Posted by Menagerie on August 06, 2004 at 05:37:05:
NOT VERY
Joe sighed, keyed in the day’s schedule. Rat-a-tat-tat. So much to do.
The words flashed on the monitor, reflected off his glasses. He squinted at them, frowned. Even with the thick spectacles, he couldn’t see very well close-up. The glasses set off a pasty, plain, ordinary face. He was not very big, not very tall, not very good looking. He was just not very. But there were important things he had to do, even on a Saturday. He had to review the personnel records at the firm. He had to take his dogs in for their shots. He had to kill and butcher the little blonde he’d abducted last week at the convenience store in the north suburbs. He sighed again; a busy afternoon.
He had to kill the little blonde because his basement was full. Three makeshift cells, three girls. He was going to go out tomorrow night, maybe downriver, and get another. He’d need an empty cell.
Besides, the meat supply was running low. He frowned down at the sandwich in front of him. Calf? It had been kind of tough. Just a few odd bits left in the freezer; time to restock.
Joe got up from his PC, tilted his head down, peered over his glasses at the mirror in the hallway. He ran a comb through the thinning hair, slicked it back. He’d never gone in much for the longer hair. Just lived there, in the old house, where he’d lived since he’d graduated from business school and took a job with the firm. Twenty-three years, just living there, just him. And the girls…
The first one had been a realtor; the second, a schoolteacher. He had risen to Comptroller; it paid. Flash some money in a bar, buy a few drinks; they’d follow you home. Joe had been surprised at how easy it had been. He’d been nervous; he’d just installed the cages, the shackles, the torture chamber in his basement, and never dreamed he’d be able to use it the first night. But there she was, brunette and smiling, relaxing in his little den, slipping off her shoes, sipping the drink…He only kept the first one a couple of days; the papers were full of her disappearance, and he was sure they’d find him, even 75 miles away. So she died, in tortured agony, a metal clasp around one slender ankle, hands bound behind her back, the knife sinking into her pale, soft throat…Wished he’d kept her around a little longer. The first one.
Next was the crowded lounge out by the college; she was a Teaching Assistant, just turned twenty-one, long, brown hair, slim and freckled. “You’re too old for me!” she teased at first; a few more drinks—he got better-looking with a few drinks, he would find—and she was ready to check out his place. The long trip back, the friendly drink, the one-way trip to the basement…He was more confident, now. A couple of weeks; nude, in chains, her eyes glazed in terror when he entered the room, trying to cover herself with fettered hands. She felt good, soft and wet; her screams were seized by the soundproofed room.
Meanwhile, Joe was eating the flesh of the first one. Moist meat, soft and sweet; he was just a thin little fellow, not a big eater, and a cutlet from the realtor’s back or thigh was enough, with perhaps a small salad and a cup of tea. He would get more creative later; cream sauces, exotic spices, perhaps diced girl meat in a soup or casserole. But he watched his weight very closely, stayed fit. He walked his dogs exactly two miles every day, and fed them the scraps from the butchered girls.
He thought about telling the schoolteacher, as he was raping and torturing her, that he was going to kill her and eat her. He decided against it at the time—might make her desperate—but later, as he grew confident in his restraints and alarm system, he made sure each victim knew her eventual fate; sometimes, he even hung the heads in their cells. It was kind of fun having a sex slave in the basement, and eating another girl on the side. Gave him something to look forward to; he pored over the company books, strained to balance them for eight hours, and could relax at home by torturing and assaulting a young woman. Good for the soul.
The bar gambit wouldn’t work every time, he knew, though there were no signs he was in danger. Joe was just so not very, the descriptions in the paper were vague. “A little, mousy guy.” Did he look like a mouse? He had looked in the mirror. Kind of mousy. They’d be looking for a mousy guy. They were also getting descriptions of the cars, but that was no problem; the company had a fleet. He drove a different one every time out.
He started abducting girls. That was easy, too. Chloroform worked the best. Just up behind one, hand over the mouth, and she was out. In the trunk, back to his place. Out of her clothes, into the chains, and the fun could begin. He burned the clothes in the incinerator; the bones, too. Or, a simple gun worked real well, he found. Go to a place where the clerk was all alone, march her out the back to his waiting company car. That’s how he got the little blonde.
