by Patrick Kill
Down one aisle, a pack of hooligans were kicking over headstones and firing a gun into the air. The noises didn’t bother me. This type of behavior had erupted everywhere.
One boy ran to the elderly couple and howled like a dog. The old man held onto his wife with both hands while the boy scampered closer, thrusting his head up the old woman’s dress. Another one of the boys shot the old man in the head. They took turns on his wife.
Shortly after, they came my way. I stared at them. They instantly grew calm. The leader of their group nodded in my direction. “Evening, sir,” he said politely.
“Evening gentlemen,” I replied.
They slowly walked away, each one bowing their head in my direction.
This marked the day when the old world ended and the new one began. I was born the day that God died. I was awakened when God fell from the heavens. It took almost three decades for his cadaver to drift through space and reach earth. In that time I developed my calling, grew to understand the nature of balance. I knew the importance of my role. Because it had to be done.
If nothing ever died, nothing new would arise.
I raised my hands to the sky, gazed across the shadowy graves before me, and yelled, “Let there be darkness!”
I paused, drew a breath and whispered, “Rise. Rise. Rise.”
The earth quaked, the ground split. The soil moved with things slithering from sealed and forgotten tombs.
To my left, the Easter bunny emerged from its tiny grave. Its ears were worm-eaten, its eye sockets were hollow. It squealed and lurched as if to hop, but spoke with a monstrous, low voice, “I want eggs!”
It made its way to the elderly woman sprawled across a tombstone, her flowery dress hiked up over her face. The hideous rabbit shoved its nose into the woman’s crotch. In an echoed, muffled voice, I heard, “Eggs? Need eggs!”
Next the tooth fairy scampered out of its grave. It took flight with a pair of skeletal wings and punched the old man in the mouth. His dentures fell to the ground and the tooth fairy grabbed them with hooked talons. “Teeth!” it screamed, then: “Oh well, these will do!”
Santa Claus finally managed to wiggle his fat ass free from his tomb. He flung a dirty, lichen-covered burlap sack over his shoulder and said, “Must find children.”
The entire graveyard was now alive and the only resemblance to any zombie movie was when the Man in the Grassy Knoll flopped out of his grave with a rusted rifle and yelled “Brains!”
Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, on a remote mountainside ski resort, the giant carcass of God came to life, morphing into the image that it once was. Skiers in lifts were the first to witness the mammoth thing regenerating into what looked like a malformed wombat with hazel eyes.
The thing screamed “Souls!” and the skies darkened.
Back at the cemetery, a young man tapped me on the shoulder, breaking my trance, “What is going on? Did you cause all this?” He motioned toward the graveyard activity.
“It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.”
“But why all this strange shit?” he asked.
“If you ask me, people take their jobs too seriously,” I replied. “Why not have a little fun in the process?”
“I guess you have a point.” He said smiling, as the tooth fairy approached, punching him in the mouth.
It would take a few years for the undead God to finally clean up his mess. He would consume souls as he lurched and swam across the world, collecting all His bastard children. In the end, he would finally come for me, as this would be the final battle. If I triumph, I inherit the power of creation.
If I win, I plan to trap the essence of God and cast Him into a mere mortal that will become the only living thing on this dead planet.
And I plan on teaching Him other lessons about responsibility.
The hard way.
BLESSED IS HE WHO TRUSTS IN THE LARD
1.
Outsiders claim we’re a cult. Others say it’s a fat farm. I know it’s the last step toward heaven and that we’re the chosen.
I was born in Beefleham, on a small farm where my father raised pigs and crops. I remember that night when it all changed.
I was only seven when my father ran into the house, his hands bloody, his face scared white. Ma told me to stay put as she left the house. My father led her to the barn.
Moments later, I heard her scream. I ran for the barn and that’s when my life changed forever.
A pig’s innards were strung across the floor. A pool of blood had spread beneath the tractor. I looked to my mother and father who were both transfixed by the pig’s shuddering body.
It wasn’t the first time I had seen my father slaughter pigs. He had let me watch, had taught me the ways in which a farmer must sacrifice an animal to feed the family. And the blood didn’t bother me, or the pig’s body jerking as the last of the blood circulated out of its pale body and onto the hay beneath our feet. But what did bother me was the thing that crawled out of that pig, pulling behind it a mass of fatty tissue.
My father raised a pitchfork above his head and I flinched as the thing crawled closer to my father.
“Kill it, Maynard!” Ma screamed.
But my father’s eyes were glazed. Instead of fear, there were only tears as he threw the pitchfork away and knelt to receive it.
Ma’s scream left my ears ringing, disturbing even the chaos that had already settled in my mind. I didn’t know what was happening. It felt like a terrible dream, one that made no sense, but hinted at a secret meaning which only frightened me even more.
The thing slithered up my father’s arm and he stroked it like a baby, cradling it in his arms.
“Pa!” I yelled, “Kill it!”
But nothing registered. Tears continued to stream down his face.
