots?”
“You wish, mother-fucker,” Maxon said. “We’re just concerned about your health. It’s going to get mighty warm in that cow tonight. We wouldn’t want you to get heat-stroke, or something.”
“We ain’t gonna wipe you ass for you, though,” one of the others said. “You’re just gonna have to lie there in your own shit.”
“Fuck you, you cuntboy faggot!”
Someone kicked him in the crotch, doubling him up.
“That wasn’t very nice, Bert,” Maxon said. “In fact, I don’t think I care to hear anything else come out of your pie-hole.” He tore loose a long piece of duct tape and wrapped it several times around Bert’s face and the back of his neck, not being very careful about Bert’s long, greasy hair. Some wound up taped into his mouth.
That chore done, Maxon held the cow’s body open while the others picked Bert up and placed him inside the corpse.
“I wouldn’t wiggle around too much in there,” Maxon said. “The ribs are exposed. You might impale yourself on one, if you get too frisky.”
Bert tried to scream.
“Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that. If you want out, you just say so and we’ll pull you free right away.”
He tried again, choking on strands of hair, breathing rotten cow-stink and his own shit-stink above piss and sweat and other indescribable odors.
“How’s that? Still not getting a clear signal. Well, boys, doesn’t look like Bert minds too much. Let’s sew him up.”
Bert thrashed around, poking himself on the cow’s ribs.
Maxon leaned over him. “If you’re worried about air? Not a problem.” He pointed. “Good thing cows come equipped with assholes, isn’t it? You’ll get all the air you need through old Bossie’s butt. Considerate of us, wasn’t it?” Maxon glanced around at the others. “You guys got the sewing kit ready?”
The taller of the other men held up a spool of fishing line and a large needle. “Ready when you are.”
Maxon smiled down into Bert’s face. “You just relax, and we’ll have you all nice and cozy in a few minutes.” He dropped the clamshell side of beef closed.
The corpse jerked and twitched as the men sewed the halves together. It took a while, but eventually they had old Bossie back in one piece again. Bert heard the big Ford engine fire up, and the car drove away.
He lay still a long time, willing his pulse to slow down. He stared out of Bossie’s ass. The moon illuminated the small opening, not that there was anything to see but a few weeds just beyond. Bert flexed his arms and legs, unable to loosen the ropes.
They’ll come back in a while, he thought. This is just a big joke, and they’ll get me out of here soon. I’ve just got to be calm until they do. Ha-ha, very funny, Maxon. We’ll see how funny the law thinks this is.
Bert felt a tickle along his side and belly. Something was moving around inside the cow, something that wasn’t Bert Granchi. Or maybe a lot of little somethings.
How long had the cow been dead? Maxon said a week. Bert shivered. Something dropped onto his face from the decaying meat above, something small and wiggly. More fell on him, and still more. Had he been able to scream, he would have, for Bert knew what he shared his new abode with.
Maggots. Thousands and thousands of maggots. Above him, below him, all around him, the wriggling larvae of a thousand flies were slowly devouring the carcass. How long until they started in on his very much living flesh?
Bert writhed and pushed his feet against what had been old Bossie’s shoulders. The only way out was through that very small hole, but he might be able to force himself
far enough through to get someone’s attention.
If there was anyone around. If he could get the duct tape off of his mouth.
He looked up at the narrow circle of moonlight just as something partially blocked it, and he froze, forgetting all about the maggots.
A large rat stared in at him through Bossie’s bung hole, nose twitching at the unexpected scent of very frightened human inside the rotting corpse. Bert’s fingers dug into the slimy, decaying flesh above him as he tried to pull himself back with his fingertips, away from the open anus.
The rat crept in after him.
Another followed.
Bert lay very still as the vermin twitched their nasty little noses around his. One crawled up into his hair, while the other checked out the duct tape gag.
That’s it, little friend, Bert thought. Gnaw the tape away, and I’ll be able to get someone to come get me out of this.
