Posted by Menagerie on June 27, 2004 at 06:50:53:
COOKIES
Ding, dong. Door creaks open. Cautious eyes peek out.
Young. Blonde. Tall. Cheerful.
Yes, what is it?
“Good evening, sir! I’m from GDI Sorority at the college. We’re holding a fund raiser to feed the hungry. Would you be interested in buying some delicious cookies?”
Small smile.
Why, certainly. Just a moment.
Door closes.
Check the cupboard. Seven human skulls. Room for an eighth.
Hastily stow the human leg on the table in the fridge. Stuff the bra and panties lying on the floor into the broom closet with the other clothes. Clear the big table; gutters are rinsed.
Door swings wide. Broad smile.
Please, come in. Feed the hungry? I’m certainly glad you came here.
“Oh, we’re just happy to help out. The money goes to the local food pantries and soup kitchen. When I think of all the people out there who need something good to eat--” blue eyes mist over—“…well, it fills me with determination. I’ve been walking all over the hollow since eight a.m.”
Goodness; you certainly are to be commended. You must be thirsty. Would you like something to drink?
“Why, thank you! It’s been a long day. Cola would be fine, thanks.”
Open the fridge, eyeing the pretty blonde over shoulder. She smiles, waves. Glance down at the leg on the plate in the fridge. Not much left. Pour a drink; drop in the pill.
Here you go.
“Thanks again! That hits the spot. Now, how many boxes of cookies can I put you down for? They’re three dollars apiece.”
Oh…how many have you got? I’ll take ‘em all.
“Well—how generous! I must have, let’s see, ten, twelve…gee, I didn’t know I was so tired…twelve, fourteen, er…how much is that?”
Forty-two dollars. Here you go. Why don’t you have a seat?
“Oh, my! I hope you don’t mind. My poor feet are so hot.”
Shoes off. Dainty little feet.
“Well, let me get your name, please.”
Fish. Albert Fish.
“Well, Mr. Fish…I wasn’t sure anybody lived way out here. Here’s your receipt; this is tax-deductible, you know. My, I’m tired! You wouldn’t mind getting me a cold cloth, would you? I almost feel faint. I’m sorry to be such trouble.”
No trouble at all. You just relax.
Back to the kitchen; open the closet. Grab some rope.
Stretched out on the sofa, sleeping like a baby, pretty face nestled between her arms. Blue jeans, T-shirt. Off they come; wrestle past the full hips. Nice, plump butt. Heavy thighs. Kind of nice boobs. Wrists tied tight; hogtied to ankles. Out to the kitchen; on the table.
Let’s see. Both thighs will fit in this pan. There’s hardly any left of the hitchhiker in the freezer; set some wrapped shoulder and calf off to the side. Loins in here. Cure the belly and tits out back in the smoker.
“Mr. Fish?”
Check out the knives and cleavers. That big one for separating the joints. The long one needs sharpening. Vzzzzzt…vzzzzzt…
“Mr. Fish! What are you doing?”
There, that’s pretty keen. This short one can cut away cartilage, for the ribs. It’ll be easier to take the head off first.
Turn toward her. Blue eyes boiling tears.
“Mr. Fish! Someone! Please help me!”
Rock back and forth; still in bra and panties. This is the best part. The short blade in the waist strap; snip. Curly, brassy hair. The shoulder strap; snip. Nice nipples; big, with tips like pencil erasers.
“PLE-E-E-EASE!”
No one can hear. No one lives within a mile.
“W-what are you going to do to me?”
Why, I’m going to butcher, cook and eat you. After all, you said you wanted to feed the hungry.
“NO-O-O-O-O!”
Fighting the bonds. Rolling onto her belly; butt wiggling, arms and legs strain at ropes.
Now, hush up. Here’s your big opportunity. Are you willing to make sacrifices for charity, or not? What do you weigh, maybe one-thirty?
“One-thirty-five. Pleeeease, let me goooooo….”
Pare some sweet potatoes and carrots; they’ll go in the pan. Need that short knife to score the thighs for the cloves. Damn; dull. Vzzzzzt…vzzzzzt…
“I won’t tell! I promise!”
You’re damn right you won’t tell.
Still straining at the ropes. Panting; nice tits pressed against the table. They look good.
Suddenly, breath sucked in. “Those girls who disappeared.”
Slice, slice, slice; toss the yams into a bowl.
That’s right; here.
“Six?
Seven. They don’t know about the runaway.
Slice, slice, slice.
“But why?” Sniffling; flexing those cute, tender legs against the rope.
Because…well, you have no idea how good you’ll taste. Girl meat is really something special. I’ll cook your legs with these here, your loin with roast potatoes…fry your belly with eggs…
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Pleeeeease…”
Now, stop. You’re here to feed the hungry. I’m hungry.
“I didn’t mean meeeee…” Soft, round shoulders buck; the tits rub against the table.
Good charity work can be demanding; sometimes, you have to be creative. Let’s see; 135 pounds will yield, uh, 81 pounds of edible meat; that’s a hundred and eight servings…You’ll last me nearly two months. Much better than that hitchhiker. And don’t forget the cookies.
“The cookies?” Sniff.
Fourteen boxes; twelve ounces to the box?
Sniff. “Eight.”
Turn back to the carrots; chop, chop, chop.
Pretty chintzy.
“I’m sorry. It’s for charity.”
You’re right, and I intend to help. How about I send the forty-two dollars to the sorority, anonymously?
Sobbing; disconsolate. “I don’t care.”
Oh, come now! What sort of attitude is that to take? You’ll be benefiting a lot of hungry people; they’ll show up at the food pantries and soup kitchen, and there it’ll be, food bought with our forty-two dollars. They’ll get something good to eat, and so will I.
Carrots done. Turn the oven up to—frowning at her thighs; she jerks at the ropes again—oh, three-fifty; they’ll need at least three hours. Get the lard out of the fridge to grease the pan.
“My God! What’s that?”
What? Oh. Hitchhiker. Leg. Not so good. Under fed. You look like you’ve stayed on your feed.
“What?” Boo-hoo. “I’ve been trying to lose weight.”
Grease, grease, grease. The heavy aluminum pan takes on a dull sheen.
Glad you didn’t succeed.
Sob. “Very funny. This is just awful.”
OK, I’ll tell you what. I’ll match the charity money, say forty-two is from you, forty-two from me. Feed twice as many hungry people, plus me.
No answer; just more crying. Grease, grease, grease. Finished. Pick up the cleaver; turn toward her.
Blue eyes ringed with tears; lip trembling. “Mr. Fish…please don’t do this…”
You know, it’s really very fortunate you came here. I’m in a giving mood. And I’m really very sympathetic toward poor people. In fact, you could say they’re a big part of my life.
“W-what do you mean?”
I ate one last month.
Kick against the tight ropes; that squirming fanny. Boil each buttock, maybe with cabbage. Delicate. Thumb against the cleaver; one blow should do it. Grab the hair; pull the weeping face up. The kicking, banging body flops against the table…
Not bad; good thing those thighs were scored. Look at all that fat in the pan; what a mess. Boil the flesh off the head tomorrow; leave it in the fridge for now. The tits and brisket should be smoked in a couple of days. Plenty of meat here for a couple of weeks, though; sandwiches and hash.
Care for a cookie?