I thought about going for the pitchfork myself, then stopped to look at the thing. It was pale, gelatinous. It appeared as if it were just a lopped off piece of the pig’s fatty tissue, but it moved.
I looked for eyes or antenna, thinking it was some kind of parasitic worm, but saw nothing but fat. I had seen cattle and chickens infected with tapeworms and such, but they were miniscule to the size of the thing on Pa’s arm. From end to end, it stretched from Pa’s fingers to the side of his neck.
The pitchfork came into view once again, and then my father spoke.
“Oh Lord, we thank you for your presence…”
It never said a word. But somehow it was communicating with Pa. You could see some form of understanding light up Pa’s face, as if the thing was from Star Trek and spoke through telepathy. And my father understood every word.
And somewhere in the moment, I swore it spoke to me. It said: don’t be scared, my child. And I immediately felt relieved and forgot about the pitchfork.
2.
In the beginning, I’m not sure if I believed it was the real Lord.
My family was never religious, but the concept of Jesus and God were still pounded in my head by society, especially when I started school. I kept asking myself if everyone else could be wrong. There were hundreds of religions out there, but no one worshipped such an entity as The Lard. In fact it was absurd to most.
But life had evolved for thousands and thousands of years. Dinosaurs existed before humans. And there were surely other species that preceeded the dinosaur. So how could people assume that God was of the human essence? And that Jesus would come back in human form? What if the Lord and Savior appeared in a more primitive form, such as Lard?
It spoke to Pa every day and I became proud of the man. He was like Moses in the Bible—one of God’s first chosen ones.
And Pa spoke of the Lard’s wishes. How the key to heaven was in feeding oneself, to gain bulk (a piece of the substance that the Lord was made of) and how the Lard needed sacrifices each month. The Lard also told father how he needed to spread the word. The Lard had come to collect the chosen ones. And it said that the end time was nearing.
I never would have b
elieved these things if it weren’t for the flood.
It had rained for three days straight. The creek had flooded its banks and washed into the field. By the third day, the water was threatening our livestock. Pa had moved the pigs to the highest ground, but there weren’t many hills.
I heard my father praying that night, “The Lard is my Shepherd. It shall lead us through the tough times and guide us to the Promised Land. Praise the Lard, Amen!”
I thought my father was insane.
But that night I became a true believer that he was the chosen.
The water level crested near midnight. Half the livestock had perished and the barn where the Lard stayed was washed away. My father awoke, scrambling after he heard the crack of wood, as the water carried the barn away.
“Oh, my Lard,” he screamed, “Where has it gone?”
We waded through the current as rain continued to plummet from the sky. Gray clouds swirled furiously overhead, blocking most of the moonlight.
And then we saw it. Where the barn had collapsed and washed away, the Lard remained. It was not even affected by the raging waters. In fact, it floated atop the water—a true miracle. It moved across the waters gracefully until it met Father and I. And this time it spoke to both of us. It told us what needed to be done next. And my father and I both broke down into tears.
3.
The property was damaged. The field was wiped clean of all crops. The pigs were dead and dying. We packed up some essentials and were ready to make the move to the neighboring town of Jerusalaham.
I watched from the distance as Mother and Father knelt before the Lard. My father’s tears glistened in the sunlight as he kissed my mother.
The Lard stretched itself out on all sides, to where it had expanded into a perfect circle at least six foot in diameter. It pulsed and bubbled in a strange ritual just before my father pushed my mother’s head into its mass.
I gritted my teeth as the Lard’s body formed into a giant hand that clutched my mother’s face. Her scream was cut short as the Lard’s body pierced her eyeballs and surged into her skull. Her face distorted as the Lard leeched its way through her pores, crawled into her mouth and nose.
She fell backwards, putting her hands to her face. But her flesh just melted into the Lard’s body. Bones fell to brittle ash that was consumed by the pale mass quivering before us.
Her clothes were ripped off as the Lard’s tentacles pushed between her breasts and between her legs. Her body arched, as if in ecstasy, before convulsing toward silence.
“Son,” Father said, “I know it’s hard to understand, but it’s the Lard’s way and it should be followed. The Lard had told me that women are here to serve men. And, sometimes, after they have served our needs, they need to be sacrificed for higher purposes.”
I nodded, trying my best to understand.
I looked back to the Lard, which had grown twice its size. Then I headed for the truck and our new life in Jerusalaham.
4.
We quickly found meaning to why the Lard had told us to relocate. Jerusalaham was a quiet farming town, much like Beefleham, but somehow would become the center of our following.
Within two weeks, several men from town had joined Father’s Sunday service. They were skeptical at first, but after they witnessed the Lard firsthand, they quickly converted.
During the next seven months, our congregation grew to fifty men. And with this support, the Lard started performing miracles right before our eyes.
First, it was the six-pack of mineral water. My father had placed it into the Lard’s body. Its flesh quickly consumed the bottles. Its body quivered and then everything went silent. Its flesh parted again to the sight of a six-pack of beer.
The congregation sat in awe at this feat. If anyone had their doubts up to this day, they had been quickly erased.
