Posted by Menagerie on September 29, 2004 at 16:58:41:
TOURIST TRAP
“My feet hurt,” Maggie was complaining. She was sitting on a pile of rubble, her shoes off, massaging her sore tootsies.
“We’ve been walking for ages,” Melanie said, wearily. “No people, no food—nothing.”
It had started out as one of those dream vacations, meticulously planned, exhaustingly scheduled. Every scenic spot of the beautiful little island was slated to be gushed over, photographed and souvenir-collected. Exasperated husbands were left back home; the “girls,” friends since school, would go it alone.
The first three days had been perfect. The natives were friendly, if a little frightened looking. There were tensions on the island, in a remote corner of Polynesia, hundreds of miles from the next self-contained island nation. The majority ethnic group lorded it over the Manatao minority; usually their servants’ eyes were averted, but on those rare occasions when the Manatao looked up the girls saw the resentment, the hatred in the eyes of cabbies, waiters, and the poor on the streets. They smiled, they were excessively polite, even deferential, but—it showed.
In many ways, it was adventurously rough. They rode a rattletrap jitney from one end of the tiny paradise to another, saw the long-dormant volcano; stumbled along the hilly path well-trod by sightseers before them, surrounded on all sides by the breathtaking beauty of lush tropical flora. Ferns, palms, lilies in a dazzling array of shades, dangled over their heads and partially shaded them from the relentless tropical sun. Their guide, Muki, one of the majority Sinntag, chattered incessantly about the botanical names of the plants, the many types of lemur present on the island, how this adventurer or another had come to visit and hunt. The girls squealed with delight and snapped pictures, plucked flowers for their scrapbooks. Truly memorable…
In the evening it was strange dishes—roasted sea birds, stewed turtles, starchy mashed vegetables; they giggled about what their husbands were missing and how handsome the bronze-skinned islanders were. Over potent fermented drinks, Melanie regaled them with tales of the inhabitants; she’d read up on their vacation spot. “The Sinntag came from surrounding islands, conquered the Manatao centuries ago. These people—” gesturing to the well dressed couples dining with them at the open air restaurant—“are all Sinntag; they have money. Europeans came here in the 1600’s; Dutch traders offered them food and wooden and metal tools—for Manatao slaves, whom they sold to the New World.”
Jannie thought about it; her own forebears had enslaved these people. “What else do you know?” asked Marla eagerly.
“Well…the Manatao are skilled artisans; they are very good at carving statues and things, like the ones we saw at the airstrip. They have their own religion; it used to involve human sacrifice!” The slender housewife’s eyes narrowed mischievously as she sipped her rum concoction. “And they also used…to…eat…people!”
“My God!” squealed Maggie. “They’re cannibals?”
“Well, not anymore,” Melanie explained; a waiter, his eyes cast downward, brought them another round of drinks. “That was centuries ago. But there were some rebel kidnappings of Sinntag leaders during the Sixties, and they were never found. The rebels were executed…” The waiter bowed and departed; as Jannie watched, he strode quickly away—then slowed his gait a bit and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were consumed with hatred...and something more; it looked, Jannie thought uncomfortably, like…like passion…
The beginning of the end came during the third night. The very hard drinks, combined with the peculiar music of the South Seas, had lulled them into an exotic dreaminess. But it was very warm, hard to sleep in the undersized beds at the island’s lone hotel, so the sharp report startled Jannie out of a pleasant, alcohol-inspired doze. She sat bolt upright.
“What was that?” called Marla from the other bed.
Jannie swung her legs around, stood up groggily. “I don’t know. Sounded like a firecracker.”
It wasn’t a firecracker. The loud noise was repeated, then again, then many times. Gunshots. The girls heard shouting in the streets, bottles breaking, sirens. A soft rap at their door, then more insistent. “Jannie?” she heard Melanie’s voice. “Come in!” Jannie yelled; the din outside was rising.
The four fortyish, frightened housewives huddled together in their pajamas at the window; several bonfires were blazing below, and their faces flickered orange in the glowas they peered down into the street. “What do we do?” whimpered Maggie.
