Posted by PK on December 17, 2001 at 17:00:58:
LITTLE FISHES
"We are too having Mom for Thanksgiving," said Jill indignantly, and perhaps a little
defensively. It was embarrassing. Dad had been working on that old machine in the garage
for absolutely AGES. She was all of fourteen, youngest of a large brood of girls, and they'd
never eaten her mother.
"Yeah, sure," Cherie sneered. She did that a lot. School bullies learn it early, or maybe are
just born with it.
With a long suffering sigh, Nick prepared to defend his sister again. It really wasn't fair. Just
because they couldn't afford a real modern spitting system, almost everybody in school
looked down on them. It wasn't the first time he'd regretted their parents' insistence on
sending them to a good school populated mainly from families richer than themselves.He
didn't mind so much for himself, but it bothered him when Jill got upset. He loved her very
much and hoped that when she was old enough she'd be able to be cooked and eaten in the
proper style. Most of his older sisters were either married, working or had been eaten
already, but Jill, the youngest, was unique for a girl. She was his twin.
Since the rogue retrovirus that had messed with human DNA made multiple female births
commonplace and male offspring rare, it was doubly rare for a boy to have a sister his own
age. It had forged a strong bond between them that was only reinforced by the fact that
others found them a little odd. Nick could have gone the other way, adopted a male
cliquishness that rejected his unusual relationship with Jill. Instead, he defiantly stuck to it.
The whole situation was exacerbated by the fact that their natural mother was still alive. Not
to mention the fact that their father was an eccentric, a dreamer, a...well.
In the common parlance of their culture, a nut.
"Leave her alone, Cherie," he said with a world-weary heaviness that ill befitted his age. It
was another thing that should have distanced him from his sister, but somehow didn't. Their
temperaments were different as chalk and cheese. Jill was sensitive and volatile, Nick
patient and stolid. Attempts to provoke him by taunts and insults were as futile as kicking a
stone wall. He just ignored them. Only people upsetting Jill bothered him.
Cherie knew all this with the age old instinct of nasty children everywhere. She resumed the
attack until the smaller girl flew at her in a rage. Nick waited until enough kicks and scratches
had been exchanged to satisfy honour and dragged them apart.
"Come on, sis," he urged. "She's not worth it. Let's go home."
Janice was cooking dinner when they got there. Tonight was a special treat, she had bought
a nice piece of woman's rump and was making a casserole to stretch it out.
"Hi mom," said Nick pleasantly as they came in. "Hey, something smells good!" Jill muttered
a barely civil greeting and flew off to the room she shared with two other older sisters, Julie
and Marcia, doubtless to sulk and fume.
"I don't know what's gotten into that girl lately," said Janice, shaking her head sadly. "Kids
these days.." She gave Nick an apologetic smile that excluded him from the comment. In
fact she had a very good idea what was bothering Jill, but it wasn't something she wanted to
bring up at mealtime, if ever.
Nick watched her go, but didn't follow. It would have been unfair to his mother, and anyway,
the dinner did smell good. "Really good," he said aloud. "What is it, Mom?"
"Just a rump casserole," she said, and winked. Nick knew what that meant, and his mouth
watered.
She always could rely on Nick to enjoy her cooking. They couldn't afford woman meat often,
and while this was only a relatively inexpensive cut from a processing company importing
from the third world, not the more expensive domestic, it was an occasion for the whole
Partridge family to eat together at the table, none of this horrible modern habit of guzzling
pizza in front of the TV. For them, of course, good American girlflesh was something they
only saw on traditional Feast Days when someone from the extended family or the
neighbourhood, depending on the occasion, would offer herself to be eaten by her friends
and relatives. One of her older daughters, Patricia, had gone that way, barbecued on the
Johnson's expensive rotisserie at the midsummer street party last year. She hadn't minded
that they didn't have equipment as good themselves. Janice remembered fondly how proud
Patty had been to be picked from the numerous volunteers, and how good she had tasted.
Well, perhaps she had been biased because she was her own daughter after all, but she had
been very proud of her too. So had Nick. It had done no harm to the family's status in the
neighbourhood either. She shook her head sadly again.
It wasn't that they were unpopular, despite their poverty. She had brought her kids up to be
clean cut, well spoken and well behaved. If only Tom would give up his silly ideas and let her
be barbecued this Thanksgiving before it became TOO embarrassing...
