Posted by Sawney Beane on September 10, 2007 at 23:04:16:
The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #147
HOME COOKING
by Sawney Beane
22 July 2007
776 words
DISTRIBUTION NOTICE and DISCLAIMER: Sawney Beane requests that any distribution of this work of fiction remain within the realm of social responsibility. This story is suitable neither for minors nor for the seeming majority of adults who have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. It is pure fantasy, which means that, for whatever reason, someone has found it interesting to think about the events depicted herein. It does not in any way mean that the author would like to see this fantasy become reality, so if you are the type of person who might be swayed into doing something irrational by reading a work of fiction, the author respectfully requests that you decline to read further.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sawney Beane, originally a native of Edinburgh, lived for twenty-five years in a cave on the coast of County Galloway, subsisting on the flesh of unfortunate travellers, roughly a thousand of them all told. He and his wife raised a large family of eight sons, six daughters, eighteen grandsons, and fourteen granddaughters. Eventually, the family was captured, and the whole lot was brutally and unjustifiably tortured and executed without trial. Since his death in the early 17th century, Beane has reformed his ways and now confines his atrocities to his literary endeavours.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of semi-consensual snuff and gynophagia. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: One of three stories that have been bouncing off each other in my head for about a year. A delightful tale of home-life.
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"Mum, what kind of meat is this anyway?" asked young Henry Holbein through a mouthful of tender steak.
"Henry, don't speak with your mouth full," scolded his mother from behind the counter in the adjoining kitchen.
"Sorry, mother, but what is it?"
"Well, it's...um...well, venison. We will be having a lot of it in the next few weeks."
"It's real good," replied the young man.
"Where's Dad?"
"He's sleeping, Henry. He was driving all night taking your sister to university."
"Oh, It's good Heather passed her entrance exams this time, but I'm going to miss having her around." He smiled distractedly as he chewed and thought about his beloved elder sister.
"Well, things will be a bit different with her gone," replied his mother Hazel somewhat curtly.
"Yeah, I guess," said the boy finishing his meal and then asking to be excused.
The next few weeks saw the Holbein family periodically enjoying feasts of the new delicious tender venison.
Sometime in mid-October, during one of the special meals, Henry suddenly expressed a thought. "I wonder why Heather never writes? I wonder how she's enjoying her first year of university?"
"Eat your food and hush, boy," growled his father Horace Holbein with unusual grumpiness.
Henry's mother responded more gently. "Oh, that happens to kids when they go off to university, they have so much fun with their new friends they often forget to write."
"Yeah, I guess," said Henry, savouring his delightful meal.
Sometime a month or so later, it finally happened. Young Henry was enjoying a particularly well-prepared and tender steak and happened to turn it over on his plate. He noticed a design printed on the surface of the meat, and he was able to recognize it as a tattoo. What was more, it was a familiar design of roses intertwined with balloon hearts. Henry gasped in surprise.
"What is it, Henry?" asked his concerned mother from the kitchen.
"This meat!" said Henry. "It's Heather's tattoo! It's the one from her ankle! Is this Heather?"
Hazel Holbein did not answer him directly but cuffed her husband against the side of his head. "You idiot, Horace, you were supposed to have that one and let the boy have the other."
Horace Holbein grumbled at the abuse. "I didn't want to eat the one that was all inky, but here, we can trade." He offered to switch his mostly eaten ankle cutlet for his son's relatively untouched one.
"You fool, it's too late now. He's already figured it out! Your son will be traumatized for life because of your incompetence."
"I don't know why you're getting your knickers in a twist, woman," grumbled Horace. "The boy was going to find out soon enough when we served her head for Christmas supper."
"Yes, but I wanted to break it to him gently."
Henry watched this display in shocked silence. Then he blurted out, "It's true? You killed Heather and have been feeding her to me all these weeks? I'm going to be sick."
"Oh, hush, Henry, you liked her, and you know it," growled his father.
"Yes, but I didn't know it was my sister!" he moaned. "Didn't you take her to University?"
"Well, actually," his father mumbled. "Actually, she failed her entrance exams again, so I took her down to Mr. Berry the butcher."
"How could you do such a thing?" howled the stricken Henry. "Your own daughter?"
"Oh, it was for her own good, really," rationalized the father. "She really had no future except drugs and whoring herself. Her and those awful friends of hers."
"Heather never did drugs and she wasn't a whore. She was just popular," moaned Henry. "You never did give her a chance."
"I do think she took it better than you are," grumbled the father. "I told her how it was going to be and she walked quite confidently into the butcher shop with me and willingly put her neck on the block."
"I don't believe you," screamed Henry. "She wouldn't have done that. She loved life!"
"Well, it doesn't matter if you believe me, boy, we got the job done and now she's finally making something of herself. If you don't like it, you can just go sit in your room and think about it until you do."
This made no sense to Henry, but he quieted down nonetheless. After a long mournful silence, he looked up and asked his parents a question. "I'll be taking my entrance exams this Spring. Will you have me snuffed if I don't pass?"
Henry's mother jumped in with a soothing reply. "Oh, don't be silly, Henry, you've always been such a good student!"