Jannie picked up the phone, stabbed at the dial until she found the zero. The other end rang for a very long time; finally there came a man’s voice, terribly distraught. “What? What do you want?” he cried.
Jannie tried to stay calm. “We’re in Rooms 3 and 4. What is going on out there?”
She heard him take a deep breath.; his panic subsided a bit. “Oh…oh…it is the Manatao. They are creating a disturbance in town. You…you are the ladies from Holland?”
“Should we stay here?” Jannie asked. His response was a yelp; the line went dead. She looked at the other women, her eyes wide. “Let’s get out of here.”
They dressed quickly, shorts and pullovers. Throwing a few valuables into purses and fanny packs, they quietly slipped through the door into the hallway; it was still quiet there. Down to the spiral staircase at the far end of the hall, as far from the lobby as possible; out the door behind the hotel. A few running youths brushed past them as they ventured onto the otherwise quiet, cobblestone street; the action was on the other side of the building, and they heard more gunfire and whoops. They headed in the other direction, as fast as their legs could carry them.
Tall, solidly built, her long brunette hair streaming behind her, Jannie led the girls along the road through the more prosperous part of the town; there were modest houses, cars, a few satellite dishes. The houses were all dark, but they saw frightened eyes peeking out from behind shades and curtains as they passed. “What are they afraid of?” asked Marla, the willowy, freckled redhead.
“The Manatao,” said Melanie.
They kept plodding, past the houses and into the fields, scraggly rows of wheat and tubers, the leaves rustling in the gentle tropical breeze and glinting in the reflected light of the full moon. The sounds of the Manatao, the shouts and the echo of the guns, faded and then were gone. Maggie, the chubbiest of the four, began to huff and puff, and tears started trickling down her round cheeks. “What are we going to do?” she whispered. “Where are we going to go?”
They’d been walking for hours; the sun was starting to peek over the jungle to the east. In the midst of a copra plantation, they stopped and rested. The Manatao had already been here; what once was a shack was in ruins. A shed nearby had been broken into and rifled through; the silhouettes of tractors stood in the foreground against the coconut trees. They sat, and thought. “I’m hungry,” complained Maggie. Melanie, slim, petite, looked around, her soft eyes shining in the growing dawn. “Maybe there’s food in the shed…” She walked toward it; a figure jumped out, and she let out an involuntary shriek.
“Ladies,” said Muki, anxiously, “it’s me.”
“Mr. Muki!” exclaimed Melanie, her hand over her breast. “What are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to find you,” he answered over his shoulder, running toward the group. “I went to the hotel; you were gone, and I barely escaped the Manatao. I’m here to take you to safety.”
“Oh, thank God!” said Jannie, standing up. “But how--?”
“No time to explain,” he said. “I have a sedan in the shed. Come with me.”
They followed; it had seemed hopeless until their guide arrived. They piled into the ancient touring car; a few cranks and it roared to life. Muki slammed it into reverse, then threw dust and sod as he stomped the accelerator and roared toward the sun.
A few miles away; a village. Men in rough dungarees and work shirts gathered around the car. Muki shouted to them in the native tongue; a roar went up as they jostled him, surrounded him. The girls huddled in the sedan, peering out. “Is he going to be all right?” wondered Marla. A big man walked up to Muki, shoved him; their guide pointed to the car while letting loose a stream of words. The man turned toward the car; so did the others.
“Are we,” asked Jannie, “going to be all right?”
Doors were yanked open; strong hands reached in, pulled the protesting women out of the car. Jannie found herself face to face with Muki’s accoster. He looked angry. “What do you want?” she asked; her answer was a slap in the face, and she spun down to the earth.
“You are pigs,” growled the man in thickly accented but perfect English. “You ally with our oppressors, the Sinntag. This is now our island!” he exclaimed, thumping his chest with his thumb, and with that the other men roared and raised fists in the air. Maggie sniffled; Marla and Melanie stood still, barely breathing. Holding her cheek, Jannie stood unsteadily. “Yes, this is your island,” she said quietly. “Please, send us home, and we will tell of your generosity.”
