A Codex of Malevolence
Matthew Sawyer
Published by Matthew Sawyer at Smashwords
A Codex of Malevolence by Matthew Sawyer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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The stories in the collection titled A Codex of Malevolence are fictional. All characters, names and locations are the creations of Matthew Sawyer. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.
A Codex of Malevolence
Matthew Sawyer
Babies Kill the Unborn: A Rockumentary
A Codex of Malevolence tracks the spread of weird and unholy evil from Wister Town, Wisconsin. Witches and the pagan religion become entwined in these creepy tales of gore. Witness the horror invade Wisconsin, incorporate in Texas and gain entrance to California.
Babies Kill the Unborn: A Rockumentary
Babies Kill the Unborn: A Rockumentary documents the launch of the world tour by the rock band “Venger of Unborn.” Father Mackis knows a demon drives the success of the band and the pious clergyman meets the "Venge" at their concert in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Fiery ruin ensues.
Circular Heir
Mary Gantz wins a contest for her unborn son to inherit eight billion dollars upon the death of a rich benefactor, Aido Yasu. The condition to qualify for the fortune is that Mary needs to consume the ashes of Mr. Yasu's brain before her baby is born.
Bullish Flavor
Reporters from the Binger Evening Times printed newspaper attend a tour of the Minotaur Meats slaughterhouse and meat packaging plant. Despite specifying she doesn't want to witness the slaughter and butchering of mythical minotaurs, Erin Hofstetter and her photographer, Pat Hendrickson, Pat still needs to get her photographs!
Garnish
Albert and Lorie Motte, a middle-aged farming couple, receive a package – the ashes of a dead friend, Donny. Donny requested he be disposed in the Nile River – too far for the Mottes to go, so the Mississippi will have to do.
Circular Heir
Mr. Brinks, the owner and operator of Minotaur Meats, has work for his two adopted nephews. The teenage boys, Doug and Donald, are given weekend jobs hunting escaped tomga, a newly discovered rat-like species butchered for its exotic meat.
The Fevered Possessed
Fourth-grader, Jerry Lacter, strips to his waist during a noon recess on a January day in Wisconsin. He complains he’s hot but the playground supervisor sends him to the principals' office. Tina, Jerry’s friend, redirects the boy to the nurse’s office instead. His body exudes an enormous amount of heat.
Ghoulish
Someone has been breaking into Milwaukee morgues and stealing body parts. The police find their suspect when they apprehend Sam Pechinski, lapping up blood, at the scene of a fatal traffic accident. The suspect admits guilt, claiming he is on the verge of “transformation.”
Pagan Exorcist
Annie, a millennium-old witch, is disturbed at dawn when a teenage boy knocks on her door. A demon has possessed the boy and now asks the witch to exorcise him.
Preternatural Valentine
Charlie gets an anonymous Valentine's Card at his job in Santa Barbara, CA. He's instantly suspicious and thinks his boss and coworkers have conspired against him. After he leaves work that evening on Valentine's Day, Charlie is introduced to his genuine secret admirer. Despite renewed hope and expectations, it ends badly.
Heart of the Snowman
Two young sorcerers in Southern Wisconsin have an opportunity to animate a snowman with a dead man's heart. Rob first must know why Mr Jelinshek showed up at Tim's house, he distrusts his friend and fellow alchemist while they explore the Dark Arts.
The Unburnt Bush
Donna Montanay interviews Marsha Pinot, an old sorority friend and internationally famous multimedia artist. She accompanies the artist to a gallery in La Crosse, Wisconsin to see a paper mache labia and mysterious pool of shadow, both components to the piece of artwork called The Unburnt Bush.
The Unbreathing
Paul Murry rushes his unresponsive wife, Barb, to the hospital after the woman collapses and stops breathing. While traveling, the Murry's are in an accident caused by a man an EMT, named Allen, suspected suffered road rage.
Portal Painter
Debbie Menon hopes to become a professional painter in Los Angeles. Her mural in a pizzeria catches the interest of a local screenwriter, who pays Debbie thousands of dollars to paint a pattern on his concrete patio. The screenwriter tells Debbie the design is a “portal.”
Babies Kill the Unborn: A Rockumentary
The Studio felt hot, as studios typically were. The band, named Venger of Unborn, or known unofficially as Venge by their heavy metal fans, sweat and slipped around in their leather – despite the numerous holes torn deliberately, and stylized, in their pants and jackets. The band had come to the entertainment show to promote the launch of their new album and world tour, called Babies Kill the Unborn.