She peered into a pot of greens and adjusted the heat on the cooker. Nick sat at the table
and wondered whether he should go and talk Jill down. He couldn't help appraising his
mother as she bent over the cooking range. She was wearing the traditional American
housewife' s kitchen wear, of course, an apron over white briefs and high heeled sandals.
Nick had to admit she still looked good, even at her advanced age. Multiple births had done
nothing to harm her figure, the genetic retrovirus had made it possible for mothers to
regenerate their youthful shapes only days after giving birth and most went on looking as
good as their eldest daughters or better until the day they were cooked or butchered. Still,
Mom was pushing it a bit. She'd look great on a spit at Thanksgiving, he knew, but she
shouldn't leave it too much longer. It was their Dad, of course, his stubborn pride and his
strange notions. If only he were more practical. Nick said none of this, of course. He loved
his parents and didn't want to make things worse by dragging out old arguments.
"Go tell your father dinner's nearly ready, dear," his mother said. She knew if she didn't give
Tom notice he'd still be washing up while his food went cold. It drove her mad.
"Sure, Mom," said Nick and went out to the garage.
As usual, his father was up to the elbows in his latest and long standing project. The old
machine - a classic in the enthusiasts parlance - was partially gutted but the restoration work
seemed to be going well.
"Dinner time, Dad," said Nick.
"Just a minute," he said predictably. Tom Partridge thought himself an inventor, a fact that
was the main source of the family's financial misfortune. None of his inventions ever worked.
His ideas sounded good, if you heard them over a few social beers and knew no more of
science and engineering than is good for you, but they never came to anything. The results
of his failed enterprises adorned the garage. By day he worked as a postal clerk, the last in a
long series of dead end jobs.
"I've got it working," he pronounced triumphantly. Slapping a few unruly wires back in their
boxes, he turned on the power and the machine hummed to life. Nick eyed it warily. His
father was a moderately good self taught mechanic but it wasn't wise to place too much faith
in his dreamier ideas.
Father and son regarded the machine with widely differing emotions. Nick had to admit that it
looked all right, but still...
"Do you think Marcy would mind testing it?" Tom wondered. Nick viewed him with the
mixture of indulgent affection and alarm of any adolescent with a slightly deranged parent.
"Dad," he began cautiously.
"Oh, not the whole thing. Just a dry run. I need to check the height and length adjustments
and, " he looked at Nick with a mirror of his son's own wariness, "The hose."
Nick wasn't optimistic about getting Marcia to try out Dad's contraption. She's do it if ordered,
of course, like any dutiful daughter, but Tom was far too easy going to pull the heavy father
routine and the fashion sensitive teenager he had reared would not be enthused by the idea
of being impaled, even in the spirit of science, on a home cobbled effort. He had a brief
vision of what it must be like to have daughters. Maybe he'd stay single. Silly idea, of course.
All males married, it would be unpatriotic not to.
"I'll talk to her, Dad," he said. "Now, dinner?"
His father nodded gratefully and went in to wash up.
The meal passed off well enough, despite Jill's maintaining her sullen manner throughout.
There was a tension between Tom and Janice that he avoided and she tried to gloss over
with chatter. The older twins helped, seemingly oblivious to it.
"Gina says there's going to be another cull," said Julie. "I wonder who'll get it this time." She
dug her sister in the ribs. "Bet it's you."
Marcia glared at her. "Bet it's not. It's not fair, the Jacksons and the Murphys have lots of
spares."
"It doesn't work that way, dear," Janice reproved. "The cull lottery is random." She caught
herself. "I mean, it's God's hand. If you're chosen, you'll be a good girl and be honoured.
Won't you?" she added sternly.
"I suppose," muttered Marcia. "But I'm in the play this year."
Everyone knew that Marcia wanted to produce a brood of her own before she got cooked.
Nobody said it, there are some subjects that are too sensitive for teasing. Of course, if she
was picked by the Population Board's computer, she would have to go. She would have a
choice between volunteering for a local feast or being dragged off to a Government
processing plant.
Nick tried a diversion. "What if it's you, Julie? Maybe we'll be eating you in sausages for
months."
His mother frowned. "Now Nick..."
"What if it's you, Mom?" said Jill nastily.
Tom looked alarmed but said nothing. He was always too soft on his girls, Nick thought. He
gave Jill a look that should have fried his twin on the spot. Much as he loved her, he wanted
to slap her face.
