Masters of Taboo Presents: Cannibalism, Digesting The Human Condition (Limited Edition)

by Biro, Stephen

  He had been thinking about doing this for a long time. He was an aspiring cannibal. Emphasis on ‘was’. He aspired no longer. As of tonight, he was one of them – a flesh eater. In his mind, he had finally reached the big leagues, simply by following his gut. And that perverted gut led him to this very night, standing alone in the tiny kitchen of his tiny apartment, looking down at the vintage Haywood Wakefield kitchen table he had picked up at a garage sale and kept for himself rather than sell it to his boss at the vintage furniture store.

  Well, not really alone. She was there too, her corpse speechless in mangled repose. Right there on the table. Dripping onto blood-soaked beach towels scattered across the floor, a ripe blood funk heavy in the air.

  He really had liked her for more than just her body. She was the friendliest of the girls who would hang around the new-to-you vintage furniture store where he worked four days a week. They were like furniture groupies, always hoping to be the first to see the boss’s newest acquisitions and yapping endlessly about retro this and vintage that. But, not her; she was the only one willing to diversify topics when it was just the two of them at the store. She’d riff on current events, prompted by the countertop television he was always watching. All news, all the time! World atrocities always piqued his interest. Not that anything piqued his interest beyond popping his human eating cherry.

  He liked her. But, he knew. He just knew it wouldn’t last. One can only resist dark cravings like his for so long. And resist, he had for years. First, out of shock, he was appalled. Simply appalled at himself for having such a perversion. The notion of human gristle stretching and tearing across the silver fillings in his teeth aroused him greatly to where at times he’d set his fork down, rub a palm across his heating groin and clutch that very same kitchen table until his knuckles were white and tight under his own flesh. The chirping chicks of his horrible hunger, always muted out any concerns for his social or psychological wellbeing. He preferred to contemplate the menu in his mind.

  Everyone has a type, right? He determined his. And this girl fit the bill perfectly. So, he stopped resisting and started planning. And, the plan worked unexpectedly well.

  She actually did come over to hang out. He had thought it would take a while. But, it didn’t. She walked in, hugged him, and plopped right on the couch. She smiled, unconcerned.

  He walloped her in the face with the side of a rubber mallet. Her neck snapped and crunched like twisted tinder. Her dead head, yawned back against the seat cushion.

  But, killing wasn’t the end game. You can still apologize for that. You can’t apologize for eating someone. And that’s where he had to take it. So he lugged her corpse into the kitchen. He had laid out an impressive variety of knives on a vintage bark cloth hand towel earlier in the day. He grabbed a knife blindly and slashed open her clothes. He knocked her legs open with his knees. He tapped three fingers against his bottom lip and considered his first bite. He’ll never have another first bite. Make it count.

  He saw her pussy. She didn’t trim. He inhaled. He pushed her pubes up towards her belly. He gave her a lick for courage. He inhaled again and revealed a sinister grin. He was coming alive.

  He started to cut and eat.

  That was six hours ago. The last piece of thigh flesh had done him in. He was tired. He was stuffed. He had to undo the button on his pants.

  She was delicious! Every single bite, all just as good as he had hoped and imagined.

  And by God, he did it. HE DID IT! What he set out to do. What he wanted to do. What he had known for years that he must do. He ate a person as if she were the special of the day in his favorite restaurant. He even dabbed his lips with an antique cheesecloth, crumpled it up, and actually tossed it onto her corpse, as if anticipating a friendly wait staff to come and clear the table.

  As he stepped back and leant against the kitchen counter, he knew he had finally answered his calling. It all felt right with a might. Who can argue with that? He had heard talk that it’s only a sin if you think it’s a sin. He knew it would only be a sin not to do it again; for breakfast.

  He belched, then opened the drawer and pulled out the cellophane. He started wrapping her up.

  Forty minutes later, he dumped the last tray of ice onto her selectively cut corpse to keep it chilled in the bathtub. He should have bought a storage freezer. That was a rookie mistake. He’d perfect things from here on out.