“Now, that’s quite a name for an album,” said Greg Hill, the host of Tomorrowday, a local cable network entertainment show. The thick, black man wore a nondescript brown suit, a white buttoned up shirt and pink tie. He spoke into a camera as he stood next to his guests, the band, while they sprawled over his desk and set chairs. They were all white guys, accept the new female vocalist; her family appeared to have originated in the Middle East.
“It actually started as a name for a song, but sounded real good, so that’s what we called the album,” said Time-bomber, the vocal drummer for the Venge. His black, handle bar mustache gave him a gay, from-the-seventies, appearance.
“People still don’t get that this really happened,” interrupted Razorwere, the lead singer of the band. The skinny, young, blond guy looked gaunt, but well-muscled. “In nineteen-ten there were babies that sweat poison, and they passed poison through their lips when they suckled their moms’ teats. The poison killed any fetus in their mother’s womb. It happened, man. Look it up on the Internet!”
“Siblicide, man, in the womb!” Grant, one of the bass guitarists, said. He appeared indistinguishable from the other bassist. The pair of female guitarists also looked alike. The Venger of Unborn metal band must have an unpublicized gimmick, filling the band with two sets of identical twins.
“Well, your previous album…” Greg began to say before Razorwere interrupted him again.
“Nah, man. They dug up fetuses killed by the poison, and even one of the kids that killed their brothers and sisters. Nobody can talk to any of the living poisoners because they’re all dead now.”
Greg waited until Razorwere apparently forgot the point he wanted to make. After a moment, once content with the dead air, Greg returned to his original thought.
“There is controversy with your previous record,” Greg stated to the band in general. “The Unborn are the Unliving.”
Razorwere vigorously bounced his head as Time-bomber calmly nodded his own. Greg shrugged his shoulders while the other five members of the band wiped sweat and makeup from their faces.
“There is a song on that album called F, star, star, K You Christians,” Greg said as neutral and flat as possible.
“That can mean anything, like fork,” Time-bomber suggested.
“That doesn’t sound so good either,” one of the two female guitarists advised the drummer.
“All right, fudge or fuck. I don’t know what the stars are, dammit!” Time-bomber shouted.
“All right,” Greg said in an attempt to salvage the presentation. He turned to the latest female addition to the band. “Renti, you’re new to the Venger of Unborn.”
“Yeah, they needed talent,” Renti said in regal smugness. The Middle Eastern girl looked exotic and psychotic, like a suicidal terrorist, as represented in newspaper cartoons. She gestured at the plain guitarists. “These girls don’t cut it for Venge.”
“I have heard, you were a fan before you joined the band.”
“Yeah, big time,” Renti told their host, Greg. “Where did you hear that from, the wire coming out of your ear?”
Greg subconsciously checked the wire running to his ear which faced from the camera. He cleared his throat and whimpered a giggle.
“Yes,” Greg replied in an attempt to laugh off the comment. The interview is lost, Greg wanted to, at least, end his show peacefully. Life seemed unfair. The band’s concert will sell out tonight and tomorrow, but surely, Greg just lost permanent viewers of his modest local cable show.
The members of the international rock band called Venger of Unborn came to the studio hung over, stoned and amped on caffeine pills. Today's show started late because of the band's lack of coordination. All eight of them ran through the studio, breaking into locked rooms. Now, most of them crashed on the set furniture well within the half hour of filming. Greg decided to wrap the show early. He wished to God he worked at a commercial station.
“Be sure to go to the concert tonight at the...” Greg paused realizing he never got the location of the band's concert. He asked Time-bomber. “You know that's not on your fliers or posters, right?”
“It's in the southernmost forum of Milwaukee. Go south until you're not in Milwaukee anymore and then turn around.”
“Chicago is too far,” Grant added.
“Good,” Greg said. “And be sure to see the rockumentary, Babies Kill the Unborn, after the tour.”
“Maybe before, if we quit early,” Grant clarified.
“All right, good day from Tomorrowday.”
“I wish it was tomorrow today,” Renti complained after the camera switched off. She did not wait for the technicians to kill the feed. The camera shut off the moment she began to speak by coincidence. “That way, we would already be done with this cold-ass town.”
“Where are you going after this?” Greg asked Renti out of curiosity. The rest of the band stood, waving body odors from their jackets.
“Texas, man,” Razorwere injected. “Bye, bye cheeseheads!”