But the rat decided there was nothing edible there. He felt it slither down his arm to where his hands were tied over his ass. It nipped at a fingertip. Bert jerked his fists closed, but the rat backed out before he could get a grasp. It sank sharp little rodent teeth into the meat at the base of his thumb. Bert twitched and wriggled, unable to voice the scream clogging his throat. The rat slipped down his hip, and he felt it poking around his groin, trying to get underneath him.
The uncle-fucker is trying to get to my balls! Bert turned his head to look down, hoping to glare the rodent away from his genitals.
The rat on his head, which he had forgotten about, slipped off and dangled in front of his eyes, one little paw tangled in his matted mane. Bert’s eyes crossed as he focused on the rat. Puffs of air from his nostrils ruffled the vermin’s fur. Its mouth opened wide, and sank its teeth into Bert’s nose.
Oh, God! he screamed internally. Rats carry rabies, don’t they? I’m gonna get fucking rabies! Oh, Jesus, get me the fuck out of this!
If Jesus heard, He did nothing.
Bert shook his head, dislodging the one rat, but in the process tilted his lower body up enough for the explorer down south to slip into his loin area. He bucked his hips, trying to smash the monster before it ate his balls.
It didn’t eat his balls, but it did take a healthy bite from his penis. Bert arched his back and shivered with the exquisite pain. His scalp scraped across the upper ribs and parted like the Red Sea. A wave of blood flowed down into his eyes, and nose. He snorted, blowing red snot and tears out of Old Bossie’s asshole.
His wet nasal assault connected with the snout of a creature much larger than his tormentors, lurking just beyond his air hole. It hissed, and turned, and lifted a brushy tail.
The skunk sprayed a full load of stench into Bert’s face before it waddled away. Bert coughed as best he could, shaking his head and snorting the odor out of and away from his nose.
That didn’t help the stink, but there was one blessing. The aroma drove the pair of rats out of the carcass and into the night.
Bert was finally alone in his new home. He cried, the whimpers stifled behind the duct tape but the tears running freely. He didn’t want to think about how much of his dick the rat carried away in his gruesome little belly. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help it. He knew he was maimed for life. Even if he ever did get a girlfriend, he would never be able to have sex with her. He would die a virgin.
He would die a thirty-six year old virgin, if he didn’t get out of this cow corpse soon and get himself some medical attention. God only knew how many diseases he’d been exposed to already. Rabies, for sure. Possibly cholera, plague, typhoid, whatever else one got from exposure to long dead bodies. Plus, he’d been bitten several times, and was probably bleeding to death. And he was very hungry and thirsty. Getting sprayed by the skunk was the least of his worries. His room in Grammy’s basement smelled almost that bad anyway.
He whimpered until he ran out of breath, rested, then whimpered some more. When would they come to let him out? How long was it till morning? Didn’t they say that’s when they’d come back for him?
Bert froze. He ran the conversation with his kidnappers through his mind over and over again. He tried to remember at what point they said they’d come back, and realized against his deepest desires that they never had.
They were going to leave him there forever. There would be no rescue, no opening of the cow’s dead body at sunrise, accompanied by hearty laughs all around at Bert’s expense. He was going to die inside this cow, and no one would ever know what happened to him.
Bert Granchi wet himself again. And shit himself, again. Then he fainted.
* * *
The tight beam of sunshine coming in through Bossie’s asshole pried Bert’s eyes open.
He looked out on the totality of his world beyond Old Bossie, a patch of weeds still reeking of skunk. His body ached in ways he could never have imagined. He flexed and wiggled, trying to work the stiffness out of his limbs, but there just wasn’t enough room inside the cow to unkink himself. He stopped moving. A crazed giggle escaped through the thick curtain of duct tape.
His grandmother was peering down the cow’s butt, her thick glasses reflecting the light of the new day back into his. “Well, sonny boy,” she said. “You sure got yourself in a pickle this time, didn’t you?”
Bert couldn’t answer except to nod his head.
“What, can’t ya talk, you loser?”
He shook his head.
Grammy snorted. “Don’t know what I expected, but this isn’t good. I should’ve known you’d wind up like this.”
Bert whimpered. He wanted to promise her he’d be good from now on. He couldn’t, though. Even if he hadn’t been wearing several loops of duct tape around his face, he knew it would be a lie. Lying was bad.