“No,” he said, and he said it with finality. “You will not go. We will deal with you as our ancestors dealt with conquered invaders.”
“Oh, my God!” uttered Melanie. “That means--!”
The women were marched through the village, hands bound behind their backs. Their captors shouted, waved machetes; people emerged from the small, crudely built huts and cheered, called out in their dialect. “They say,” the big man told Jannie, who was stumbling as she was rudely shoved forward, “‘More friends of the Sinntag are ours!’”
“We aren’t ‘yours’,” Jannie mumbled. “Our families and friends will demand our release…”
“Release?” he laughed. “There will be nothing to release. We are not kidnappers like those criminals, the Sinntag; we do not hold you for ransom. That would shame our ancestors; they knew of only one way to deal with enemy captured in battle.”
“But we aren’t at war with you!” protested Marla in a strained voice; she was struggling for air—a tribesman had tossed a choke-rope around her neck and was leading her by it.
“You are the spoils of war,” said the older Manatao who held her rope, grayish-white hair in a fringe around his bald pate. “You and your people helped the Sinntag keep us in thrall. Now—we repay the favor!” And as he tugged on Marla’s fetter, the slender redhead gasped and sobbed.
“I like this one!” said a short tribesman with bulging eyes; he was trotting alongside Maggie, who grunted with pain as she minced along the rough dirt road in her sore, bare feet. “She is plenty, no?” and with that, he reached over and gave the plump blonde’s full breast a squeeze.
“Bastard!” she cried; he laughed. “Yes,” he chortled, “this one is for me.”
Down over a hillside, hidden from plain view, was a plateau that housed what looked to be a campground…or a shrine. Carved stones bore grimacing faces ten feet high, arranged in a semicircle around a long, flat rock. Haggard, the European women looked up. There were several cooking devices; a spit rested over forked uprights on either side of a barbecue pit, the wood underneath alit and glowing. An ancient, earthen oven, such as the Maori had used for baking the giant moa, with a tribesman vigorously pumping a huge bellows into the cords of wood stacked beneath. A large, iron pot, wafts of steam rising from the water. A white-hot layer of stones covered smoldering coals, two wire frames nearby.
Marla’s nerve broke; she whirled, broke free of the elder holding her yoke, and tried to run. Two fleet young men chased her down, brought her to earth; they bound her feet and carried their trussed redheaded prize back to the grounds as she sobbed and twisted in their grip. The other three women stood silent, eyes darting back and forth, at each other, at the grim Manatao, at the fires…The big man’s move forward, toward the stone table. brought murmurs from the crowd, and Jannie felt hands clench tightly around her arms.
He rumbled stentoriously in the native tongue, his countrymen cheering every few words. He gestured to the far-off city past the jungle, to the waters lapping at the beach below the plateau, at the sky. He pointed, one by one, to each of the women, and received blood-curdling whoops in return. Frightened, the desperate women strained against the strong, gnarled hands that held them. Jannie received a jolting cuff across the head for her troubles, and briefly saw stars. Then, the large native raised both hands aloft, as if beseeching the heavens…and pointed at Marla. The young men who had ended her escape attempt carried her forward. Melanie whispered weakly, “What…what are they going to do?”
The old Manatao who had led Marla’s leash answered. “She is thin, and firm. She will be boiled.”
Melanie gasped in horror; Maggie started blubbering. Jannie stood helplessly and stock still as her old friend was laid, protesting and begging non-stop, on the flat rock. The leader produced a machete; the young men held their bound prisoner down as he began slashing off the lightweight shirt and shorts, and tore off the redhead’s panties. She still had a taut belly, thought Jannie, envy rising despite the fear; Marla’s ribs showed below her tiny breasts. The big man raised the machete in the air; the natives roared. Then he plunged the blade into her belly.