“Well, they got cows down in Texas,” Greg said. “They got that saying about the other down there, don’t cha know?”
“I don’t get you, man,” Razorwere told Greg. “That’s why everything crashed and burned today. We’re not in sync.”
“Okay, fine then,” Greg said upset. “It is nice to meet you, but there’s the door.”
“Bummer?” Grant asked the air.
“Let’s get to the southern part of Milwaukee, so we can turn around!” Time-bomber rallied as he led the band out the door.
After a second set of doors, the members of Venge stepped outside the extra wide trailer and stood in an icy parking lot. Everyone shivered simultaneous and raced to their eight rented vehicles. Most of the band drove SUVs. Renti leased a luxury sedan and a chauffeur for the weekend. Everyone spun their wheels in the ice, but eventually left the parking lot in single file. Renti’s luxury sedan led the convoy. The train of vehicles joined traffic that traveled southward on the 43.
Occasionally, an SUV, driven by a band member, raced ahead of the convoy to show off and then fell back behind the sedan. The gunning drivers remembered they had no idea where they went. Renti's chauffeur knew exactly where the band is expected to play tonight. He got the Venger of Unborn to their concert before sundown; a miracle in any other city besides one in the Midwest, if the traveler was not on the road by the time the sun came up.
Campers already filled the parking lot. Clouds of warm air floated from people that moved between cold weather tents and the exhausts of vehicles that idled. Most concert goers waited for the show in the warmth of their vehicles. Everyone in the Venger of Unborn felt grateful their concert date booked the brand new amphitheater, erected after some really old shit fell over.
A gate restricted entry to reserved parking for the band and crews. A preacher blocked the entrance. Obviously a priest, the man wore a gold trimmed white frock over his padded winter coat. The man resembled draped furniture, with a face flushed red by the cold. A chilly wind inflated the garment. Renti's driver honked his horn, but the preacher refused to budge. The man then inexplicably approached the band's convoy along its side, allowing the sedan and trail of SUVs to pass through the gate.
Time-bomber stopped his car to talk before he passed the preacher. Razorwere immediately laid on his horn. The other three obstructed band members joined the blare of the band's singer. Time-bomber leaned his entire upper body out his driver's side window and flipped off his colleagues.
“What are you doing here, monsignor?” Time-bomber asked. He had no idea what the title meant, but it sounded formally religious.
“You are devils,” the preacher said, as articulate as his thick numb lips allowed. Father Mastic swore he had become, literally, allergic to the cold. “Sin and promiscuity breed evil.”
“All right, man,” Razorwere shouted from his SUV. He poked his head out of the vehicle. “That establishes sin and screwing as two different offenses to God. I just heard about sex is now bad, according to the new category, or something, so I'm still doing that.”
“You all need to confess,” Father Mastic told Time-bomber. “Tell your real friends and your real Christian family your sins and secrets.”
“Fuck that, preacher,” Time-bomber answered. “You're taking the Act of Contrition a couple steps too far.”
Time-bomber dropped back into the cab of his vehicle and rolled up the window. He felt as cold as the preacher looked. The priest stayed clear of the remaining band members. Once everyone parked inside the reserved area, the guards, bundled in fat coats and winter gear, sealed the portable chain link fence. The preacher stayed locked outside.
“Pazuzu is not the Living God!” shouted Father Mastic. No one lingered to ask what the crazy bible-thumper meant. “You will burn.”
The roadies already set up the stage and were ready for the show. The band only needed to pretend they played their instruments and lip sync the vocals. After becoming famous, hardcore meant recording everything in rehearsal and presenting the decent clips “raw” to adoring fans. That way, the audience got to hear how the band really sounds. Razorwere especially liked the way “live” music is presented in this day and age.
The duplication of drummers and guitarists were all a part of the show. When the band was not on tour, both people, that played identical instruments, only worked part-time. A single musician is all the band needs to lay the tracks. Having such a large group on the road, with really nothing to do, made tours so less complicated.
The Binger Memorial Forum is huge and holds thousands of fans. A good chunk of the Midwest Venger of Unborn fan base attended the show this evening. The other half will turn up tomorrow night. Shows in Milwaukee always constituted the largest returns during tours. The whole bad hated that fans only came to see their shows during the winter. Time-bomber once conjectured their real fans came to see the band only when they had nothing better to do.