She scowled at him. “At least I won’t have to bail you out anymore. No more visits from the sheriff or the F.B.I., or whoever the people you piss off sic on us. That’s just plain gotten old, sonny boy. Good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what I say.” She snorted again, and her face drifted from his view.
No, Grammy, I’ll be a good boy! he thought. I won’t cause you any more problems.
No more big phone bills from calling people he hated and leaving threatening messages on their voice mails. No more lawsuits, no more flame wars, no more anything.
But Grammy didn’t come back. Grammy didn’t set him free. Grammy didn’t fucking care if he died inside this cow.
Nobody cared. Nobody cared. Bert cried silently.
Another face intruded into his line of sight. That lesbo bitch, Connie Maxon, grinned in at him. “Serves you right, you bastard. I hope you’re enjoying this. I sure am.”
He tried to communicate remorse with his eyes, but she just laughed.
“Gotta go, Bert. There’s a long line of folks out here you’ve pissed on and pissed off. They’re all here to spit in your eye. I hope a few off them do more than that. I know most of them. They’re nice folks, except when it comes to you. In fact, I met my new very best friend because of you. You made her life a living hell. When we met and I mentioned how much grief you’d caused me, well, that turned out to be the basis for a pretty intense relationship.” Connie laughed. “I should feel grateful to you. It’s all to your credit that I’ve found someone so wonderful to spend my life with. Wish us luck!”
She moved away, and the interminable parade of Bert’s enemies began to file past his air hole. Some reminded him of what he’d done, some just laughed, some actually spat. After a while, they were coming in pairs, then threesomes, then in legions, vastly more faces than could fit into the little window of Bossie’s rectum.
They were all so chummy, so happy to be there together. Bert was almost envious of the camaraderie of his enemies. Almost.
Eventually the faces faded away, and all that was left was sunlight and silence. Bert stared out the hole, wishing for them to come back, pleading for just another few seconds of human contact, even if it was only to pile shit on his head and rub it in his face.
He’d take it, and gladly, if only they wouldn’t leave him to die alone.
They didn’t return.
All there was for a very long time was the stink of death, the faint caress of the maggots and flies, and the light.
And heat. It was getting hard to breathe inside Old Bossie. Steam from the dissolving corpse obscured the light. Bert’s hair hung down in greasy braids before his eyes, the blood from his scalp wound plastering it to his face like the wallpaper in Satan’s den.
No, not den, Bert thought with a giggle. Dens were usually paneled, weren’t they? It was probably his living room. Yes, that was it. The devil’s living room was decorated with the bloody hair of men who died inside the week old bodies of cattle.
The day floated by. A long series of insect invaders joined Bert inside Old Bossie, beetles and slugs and worms and centipedes and doodlebugs, but he didn’t pay them any attention. He just stared out her ass, waiting for Grammy to show up again and tell him what a loser he was, how much trouble he’d caused her.
Grammy didn’t come back, either, and after a long while, the light began to dim. Not much, just a little.
Something stirred in Bert’s brain. It was like waking up, but not exactly. It was more like coming out of a thorazine haze. It was like the slow return to conscious thought after the shock therapy and the drugs they gave him at the mental health center.
Ha! Mental health center, my ass, he thought. They tried to break me, that’s what they did. They tried to make me sick. I was fine when I went in, it’s only since I got out…
He shook his head and concentrated on the light, clinging to it with his eyes.
The light can’t go away again, he thought. If it does, I’ll lose my mind for sure, what’s left of it. He moaned.
Voices floated in with the fading light. Voices!
Someone is out there, he thought, someone will surely get me out of this fucking cow!
Bert worked his jaw, trying to loosen the duct tape enough to scream for help, but that asshat Maxon had put too much around his face.
Along with the voices, Bert heard an engine, the deep thrum of a truck. It drowned out the individual words until the source of those voices got closer, and even then, he could only make out an occasional word. Something about a damned cow, and a winch, and a fire. Surely Old Bossie was way too far gone to cook, he thought. Even stuffed with long pig.
Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant Page 6