couldn’t look at them.
“The little fuck has been spying on us.”
“Have you?” Eddy asked. “Have you been watching us, Gully?”
Spider unzipped his case of knives. “Shall I carve him?”
Gulliver glared up at them, his eyes swimming in their sockets. He was as near madness as anyone Eddy had ever seen.
“I think you’ve made a grave error here,” Eddy told him. “This isn’t something we want anyone to know about. Not just yet.”
Gulliver stared at him, unblinking. “Butchers,” he managed.
“Let’s kill him,” Spider said.
Eddy shook his head, a man with a problem on his hands. He didn’t look dangerous really, just confused. “What to do,” he mused.
“If we let the little faggot go,” Spider said, “he’ll run to the police like the fairy he is. You know that as well as I do. We have no choice.”
“Would you do that to us?” Eddy asked of him. “Would you betray us like that, Gully?”
“Course he would. Dirty queen would love to ruin everything,” said Spider. “Let’s quarter him.”
Gulliver was waiting to die and under the circumstances, it seemed the best he could aspire to. There was a black voice of madness in his head, buzzing like insects, offering him a solemn and eternal peace. It didn’t seem so bad. If he was crazy, maybe he wouldn’t feel the blades when they spilled his life and peeled back his skin.
And then he heard something. A wet sound like dogs lapping at water bowls, like bones pulled through a meaty matrix of flesh. It had to be in his head … yet, Spider and Eddy seemed distracted, nervous even. They’d heard it, too. Was it the police? A last minute reprieve? Such things only happened in the movies. He was going to die and that was fact. His death would be bloody and painful. He could only hope that Eddy would take his life quickly so Spider wouldn’t prolong the suffering.
But, for now, they weren’t paying any attention to him. They stood fixed, rigid, confused even as he was. The air suddenly seemed different, heavier, busier, thrumming with impurity. It crackled with static electricity. It was cool and thick in his lungs, the air of a meat locker. And still that awful lapping sound, louder, louder, a huge and determined sound, that grisly moist ripping. The building seemed to tremble around them, dust pounding from the beams overhead, the floor uneasy with sluggish waves.
What in the hell is this?
And then he saw, just as Eddy and Spider saw.
She was causing the noises, the disturbances, the woman who wandered out of the darkness, out of a gossamer film of dirty light like some imperfection on the face of a mirror.
Something like a prayer of thanks fell from Gulliver’s trembling lips. Here was help … or maybe something far worse.
The woman stopped just at the perimeter of the light. And what a woman. She was bloated without being actually fat. Her female proportions—hips, legs, breasts, cunt, belly—distended and heaving. She was totally naked and totally beyond shame. She reminded him of a women from museum paintings: heavy, bovine, flesh piled on in abundance. A renaissance women, out of place and time, from a period when large, voluptuous women were highly sought. She licked her lips with an obscene tongue, moonlight shining in her blood-greased tresses.
Gulliver screamed. There was no drama or forethought: the scream came ripping out of his guts and up his throat with a shrilling, broken sound.
It got the attention of the woman immediately. She came in his direction, something like white steam blowing out of the immense, sucking pores set into her pallid, metallic gray flesh. She left a snotty trail of something like afterbirth behind her that crept and rustled like the train of a bridal gown. She expanded like a puffer fish … face, lips, limbs, genitalia swelling grotesquely like someone undergoing anaphylactic shock … then deflated into some gaunt, mechanistic bone sculpture with glittering cherry pits for eyes.
“The little fuck has been spying on us.”
“Have you?” Eddy asked. “Have you been watching us, Gully?”
Spider unzipped his case of knives. “Shall I carve him?”
Gulliver glared up at them, his eyes swimming in their sockets. He was as near madness as anyone Eddy had ever seen.
“I think you’ve made a grave error here,” Eddy told him. “This isn’t something we want anyone to know about. Not just yet.”
Gulliver stared at him, unblinking. “Butchers,” he managed.
“Let’s kill him,” Spider said.
Eddy shook his head, a man with a problem on his hands. He didn’t look dangerous really, just confused. “What to do,” he mused.
“If we let the little faggot go,” Spider said, “he’ll run to the police like the fairy he is. You know that as well as I do. We have no choice.”
“Would you do that to us?” Eddy asked of him. “Would you betray us like that, Gully?”
“Course he would. Dirty queen would love to ruin everything,” said Spider. “Let’s quarter him.”
Gulliver was waiting to die and under the circumstances, it seemed the best he could aspire to. There was a black voice of madness in his head, buzzing like insects, offering him a solemn and eternal peace. It didn’t seem so bad. If he was crazy, maybe he wouldn’t feel the blades when they spilled his life and peeled back his skin.
And then he heard something. A wet sound like dogs lapping at water bowls, like bones pulled through a meaty matrix of flesh. It had to be in his head … yet, Spider and Eddy seemed distracted, nervous even. They’d heard it, too. Was it the police? A last minute reprieve? Such things only happened in the movies. He was going to die and that was fact. His death would be bloody and painful. He could only hope that Eddy would take his life quickly so Spider wouldn’t prolong the suffering.
But, for now, they weren’t paying any attention to him. They stood fixed, rigid, confused even as he was. The air suddenly seemed different, heavier, busier, thrumming with impurity. It crackled with static electricity. It was cool and thick in his lungs, the air of a meat locker. And still that awful lapping sound, louder, louder, a huge and determined sound, that grisly moist ripping. The building seemed to tremble around them, dust pounding from the beams overhead, the floor uneasy with sluggish waves.
What in the hell is this?
And then he saw, just as Eddy and Spider saw.
She was causing the noises, the disturbances, the woman who wandered out of the darkness, out of a gossamer film of dirty light like some imperfection on the face of a mirror.
Something like a prayer of thanks fell from Gulliver’s trembling lips. Here was help … or maybe something far worse.
The woman stopped just at the perimeter of the light. And what a woman. She was bloated without being actually fat. Her female proportions—hips, legs, breasts, cunt, belly—distended and heaving. She was totally naked and totally beyond shame. She reminded him of a women from museum paintings: heavy, bovine, flesh piled on in abundance. A renaissance women, out of place and time, from a period when large, voluptuous women were highly sought. She licked her lips with an obscene tongue, moonlight shining in her blood-greased tresses.
Gulliver screamed. There was no drama or forethought: the scream came ripping out of his guts and up his throat with a shrilling, broken sound.
It got the attention of the woman immediately. She came in his direction, something like white steam blowing out of the immense, sucking pores set into her pallid, metallic gray flesh. She left a snotty trail of something like afterbirth behind her that crept and rustled like the train of a bridal gown. She expanded like a puffer fish … face, lips, limbs, genitalia swelling grotesquely like someone undergoing anaphylactic shock … then deflated into some gaunt, mechanistic bone sculpture with glittering cherry pits for eyes.
Similar Books