  He stopped inside the frame of the bathroom doorway. He looked back at her fondly. She looked unimpressed. And that’s saying something considering he’d eaten a good portion of her face, including an eye, which he had spooned out with a melon baller his sister had given him as a housewarming gift. He had also eaten a finger (like a chicken wing), her upper lip, cheek flesh, a flank out of her side, pieces of thigh, and a nipple, which he had sheared off like a thin piece of salami and set on his tongue; almost waiting for it to dissolve. It didn’t. So, he rolled it up with his tongue and crunched it between his teeth, cutting through the texture similar to that of folded plum skin. He flipped off the light and went to bed.

  His groan filled the dark room. The bed sheets twisted tight around his body as he rolled onto his side. He wrapped an arm around his stomach, holding it tender like a mother caressing her unborn fetus. Another groan, sweat from his brow dampened the pillow. He piled the extra pillows against the headboard and lay back against them. Eyes still closed and arms at his side. He lay still. A sequence of short, hard breaths; he clutched the sheets as a deep rumble wallowed in his gut.

  Why, why, why? He thought to himself, dismayed as he staggered across the dark room, his arm still cradling his swollen belly. His palm hit the door jam and he twisted a wrist around to flip on the bathroom light. He closed his eyes against the glare, as his dry feet hissed and shuffled across the cool tile, passing her corpse in the tub. She was bluer now.

  He peeled his briefs down to his ankles as his hairy haunches landed on the porcelain seat. He dropped his head into his hands then kicked the briefs off his ankles. They hit the far wall. He breathed in deep, inhaling the cool air and gingerly taking hold of the counter corner, bracing his body as gastric tremors cannonballed his insides.

  He started to think about how much he hates getting sick. God, why? Don’t let me puke! It was rhetorical and not specifically directed at any such deity. He wasn’t the praying type. He had long since put all his faith in himself as an exceptional member of the species, despite his less than exceptional social status.

  But if there was ever a time when he lost his faith it was when he lost his shit. And as beads of perspiration bubbled up across his upper lip and forehead, he felt the queasy lurch inside grow and rise, and he knew for goddamn sure he was about to lose his shit. Both literally, and figuratively and he hadn’t puked once in his entire life without shooting a hot, chunky blast out of both ends. It was his version of a horror show. He knew that when he lost his shit, he lost control of his very being. For however long it took, his body would be possessed by a vile and violent spirit, out to rack his bones, strain his muscles and force dots of blood to blossom across his cheeks. It would leave him deflated, defeated, and drained.

  True, he always felt better once his premises were vacated. He did know that. And he tried to console himself with the thought. But like every time this anguish befell him, he was all balls until the churn in his body confirmed that yes, indeed, his stomach was about to empty and he’d better look the fuck out! When that moment hit, his breathing would sharpen. His grip on the counter would tighten. And he’d shred through an amazingly vast array of thoughts, most prominent of which was: What on earth did I eat and will it come back out gently?

  That was when he noticed her in the tub. She was about to return.

  He gasped terrified. And then he exploded; a vicious blast, then a breath. Another blast, another breath and his body convulsed hard and sharp. Vomit poured out his nose. He coughed out chunks. His quivering ass felt like it was going to launch him off the toilet as
the warm kickback splashed off the porcelain and onto his rear. What a mess.

  Oh, God make it st--!! He couldn’t even complete the thought as another furious wave ripped through him. How could there possibly be so much? And then he heard a trailing echo follow the question…of her.

  Somehow the only part of his body that did not move during all this commotion was his eyes. They were locked on to her. Even his high-powered projectile puking couldn’t force his eyes away from the big, dead mangled consequence lounging before him. His blood ran cold.

  Soon enough, the commotion settled. A few false starts and dry heaves reared up, but no more bile or waste was produced. His throat burned raw. His eyes were hot and watery and his spine, cold and achy. Vomit dropped off his chin and rolled down his inner thigh. But, he didn’t dare make a move. He just kept staring deep into her… eye.