No special props came along for this tour, just lights, top of the line sound system and good old rock and roll music. The “Babies Kill the Unborn” world tour is shaping up to be a yearlong vacation for the band. Band members no longer even wrote music, Venger of Unborn made it into the “big time.” Finally on “easy street,” the band only bought their songs from now on, hit songs.
A little after eight o'clock, the forum's announcer, an obese guy named Bill, introduced the band and the red stage lights came on. Music actually started to play before the entire band walked on stage. Luckily, everyone in the band prepared for an accidental miscue. Razorwere pretended to sing when the vocals began, which were supposed to lay on a separate tape, cued up and ready to go at the exact moment.
Razorwere wondered what-the-hell is up with their sound producer, a young guy named Kwon. The kid talked the band into throwing away over a hundred thousand dollars for digital sound software; more on computers and peripherals to run the application. Venger of Unborn agreed to computerize all their performance to prevent stupid fuck ups like tonight.
Kwon quickly got his act together and cut the vocals and the music, just before the beginning of the chorus. The song got cut short, but at least the whole band had gathered on stage. All nine thousand concert attendants seemed oblivious to the glitch. They continued to hoot, whistle and throw water bottles.
“Hey, it's that preacher,” Time-bomber called to Razorwere. He pointed at the red-faced man that still wore the white frock. Brown vomit appeared to drip from the preacher's right shoulder. “He's right there in the front row.”
“Whaddya say?” Razorwere asked. He failed to hear his band mate. The unanticipated minutes of grinding music made his ears ring, despite the earplugs Razorwere wore. Nobody in the band heard the First Drummer.
“What?” Time-bomber shouted back at Razorwere. Time-bomber went as deaf as the rest of the band, and maybe most of this evening's concert goers.
Kwon started the tape again, on the second song, as the production team had trained to do in case of fuck-ups. The small team is dedicated to the preservation of a rock icon. Venger of Unborn looked good and the prerecorded songs made them sound even better, even if the music is strewn together with rehearsal tapes that were, in some cases, years old.
Father Mastic hitched his frock up, under his armpits, and held the fabric beneath his elbows. With his biceps pinned to his side, the priest had no problem pulling a bottle of 190 proof liquor from his waist band. Time-bomber recognized the brand. He shouted to one of the twin guitarists in front of his drums.
“Hey, Rudolf here looks like he's getting wasted at our concert!” Time-bomber laughed, beating on his unmic'd drum kit, in rhythm with the song.
“Huh?” either Pam or Penny asked.
Time-bomber missed whoever's question. While the music played, hearing either woman is impossible. Meanwhile, Father Mastic retrieved a lighter and wad of paper towels from his pants pocket before he let the hem of the frock drop to vinyl floor.
Everyone at the forum tonight is sick and full of sin, Father Mastic smelled the damnation. The foul stench came from his right, where the crowd crammed together thickest. The sinners will burn with the devils they worshiped. The people Father Mastic originally justified as collateral damage now became the refuse he cleared, with honor, from God's green earth.
Father Mastic twisted the wad of paper towels into the neck of the bottle. Tonight will end of these advocates of abortion, promoters of infanticide and slaves of the demon, Pazuzu. Some hateful fiend served as a muse to these lost boys. Father Mastic believed he knew which demon inspired Venger of Unborn. Its name is in each of their songs and between the tracks.
Father Mastic heard the name, Pazuzu, echo throughout the cacophony. He wondered; if the DVD is played backwards, he may hear the demon speak. Father Mastic vowed never to find the demonic message and no more will come. He fulfilled his promise to the Lord tonight the moment he scratched his lighter to life and lit the paper towel wick.
“Holy shit, shit, shit!” Time-bomber shouted as he scrambled from behind his drums. He saw the flaming Molotov cocktail right away, because he kept an eye on the priest since Time-bomber first spotted the man. The First Drummer jumped off the stage while the music still played. He shouted futile warnings to his band mates.
“Huh?” Pam asked. She scraped her hand lazily across the fingerboard of her mute electric guitar.
The flaming bottle crashed in front of Razorwere, igniting him. The sound of his own voice, scowling through a repetitive ballad, drowned his screams. The instruments played themselves as the few flame-retardant musicians tossed guitars away and ran from the stage. The four other band members cried and flailed as the fire swirled around them.
The fire seemed a living entity, or many creatures in a fiery colony. The flame chased concert attendees from the forum and swatted at security guards that came to help the dying band members. Father Mastic achieved his purpose. Now, while he still lived, he will do a favor for God.