The more people who came, the more miracles the Lard performed in front of its chosen flock.
A bag of potatoes were turned into pork rinds.
The Lard’s pale body touched an anorexic teenager. A mere two weeks later she had miraculously gained eighty pounds and increased six sizes around her waist. And she had only eaten but a bowl of lettuce and a Nutra-Grain Bar since being first touched.
Of course, once she was nicely plump, we sacrificed her.
My father began preaching about mass. Body mass.
“True believers must seek what makes one holy.”
The Lard touched each member. And each grew in bulk.
But as each of us grew in size, the Lard began to diminish.
5.
The Lard had only feasted once in several weeks when the group became restless.
“It needs a sacrifice, Maynard,” one of the devoted followers said during mass one Sunday. “It has sacrificed itself for us, for our sins of being undernourished. We need to act!”
Father had told me that the time was near. He told me that there would be great strife inflicted upon us from the outside.
I urged him to make a sacrifice. But we had no women in our group to give. And my father delayed in making a decision.
That night, the Lard called to me. It woke me from my dreams and lured me to our sanctuary in a new barn that was built with money from our Sunday collection plate.
The Lard spoke directly to me. It said, Jerusalaham is filled with non-believers. And lots of women. Bring two. Then sacrifice them to me.
* * * * * *
The only time I had ever seen a woman naked was when the Lard had crawled into my mother’s cunt. Now I was in a room full of them, swinging on poles and dancing on the laps of old men.
I was indeed aroused, but kept my focus on the mission.
Shortly after arriving, a young blonde straddled me.
“Hi, sugar,” she said, “haven’t seen you around here before.”
“First time,” I said, feeling her breast push against my chest. I felt my penis rising and wondered what the Lard would think of this indiscretion. But then it spoke to me from afar. It said: Indulge, indulge.
“I want to have sex with you,” I said.
The blonde just laughed. “You’re a straightforward one, aren’t you, sugar?”
“It’s just that I’ve never been with a woman before.”
Her eyes suddenly lit up.
“I’m off in a half hour.”
“Do you have any friends you could bring along?”
“Sure do, baby. How’s two for the price of one sound?”
I smiled and nodded.
“My name’s Monica. Wait for me.”
* * * * * *
I had never expected it to be that easy. Within an hour, I was back on the farm with two women on the hilltop.
Moonlight cascaded down Monica’s back as she straddled me in the grass. Her stripper friend, Alexa, lay beside me, shoving her breast into my mouth.
Monica was bouncing away as I felt myself quickly come inside her. Pain erupted in my balls and my penis ached from her wild hip movements.
“Where are you?” I whispered.
Monica stopped, but Alexa jumped right on. I thought they were going to drain me completely. But then I saw the Lard’s pale body moving up the hillside.
It quickly arrived to save me.
First, it took Monica who rested, watching her friend devour me. I saw it flatten out into what looked like a giant pale, fatty penis. Monica screamed after seeing it come up beside her, but she couldn’t run.
The Lard thrust forward into her ass and she fell forward, her breasts smashed against the ground as the Lard pounded her from behind.
“Oh God,” she screamed.
She didn’t know how accurate that was at the moment. But her scream alerted Alexa who jumped off me and tried to run away. But I quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her down.
I stood mesmerized, watching Monica get fucked from behind by the Lard. I held Alexa against the ground, making her watch as well.
Monica quickly fell unconscious, just as the Lard pul
led out, then shot a stream of oily fat across her back, reinserted its body into her cunt and continued to pump wildly.
After it had finished with Monica, it moved to Alexa. I let go of her and she scrambled briefly, but the Lard contracted into a bullet-shaped projectile, which rushed at her from behind, burying itself into her hind end.
There wasn’t much pumping this time. Three quick thrusts and the Lard disappeared into Alexa’s body. She screamed, then moaned, her body quivering as if in ecstasy. Her back arched, then her skin suddenly split apart at the abdomen. The Lard’s body seeped from her pores, collapsing her flesh. Streams of the Lard’s body exited through her vagina, mouth, ears, with her bones snapped under the immense pressure. The Lard exited, reuniting its body back into a whole slug-like entity that crawled over the remains once again, engulfing the rest.
I was so enthralled that I hadn’t even noticed that Monica had gained consciousness and was half way down the hill.
I leapt, began to chase her, then was called back by the Lard.
I did not question The Lard when It said to let her go. But I knew the consequences that it would bring about.
My father’s prophecy was set in motion.
6.
Less than 24 hours later, a mob met my father at the gates to our property.
I watched them arguing, then a man hit my father with the butt of a rifle. Several others returned to their pickup truck.
Within seconds, my father’s body was crushed beneath its wheels. The gate was knocked over.
“No!” I yelled, running for the barn. The truck sped toward me, stopped at the entrance.
“Where is it?” a man yelled.
“You don’t know what you’re doing. It has come to save us.”
“Would you listen to this shit?” another man yelled, pointing his gun at my head.
“I will not betray the Lard, the Savior.”