  He was almost afraid to think. But then, the gears in his mind cautiously started to turn again. He remembered his name. He lives in Clearwater, Florida. He pictured his mother and father, still married and never abusive. He was a good kid, a happy child. He loved tubing at the Rainbow River with them as a child. Always seventy-two degrees! He was smart. He went to college. He had friends, he got laid and had no hang ups.

  But, he did like to eat human flesh. Or, so he had thought, as his mind snapped to the present and his eyes started to absorb the nightmare splattered before him. A corpse in the tub, puke on the tiles and waste on his ass. His lungs sucked in a deep, sudden breath, almost startling him. He gagged on the heavy stench.

  Cannibalism wasn’t as romantic as he had made it out to be. He had only ever thought about the going in and never about the coming out. In fact, he had altogether failed to consider that her dead, then butchered, then chewed, then digested body would come out at all. Perhaps he had been lost in the dazzle of some romantic notion whereby her flesh fused with his flesh, her soul with his.

  That had made him think. Was he interested in the flesh itself or was he eating her flesh to swallow her soul? Did he believe that would achieve a connection deeper than he had ever known? Maybe? But deep thoughts weren’t going to clean up the chunky barf that was starting to puddle in between his toes. No, this mess made it clear that cannibalism is ugly business for which he had planned poorly. Did I even consider what to do with the body?

  It’s funny, the ways the mind starts to wander when faced with consequence. Especially, a big bloody one! Sitting there, facing the real time results of his gluttonous, gory feast brought upon him a profound disappointment, which felt like an 80-pound iron weight dangling from his heart and clanging against his ribs. Had he only known, had he only thought! Had he only…

  Guilt, Regret, and Embarrassment seemed to slither up the walls around him, black as shadows. The silver lining of the slimy carnage was its ability to shock those emotions to the back of the line where he could deal with them later.

  A chill wiggled his spine and snapped him to attention. He looked at the carvings on her thigh. Skin had been there. He slowly smacked his lips, tasting her again. He grimaced and stuck out his tongue as if airing it out on a clothesline.

  Maybe he should have cooked her. You’re not supposed to eat raw beef or chicken. Same probably applies to humans. He should have thought of that. What do you call a life lesson presented by a dead person? Seared flesh in a skillet sounds pretty good. Would it taste gamey? A little bit of olive oil? Slice the skin thin and sizzle it up like bacon? Yum!

  He sighed with relief, reassured by the return of his cannibalistic appetite. He hadn’t lost it after all. He still had the power. And as long as his appetite was stronger than his fear of social or moral infraction, he’d be fine. Just fine!

  Wait. Had she said she was sick? He seemed to recall her sniffling as she stepped into his apartment. Maybe he caught a virus from her? Not very considerate on her part! But, she probably wasn’t expecting to be killed with a mallet and picked apart like a body buffet.

  But why was he trying to rationalize it? He had gotten here purely on passion and dark lust. Just because he’d puked her guts out of his guts doesn’t mean he should disavow what he knows himself to be. What he has been for years - A cannibal, nature’s ultimate survivor. If you puke after eating chili are going to stop eating chili? Be serious.

  His body couldn’t possibly have rejected her on its own. Every cell, he felt, had been poised to consume her. There had to be another explanation. Can you not mix two blood types? Who the hell knows? He hadn’t really considered the logistics and realities of corpse digestion. But, it’s not like there’s a how-to manual for this stuff. And, he certainly knew of no person he could turn to for advice.

  As he knew it would, his stomach felt better now that it was empty. But man, he was tired. He wondered if he should just clean himself up and leave the mess for in the morning. Why not? Okay, no. He knew that wouldn’t do. He decided to clean up quick and go back to dreaming…about her.

  Yesssss! The thought of her made his cock swell, which was amazing, considering every muscle in his body felt expended. Maybe he’d rub a little thinking of her. Wait a minute…the bed! He looked up to where the wall met the ceiling, contemplating the possibility. Vomit had splattered all the way above the shower curtain rod.

  A little companionship? He’d have to check to see if her holes had hardened up. He sat up excited. Nothing motivates like motivation!