"We never know, do we?" said Janice over brightly, as if nothing had happened. There was
an uncomfortable silence before normal conversation resumed, but the seed of disquiet had
been planted. It was an open secret that their father had his own plans for their mother and
would be most upset to see them preempted, but Nick had to admit he was pushing things
too far. Maybe if his machine really worked? It almost seemed too much to hope for, and
Nick knew from long experience that it wouldn't be a good idea to count on it.
After he'd done his homework, Nick lurked about trying to corner Marcia on her own, not a
task that came naturally to him or indeed to any boy his age. He would really rather have
gone to visit his favourite girlfriend, but it looked like he wouldn't get time. Finally he caught
her alone in the girls' bedroom. Jill had gone out with friends and Julie was in the bathroom.
"Uh, Marcy, could you help me with something?"
"Me, help you?" She was instantly suspicious.
"Uh, yeah, it's like this...." He explained, watching her incredulous expression with a sinking
heart.
"You've gotta be kidding," was her less than encouraging response. "Me, test one of Dad's
dumb gadgets? If anybody saw me..." She shuddered with the imagined embarrassment.
"Ah, come on Marcy," Nick begged. "Nobody will see you. He could just make you, but you
know Dad. He's only doing it for Mom, you know that. We can't tell her until we know it
works......"
"IF it works, fat chance of that."
"....and you know what it would mean to Mom. Come on, I'll help you with your math
homework for a week. I won't tell anybody."
Marcia considered this, weighing the advantages against the ignominy of being tutored by
her younger but smarter brother. She knew Nick didn't tell tales. "Are you sure it's safe?"
"Sure," said Nick, shading the truth a little. He was sure if anything did go wrong they could
pull the pug before anything disastrous happened.
"Okay, but nobody sees me do it and nobody hears about the math stuff, and it's a month."
Nick spat on his hand and held it out. Mark Twain has a lot to answer for. "Deal," he said.
Marcia wondered if she should have held out for more, but grudgingly accepted it. They
made plans to meet in the garage the following day. Nick would have to sort the timing out
with their father
Tom had his own problems that night in bed.
"Amelia's a very nice girl," his wife pointed out, not for the first time.
"Yes honey, she's very nice" he admitted. They both knew that at his age he should have
eaten his first wife and married a much younger woman some time ago. Ever since their
firstborn, Kate, had married Mr Johnson after his previous wife had been barbecued, Amelia
Johnson had had her eye on Tom and made no secret of it. She was never rude or pushy
about it but it added to the pressure on him.
"And cute," she added.
"Yes, dear," he mumbled.
Janice sighed inwardly. She hated to nag. "Don't you think you should consider...."
Tom touched her face tenderly. "Honey, don't you remember the dreams we had in high
school?"
She did. A nice house in the suburbs, lots of well behaved kids, and in the fullness of time
her being spitted and cooked and eaten by her loving family in the very finest style. It
seemed so long ago. She had the family, several daughters - less than perfect in some cases
but what the heck - and a fine son. She'd had years of marriage to a less than successful but
very sweet man. She didn't feel that any more pie in the sky was necessary, but she hated to
hurt Tom's feelings. He'd always been a romantic and still was, she had grown up. She was
content with what she had, she didn't want to hang on and watch it go sour.
"It's the cull, isn't it?" her husband asked. "That wasn't nice, what Jill said."
It was true. The shame of being forced to go bothered her more than she would say. She
could still choose to be eaten at home, but people would talk. There would be no disgrace if
one of her daughters was picked because of their age, but for her it would be humiliating.
Worse yet, if there was a temporary shortage in the meat supply and her preference was
overridden. To be taken away and processed by strangers... she flinched from the thought.
"I know, honey," Tom said. "Don't you worry, I've got a plan. It will work out, you'll see." He
stroked her hair. She sighed, she had heard about his plans too many times. Then he moved
his hand lower and stroked her belly. She couldn't help responding. Tom wasn't the world's
greatest provider but he knew how to do other things a woman liked. As they made love in
the familiar way he never tired of, he reflected that Amelia Johnson would have a lot to live
up to.
Breakfast the next day was a subdued affair, Marcia seemed tense and Jill quiet and pallid.
Nick had had words with her the previous night and she hadn't slept well. This morning he
seemed to be watching her. Tom was more abstracted than usual. Janice sensed an
atmosphere, but couldn't fathom it. Before they left for school, Jill turned to her, her face a
mask of misery.
"I'm sorry, Mom," she said. "I was rotten to you and I'm really sorry, okay? I didn't mean it, I
just didn't think..."