The little blonde. The vet doesn’t open in an hour. No reason to idle about; kill her now, take the dogs in later.
She was cowering in her cell as Joe approached, his knife gleaming in the fluorescent lights. Short and chubby, her golden, curly hair was askew, draped over her bare shoulders. She hugged her knees and moaned; the chain around her ankle faintly rattled. Pink and smooth and soft and plump. Eyes wet with tears. “No,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat, “Please….”
He forced her face first to the cement floor, spread her thighs, mounted her from behind. The knife was against her throat. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay,” he said, courteously, as he thrust into her; she cried and retched on her own tears, on her elbows and knees. As he pumped, Joe examined her broad back, the love handles jutting over the jiggling buttocks. He ran his hands along her flanks, pressed; she felt firm to the touch. From experience, he knew she’d butcher easily, separate into chunks of meat, cook evenly. As he came, he brought the knife through her throat, enjoyed her dying spasms as she sunk to the floor under him, the heavy thighs in a vee, the red pool spreading under her. “Time to get to work,” he said, cheerfully; he flung her lifeless body over his shoulder and headed for his cutting table.
Sure enough, the carcass separated cleanly. The heavy thighs had a ring of white fat under the skin; her belly meat was streaked red and ivory. He packaged the meat “LB” for little blonde—he knew their names, of course; used those for his records. He weighed each packaged carefully, noting the weight on the package and in the ledger he kept in the room. He’d transfer the data to the computer later; it had gotten so he could look at a girl and tell how much meat she’d yield, how much each portion of her would weigh, how tender or tough she’d be. It was kind of fun; he’d sit around the office and assess the women: “Elaine 135 medium thighs 18 butt 14 70% soft2” he’d write on his pad as, smiling, the new Receivables Clerk passed by his desk and said hello. Elaine, he was confident, would make a fine butchered girl. Someday.
The best had been the tourist. German, visiting relatives. Soft and pale, sweet and flavorful. They must eat different stuff over there, he had decided while sampling a slice from her loin. Her screams had been throaty, her babbling cries for mercy in another tongue. Her hair had been auburn, her skin alabaster, her breasts huge, blue veins showing through the milky, full globes. He had savored her for three weeks; she died not in her right mind. The meat had been exceptional; he would try the college some time—perhaps they had exchange students…?
He’d almost lost track of the time; as he severed the little blonde’s shoulders from her torso, marked them “Picnic LB 7,” he heard the clock in the hallway chime. Got to get the dogs in; he opened the cooler, hung what was left of the girl from a hook, and hustled upstairs to clean up. His hands were full; there was the ledger, a wrapped piece of meat—“Ham LB 12”—and, just for the fun of it, the convenience store clerk’s head. Passing by their cells, he waved at the two naked women, cowering in their shackles, and stopped to hang the head in front of the black waitress from the inner city strip club; blood dripped from the neck, pooled underneath. The waitress’ eyes widened in fear; she shrieked at the thing, secured to a hook by wisps of blonde hair, swaying over her head. As she screamed in terror, shrinking away in her chains, he took in her naked body. Big butt and legs; sturdy. A hard3. He made a mental note to slaughter her on the fourteenth, and was serenaded by more screams as he left the dungeon and ascended the stairs.
Jessie and Frankie waited obediently upstairs, wagging their tails. “No scraps yet, girls,” he said sternly. The little blonde’s guts would feed them for five or six days apiece; inedible carcass scraps, another five or six. Then would come the fourteenth and the waitress. They liked African-American; he remembered the car dealership owner from Floral Heights. Slim, and cocoa-colored; kind of lean. But very tasty. Number eight. The car was now in his company’s lot, the license plate switched. He shook his head; amazing how easy it had been.