She screamed horribly, a hoarse, throaty shriek like a drawn-out cry of a coyote. The other men reached into her, disemboweled her. Her eyes were wide and staring in horror as she watched her entrails torn out. The leader pointed; the two men bustled their gutted, howling prey to the pot, dropped her in with a splash. The waters bubbled and foamed; “Dear God!” Marla screamed, eyes clenched shut, “It hurts—oh, it hurts!”
The man slowly pivoted; the din of the excited natives nearly drowned out Marla’s cries, as he pointed. To Maggie.
The terrified blonde tried to flee, but her fat legs churned uselessly in the air as two more natives carried her to the now blood-smeared rock. “This one is plump and tender,” the old one told Jannie. “She roasts.” Jannie stood as still as a statue, tears rolling down her cheeks. She watched as the men bound Maggie’s feet, as the clothes were sliced off; she watched her childhood friend’s mouth fly open and her tongue bulge out, she heard the sounds of panic, of terror. She saw the blade fall, the assistants reach through layers of fat, the lengths of intestines pulled out. She heard the dull roar of the Manatao as if she were underwater, a deep sound washing over her, as the gutted, naked woman was hustled between the two natives to the earth oven and stuffed into it doubled over on her elbows and knees, howling, “Nooooooo! Pleeeeeease!”. She saw Maggie’s little tormentor rush forward, his bug eyes dancing in delight, as he placed both hands on her chubby fanny and shoved the sobbing woman into the aperture, and crowed in delight as the door slammed shut.
Melanie. The tiny Dutchwoman didn’t fight; she lay limp and weeping as her clothes were shredded, as the knife fell, as her body was violated…they dragged her to the hot rocks, placed her on one of the wire frames, set the other on top of her…bound them together. She finally came out of her fear-induced stupor as they laid her in the makeshift grill on the hot stones; her squeals pierced the air, a soprano counterpoint to Marla’s husky howls.
The big man looked at Jannie. Their eyes met; hers were wild with fear…his, almost serene. He nodded. The natives holding her by the arms pulled her forward; she resisted. Again she felt their muscled blows; blood leaked from her mouth as she was thrust forward. She fell forward, on her knees, directly in front of the leader. His lips curled into a smile.
“Surely,” he told her softly, “my ancestors will forgive me this one indulgence.”
With a yank on her long, dark hair, one of the tribesmen toppled Jannie over backward. He grasped one ankle; his partner took the other as they pulled her long, heavy legs apart. The boss slipped the bloody blade of the machete into the woman’s shorts, splitting them neatly; one of the natives slid the shredded garment down the other leg, while the other ripped her panties free.
Jannie’s milky white thighs joined at a whorl of shiny black fur, red labial lips glistening in its midst. The big man stepped out of his pants; his member stood proud and erect. Jannie gasped at its sight, then let out an involuntary moan as he mounted her and thrust himself into her.
It was unreal. Facing death, and with the screams of her butchered friends still permeating the air, Jannie felt a surge of pleasure cascading through her. The native’s cock filled her as Dirk’s never had back home. She thought about Dirk, always scowling, always glancing at his watch. This man had no concern for time…he had been waiting for centuries…she uttered little cries of pleasure as the man, his face still blank as stone, emptied his load into her.
Jannie was weak-kneed, flushed with afterglow, as the other natives rudely hauled her up by her shoulders, dropped her on her back on the red-stained rock, bound her feet, tore off her blouse. The man who had given her such pleasure was rebuttoning his pants; then he stood before her with his cruel knife…
The pain was sharp and harsh as the blade laid open her belly; it was unbearable as the filthy hands reached into her, hollowed her, emptied her. She saw everything through a red fog, couldn’t feel her limbs. She was vaguely aware of heat…finally looked down, saw flames below lapping at her skin, caressing it, licking it, singeing it… Staring forward, she saw the big man through her tears, standing before her. Her eyes were pleading, but his were without mercy.
“We will feast as did my ancestors,” she heard the now-familiar voice say. “You shall cook above these flames; you will be separated at the joints, your flesh eaten as we toast the Revolution. The Manatao show that the conquerors of our ancestors are but beasts to us…beasts to be tamed.”