Janice hugged her. "It's all right, sweetheart," she said, stroking her hair. She knew how
tough it could be, growing up. Some of the tension dissipated.
After school, Marcia showed up in the garage, having told everyone she was off to visit
friends. Nick had left earlier with a similar excuse, it was plausible enough to attract no
attention as long as they weren't seen leaving together. Their father was already there,
nobody would bother to ask about his absence.
"Ah, there you are sweetheart," he said. "Come and have a look. Isn't she magnificent?"
"Uh, very nice, Dad," Marcia responded. She viewed the machine with much the same
scepticism that Nick had, though hers was based less on logic than adolescent disdain for the
enthusiasms of her eccentric parent. Still, she had to admit it didn't look half as grungy as
she had expected. Tom had done a pretty good job - a loving job - of restoring it. For an
ancient bit of junk he'd bought secondhand, it was really quite sharp looking.
"Um, Nick said you'd offered to help us try it out?" Tom ventured, breaking her line of
thought. Marcia sighed
"I guess. Do I really have to - you know - undress?"
"I'm afraid so, sweetie."
"Come on Marcy, we agreed," said Nick, less patiently.
Marcia sighed again, the theatrical sigh that only a teenager can do without self
consciousness. She really wasn't happy about this. It just seemed so undignified. With a
visible air of martydom she pulled off her shoes, socks, jeans and T-shirt.
"And the rest, sis," Nick grinned. She gave him a withering look and another different one to
her father.
"Sorry, sweetie." He shrugged helplessly.
As she removed her bra and panties, Marcia became uncharacteristically subdued. It had not
been lost on her that this was the ultimate fate of all her sex. She felt oddly submissive as
well as nervous, and acutely conscious of her physique. I'm too fat, she thought, her hand
straying defensively to her slightly plump belly.
"You look lovely, dear," her father said, having guessed the trend of her thought. He held out
a hand. Nick bit back a cheap brotherly dig. It wasn't the time or the place for it.
Marcia allowed herself to be led to the machine and manouevred into the correct position,
kneeling forward over the central block. She felt her anxiety rising as she was strapped in.
Her father patted her shoulder reassuringly.
"It's okay, sweetheart, you're doing fine."
Nick could restrain himself from giving her a light slap on her upturned rump. She snarled
feebly and Tom gave him a warning look. No more nonsense.
Now came the delicate part, testing as many systems as possible without going the whole
way. Marcia gasped when the spit was positioned and slipped just a little way into her, and
again when the anal fitting was plugged in, but she made no protest apart from an occasional
'careful' in a voice high and weak with tension.
"Okay," said Tom, surveying the setup with cautious satisfaction. "Let's try the auto-enema."
Marcia grunted, she didn't like the sound of that, but her father pressed a switch and then she
really gasped. In a push-pull cycle, warm water was pumped into her and sucked out until it
ran clear, while she squeaked and wriggled. Towards the end of the cycle, she settled down.
It hadn't sucked her insides out yet - well, she hoped not, she wasn't too clear on biology -
and it didn't really hurt. This wasn't too bad after all.
"Throat injector," muttered Tom and pushed another control. What? she thought but it was
too late. There was a cold sensation at her throat and her vocal chords went numb. She
couldn't speak now if she wanted to.
"Don't worry, sweetheart, it's just a small dose, diluted with distilled water," he explained.
"Now the belly blade...." Something clicked and whirred to life.
What? Oh my God get me OFF this! Help! She started to panic in earnest as something
pressed against her belly just below the sternum and started to move down her. There was
no pain, and she suddenly remembered that really sharp cuts don't hurt at first. I'm being
gutted alive! She bucked against the straps furiously, to no avail.
"Of course, I took the cutting wheel off," she heard her father explaining to Nick, who had
begun to look anxious. "It's just a rubber disc..."
Gee, Dad, thanks for telling me, she thought but was too relieved to be really angry.
"Now the spit drive," Tom continued. "I'll just run it in a few more inches on dead slow."
Another click. Marcia felt the smooth, thick rod slide further inside her. It was just a bit scary
but sort of cool, and she wriggled again.
Nick must have seen it. "You're a natural, sis," he teased.
The rod kept going, slowly but surely. It was getting almost uncomfortable.
"Dad..."
"Oh, sure, I guess that's enough." Another click. The rod kept coming. More rapid clicks, to
no effect. A now almost familiar panic rose again in Marcia. She tried to scream and
produced only a strangled grunt, like a dreamer in a nightmare.
"Oh, shit..." came from her father.