  Hold on. He settled back onto the toilet. I’m a cannibal, not a necrophiliac. Right? Right? He wondered if this is what happens when you cross that cheek-chewing threshold. Could cannibalism be a gateway drug to darker desires? The thought intrigued him. WWDD? - What would Dahmer do? Well, he knew very well what Dahmer would have done, and did.

  At this point he just had to ride the vibe. And if he got her into the bed and couldn’t bring himself to make any moves, well…she’d make a handy midnight snack. He smiled, exposing a dark, gooey, chunk of her stuck on his front tooth.

  First things first! He stretched his arms, straightened his back, and yawned. He turned, unspooled a stretch of toilet paper, and wiped his backside. He tore off more toilet paper, balled it up, and dropped it between his feet. It soaked through immediately, flattening against the muck. He tore off more. He piled it on. His knees cracked as he lifted his feet off the tile and set them atop the paper pile, puke dripping off his heels. He dabbed his feet then leaned on the cabinet counter and pulled himself up. Good thing he had kicked away his underwear. They’d be drenched.

  He tip toed his puke covered feet over to the sink. He washed his hands, dried them, then tossed the hand towel on the ground around the base of the toilet. He looked at himself in the mirror. Blood vessels had burst like a fireworks display across his ashen cheeks. It was the only color on his face. Deep bags swelled under his bloodshot eyes. He swallowed and slowly smacked his lips. A nasty taste lingered. He grabbed his toothbrush. It was baby blue with a retro cowboy illustrated on it. He uncapped the toothpaste and squeezed out enough for four fouled mouths. It toppled off the bristles and onto the handle. He brushed vigorously across his teeth and his tongue, his mouth foaming like a rabid dog, the baby blue of the brush a colorful blur streaking across his face in the mirror. A hack, a spit, a handful of water and he was rinsed. He set the toothbrush back in its cradle.

  He walked over to a small cabinet and pulled out a folded pile of three bath towels in faded brown and blue. His mother insisted on tidying up when she stopped by at the crack of dawn every Thursday morning. She knew after nearly thirty years of raising him he would only do so much for himself. So, she added comfortable, womanly touches here and there. One of which was his nappy 70’s era bath towels, folded and ready for use.

  As he turned from the cabinet, he glanced over at the body, giving it full scan, from feet to face. Funny how puking makes you hungry! He tucked the towels under his arm and reached down and plucked a loose flap of flesh off her foot. It was crusty crimson with dried blood. He studied it briefly, making sure he wasn’t about
to eat anything he shouldn’t, then popped it into his mouth.

  He closed his eyes and allowed the dirty pleasure to wash over him. His eyes opened upon swallowing but they looked different than before. The lust was back. He licked his fingers. Another nice skin flap grabbed his attention. He reached for it. His foot squashed in puke and slipped out behind him. He fell forward and landed hard on his side, directly next to the tub, right in the sprawling pool of vomit.

  He scrambled onto his hands and knees. Chew chunks squashed under his flattening palm as his hand slipped out from under him and he smashed his chin on the hard edge of the porcelain tub. An anguished cry! He clutched his jaw, oblivious to the puke he was smearing on his chin. He groaned and moaned and winced, breathing hard through his nose as tear buds grew in the outer creases of his airtight eyes.

  When he finally opened his eyes, his head was hanging below his shoulders, his face red from the rush of blood. He lifted his head even with his shoulders and looked down at the ground. The blood rushed out of his face.

  He saw her there on the floor in the puddle of puke, a face of vomit with the goriest of features. A flap of chewed skin was folded over in the shape of her nose. A slice of muscle meat pocked with his teeth’s indentations lie beneath it like her sad little mouth. To the left, was an ear formed by the shredded tissue he had chewed off her fingers. And above the skin nose was her eye, which he had previously swallowed whole. It was lopsided and shimmering oily in the harsh bathroom light.

  Her puke face looked up at him. That goofy, deformed eye stared deep into his, right on through to his soul. Terror was frozen on his face. She has returned.