“See what dances in the flame?” shouted Father Mastic uselessly to the crying and rolling victims of Venger of Unborn's Babies Kill – The Unborn world tour. “Your music has brought these demonic spirits to earth! They perish in flame, just as you. I will close the portal!”
Father Mastic pulled a bare, plastic baby doll from beneath his frock. The priest kept the doll tucked into his waistband, opposite the hip on which he smuggled the incendiary bomb. The loose slacks slipped beneath his thighs. Father Mastic let his pants fall to the ground, barely noticeable beneath his white frock. The state of his pants made no difference. In a moment, everyone and their clothes will tear to pieces and burn!
“My baby will kill the unborn demons!” Father Mastic shouted at no one. The music finally stopped playing. The awful screams of the hurt and dying sounded just as loud.
Father Mastic had taped a bundle of sticks of dynamite to the back of the baby doll. Father Mastic lit the foot-long fuse and threw the bomb into the living fire. For a moment, Father Mastic watched Venger of Unborn burn, amidst the living tongues and teeth of flame. A lick of flame caught the dynamite, allowing God to show His face. The forum collapsed in the explosion, killing any poor soul that still fought for life.
****
“Three weeks after the Binger Memorial Forum blew up, the attack is finally subject to a federal investigation. Homeland Security considers the explosion a terrorist attack,” Greg Hill said on his entertainment show. “The band that played the forum that night, Venger of Unborn, began a world tour. But that has changed, isn't that correct, Daniel Stepensky?”
“Yeah, that's obvious. Half the band died that night. It's dead, the band is dead,” a clean-shaven Time-bomber replied. Instead of ripped leather, he dressed in jeans and a plain black T-shirt. “So there is no world tour, or rockumentary, ever.”
“And you were the drummer named Time-bomber,” Greg awkwardly injected. “But, Daniel Stepensky is your real name.”
“Jesus, Greg!” Daniel shouted and stood up. The camera followed him. “These lame interviews are what crashed the show with the band last month, and now half of 'em are dead. Are you happy about that? Everybody knows my real name. Just search for me on the Internet. How about we don't have to catch up the retards watching your show.”
“Well?” Greg mumbled. He admitted his new show, “Already Yesterday,” appeared most popular with enfeebled nursing home residents, unable to change the television channel.
“I'm only here to say one thing, besides to say sorry to the families of the kids that got killed, of course,” Daniel exclaimed. “I'm done too. I'm done and goodbye and farewell.”
“So, as you have just heard,” Greg said directly to the camera, although it remained fixed on Daniel. “Time-bomber is leaving the music business entirely.”
“Shut the F, star, star, K up, Greg,” Daniel spit and walked off the set.
The idea of a contest for an heir is unusual, but there was vague precedence – in fairy tales. In this modern age, a local radio station in Ashland, Wisconsin, announced the competition. WCUY outlined a genuine contest, not a story about someone who protested a will. The living benefactor, Mr. Adio Yasu, will select the winning contestant among expectant mothers. The wealthy, and well-known entrepreneur, will leave a fortune to the woman's unborn child – nine billion dollars!
Of course, the money won't go to the lucky child until the benefactor passed away. But, upon winning the competition, the expectant mother will immediately receive twelve million dollars in trust for the welfare of her and the child. That sum alone will allow Mary Gantz to quit her job, raise the child and retire.
After the announcement, Mary entered the competition right away. If Mary won the heir contest, she and her husband, Todd, could raise a family in affluence! The kid will have a much better childhood than a supermarket cashier and part-time truck driver can ever provide.
Mary fulfilled the requirements for the contest: currently pregnant with a boy and no family history of mental illness or congenital defects. The latter requirement thinned out a majority of anticipated applicants, especially here in northern half of the Midwest. Chances of selection improved considerably if detailed genealogical records were provided with the application, records and forms. Mr. Yasu especially wanted to know the applicant's family history for the past one hundred years and beyond. That is where Mary had an advantage.
The Gantz family, particularly Mary's grandmother and older female ancestors, kept anal records of their family's history. When Mary spoke to Mr. Yasu in person, she took extra care to explain her use of the word “anal” on the application meant the records were neat and organized, not a log detailing what happened below and in back. The dark-skinned, older man chuckled and carefully reviewed the documents with keen interest.
Mr. Yasu asked few questions during the two-hour interview. The man spent most of the intimate face-to-face meeting scrutinizing the documents Mary brought along. Mr. Yasu appeared one of those genealogy addicts, learning as much about other people's families as he most likely knew of his own.