The vet was impressed. “These girls are in great shape,” she exclaimed. Brick-red hair framed a moon face; beefy thighs filled her slacks. Dr. Boschi—Lucy?—Lucy 148 large thighs 20 butt 17 65% hard4. Nah. “What do you feed them?” she asked as Jessie panted happily, peered at the vet with bright, hungry eyes. “Just scraps,” Joe admitted. “Might want to lay off just a bit,” she teased. “Jessie’s getting a wee bit paunchy.” Dr. Boschi turned to get a pouch of pills from the cabinet; Joe eyed her rump. So did Jessie. Definitely not diet food, girl, as he rubbed the wolfhound’s head. “Give her one of these after her next meal,” smiled the doc. “Feed her as soon as I get home,” Joe promised. Store clerk intestines. Jessie liked them.
Back home, over a rib cut from LB, he peered at the books. What the hell is this? They were dumping Trade in the Travel budget again. He sighed, chewed a chunk of the girl’s meat carefully, washed it down with a gulp of milk. He pulled out the map. The housewife had been up in the hills, in the township. Next should be up the highway, maybe in the factory town outside the college. Payday would be Tuesday; the local bars would be packed. He made a mental note to sign out the 4x4; it would fit right in.
Down to the basement, finish butchering LB. Trimming muscle from bone with an expert hand, he wrapped it up with a “Stew Meat LB 10”. The waitress’ knees were drawn up, her cuffed hands around them, a series of low moans. “Keep an eye on her,” he joked to the Little Blonde’s sightless head, hanging still and sad from the ceiling. Oh, yes, Beatrice. Make her feel at home.
The housewife huddled in the corner of her cell, long, curling black hair hanging over her tits. Joe flashed the prod, and she buried her face and moaned; he dragged her to her knees by the hair. “It’s time for sucking, Beatrice,” he told her sternly; as the sobbing woman retched twice and finally put his organ in her mouth, he checked out her shoulders, back and butt. Thin1; another one of these dieters. The meat would have to be stripped from her bones with a sharp knife, and he’d lose some. Joe shook his head; maybe she could wait till the fifth of next month. “We’re going to fill you out,” he told her cheerfully; she wouldn’t look up, shoulders shaking as she haltingly slurped at his dick. If he mixed grease from the Little Blonde with dog food…well, maybe. 105; she wouldn’t yield but 50 pounds, edible.
Joe sighed, gave the blubbering woman a casual jolt from the prod as he departed. It left her twitching on the concrete floor, making incoherent oofts. Not very efficient, but it’s not like he was getting them at the market. Well, he kind of was, thinking about the bar. The last time he’d tried that was number twelve, and four of the college girls had smothered him with attention; he bought them all drinks all night.
He got the Jewish girl from New Jersey, the one with the exaggerated figure. Rachel 128 full thighs 18 butt 16 68% medium3. He laughed; she’d been in the basement for two full months. Eyes pleading, even teeth though a slack mouth, as the prod or the needles goaded her. Finally, hanging helpless from a hook, the blade squishing through soft belly meat, the guts foaming out. God, he’d almost eaten an entire haunch at Christmas. Hava Nagila. Her friends, of course, couldn’t tell the cops anything. Kind of short, kind of slim, kind of pale, kind of quiet. Not very anything. The drawing in the paper looked like a mouse.
Joe went over the records in the computer. Budget 4.3% over. Yielded 55% from the Little Blonde. Interest rate down to 7.7%. Eighteen women, average age 26.4, average weight 137.2, average dressed carcass 72.6. He stopped, sipped a lite beer, mopped his brow. All these numbers; he couldn’t catch up. His database plotted out where he’d grabbed all eighteen women; the exact midpoint…thirty miles west. Good; the factory town, definitely. He scanned the list; Gloria, Sandy, Michelle, Tyler. Soft3, hard2, thin2…the phone rang. “Hello?”
“Joe? Elaine. Hi. Great. Listen, we need to get together over the budget. Monday? Great. Sure, I know the place. See you there.”
Joe sighed, contentedly, finished slurping shreds of meat off LB’s rib. The factory town could wait. Elaine 135 medium thighs 18 butt 14 70% soft2. He wrote it down, kind of a bet with himself, and filed it carefully in the ledger. He was very meticulous. Even if he was not very anything else.