The relentless, tortuous pain of the fire replaced the acute suffering brought by her wound. Jannie moaned, her eyes rolling, as she felt her muscles boil, the juices run, her fat drip through the cracks forming in her skin, rolling off her nipples to hiss as they struck the embers below. She wriggled, her buttocks shifting, her hands and feet working. As she started to fade, she thought about the man before her, watching her roast alive, waiting his chance to dine on her flesh, as he had savagely had her womanhood…nothing would save her…there was no hope…
They came from throughout the island. In town, the Sinntag leaders hung high from makeshift gallows; their lackeys lay dead in the streets. Property had been seized; machine-gun toting guards watched their former overlords, crowded together in a hurriedly constructed camp. Later, they would sort out the sympathetic from the oppressors, decide who to reward and to punish. Tonight…there was the ritual feast.
On a large, baked clay dish lay Maggie. Her skin was burned a deep brown by the heat of the earthen oven; her plump body surrounded by the pulpy root vegetables that were the staple of the local diet. Her meat parted easily under the knife; Manatao gorged themselves on the soft, pink flesh, Maggie’s juices dribbling down their chins. The little pop-eyed tribesman munched on one of her haunches, crooked teeth sinking deep into the muscle.
Marla lay in pieces, piled high on a platter. She had been chopped into chunks and the parts fished from the pot. Hours of boiling had turned the pale redhead’s skin bright red; her meat fell easily from the bone. The natives dipped their bowls into the broth and eagerly drank from it between mouthfuls of spongy meat.
Melanie was being carved into strips; her petite body was crisscrossed by the hash marks of the wire frames that held her as she fried. Her face was frozen into a grimace; the islanders chewed contently on the dry, shredded meat, sucking in the tiny woman’s flavors.
Two loud handclaps echoed like thunder across the plateau. The large man stood before the semicircle of stone faces; he had shed his rough work clothes for ceremonial garb, handed down for generations; the necklace of raptor bones, the animal skin cloak, the loincloth.
“My friends,” he intoned in the island tongue, “long have our people waited for this day. The vanquished are finally victorious. We have overcome centuries of slavery, of oppression, to regain our tribal home. And fate—and this man—allow us to feast as did the Manatao of old.” And with that, he gestured with an upraised hand in the direction of a small man who was crouching inconspicuously next to the plate bearing Maggie’s roasted carcass, tearing the meat with his teeth from one of the unfortunate woman’s shoulders.
It was Muki. He shuffled forward, head down; now he, the Sinntag one, was of the underclass. “You did well, my friend,” boomed the leader, “and for that you join us in the feast of our heritage. Perhaps, once we have assured the outside world all is well, you will bring more of these white skins to our island, eh?”
“As you wish, sir,” said Muki quietly, aware that the other Manatao were laughing at him. He didn’t care; he profited as a tour guide under the old regime; perhaps, as a procurer of unknowing visitors, he could survive under the new lords of the island. He sighed, took another bite out of Maggie’s round, heavy shoulder. Not bad, he decided.
The leader was speaking again. “And,” he proclaimed, “we fight as the old Manatao fight…and we celebrate as did they. Behold!”
Two sturdy young men trudged to the flat rock, a wooden stake resting on their shoulders. Between them, still bound to the stake, was Jannie. Her skin was crisp and dark; her huge breasts had shriveled as the fat has run out, the nipples and aureoles chocolate brown. The thick, juicy thighs had gone from pale to as deep a bronze as of any of the islanders. Frozen onto her charred face was a final, sad look of defeat, the look of a woman taken in every way by a man.
The leader pointed again, and his henchmen lowered the pole; one unsheathed a knife and slashed away the flesh of Jannie’s lower belly, below her navel down to her crotch, and presented to the head man the thick cut of meat, still dripping the juices from the Dutch woman’s body. He nodded, raised the part of the woman he had cherished to the heavens.
And he laughed.
“To the tourist trade!” he said.