The rich eccentric liked what he saw. Mary owed her grandmother a huge thanks. Mr. Yasu ended the contest early, as was his reserved right, per the rules and regulations of the contest, and Mary Gantz instantly became a multimillionaire. She made her six-month old fetus a billionaire.
“So what do I do now?” Mary asked Mr. Yasu before she left the mansion that overlooked Lake Superior. “I know, I have to call my son Adio. I like that name.”
“Yes, it is very old, but there is only one thing more,” Mr. Yasu said in his thick, Middle Eastern accent.
“Yes?” Mary asked anticipating the catch. The condition might be a deal breaker, even before Mary returned to his mansion with a lawyer to sign papers.
“It wasn't listed in the requirements,” Mr. Yasu began to say.
“Not surprising,” Mary stated. Mr. Yasu looked irritated with her interruption. Mary apologized and told herself to refrain from outbursts in the future.
“You are not a vegetarian, correct? You do eat meat.”
Mr. Yasu asked his question and implied earning the money entailed a little more than having the baby. Luckily, the concern was a non-issue. Mary never flirted with the idea of giving up bacon.
“I'm as carnivorous as the next guy here in America's Dairyland,” Mary bragged. “Why, is that important?”
“Yes,” Mr. Yasu answered then paused. “You see, after I'm dead you will eat my brain.”
“What?” Mary screeched in dismay. “I thought you wanted to make certain my baby is healthy.”
“Please Mrs. Gantz,” Mr. Yasu pleaded. “An old tradition. It sounds vile, and it is, but my brain will be cremated. You will have nothing but ash to consume. You can mix the ashes in a tall glass of water.”
“I've got to talk about this with my husband,” Mary replied.
“The ashes will be tasteless,” added Mr. Yasu. “And you need to consume them before you give birth to my heir.”
“Hold on!” Mary shouted. “I didn't sign anything yet.”
“Nine billion dollars, Mrs. Gantz,” reminded Mr. Yasu.
“Yeah, I know,” Mary affirmed. “Won't your brain be bad for the baby?”
“I don't think so,” Mr. Yasu guessed. “There is no history of brain disease in my family, if you're concerned about contracting anything dangerous. I have documentation attesting to that fact.”
“I'm due in three months!” Mary protested.
“I'll be dead within the month.”
“Oh, I'm sorry,” Mary said in condolence. Although, the man looked like a healthy and vibrant fifty-year old. Maybe, he recently learned of a fast-acting cancer.
The contest suddenly made sense. But, Mr. Yasu should have picked someone who had just become pregnant. At least, then, the girl would have plenty of time to consider drinking his brain. Mary understood winning the contest as a life changing experience, but this condition is new, rushed and a little stomach-churning. Mary needed to think about the challenge. Still, she has seen people on reality television eat things a lot worst than the ashes of a human brain.
“I still have to talk to my husband.”
“Mrs. Gantz, the other contestants are leaving,” Mr. Yasu indicated. “If you do not accept my condition, I need to call them back, right now.”
“Hold on, I said yes!” Mary shouted. “I just want tonight to reconsider.”
“Please, Mrs. Gantz,” Mr. Yasu begged politely. “The ritual is important for my spiritual well being.”
“It's a ritual?” Mary asked. “Not some perversion?”
“I will be dead, Mrs. Gantz,” Mr. Yasu reminded the woman.
“All right, okay!” Mary agreed. “But let me tell my husband. Then I'll bring my lawyer.”
“Very good,” answered Mr. Yasu.
Mary and Mr. Yasu shook hands and made a verbal contract, although Mary still won't see any money until she committed her signatures. Mary left the mansion and waited for the remaining pregnant women to empty the improvised parking lot on the expansive front lawn. Once the exit cleared, Mary went home to her husband, Todd.
Mary's husband sat in front of the television, eating a frozen dinner. Todd ignored his wife when she entered their house. Mary yelled at him for his lack of consideration. Todd stood up and pulled up his pants, which had slipped past his buttocks, zipped the fly and latched his belt.
“I'm sorry,” Todd apologized. “I didn't know when you were coming home and I got hungry. I'll still make us something for dinner. You know me, I'm always hungry.”
There were too many other things going through Mary's mind, so she refrained from an argument with her husband. Mary wasn't especially hungry anyway, even though the baby always needed food. At the moment, Mary only wanted to talk.
“I won nine billion dollars, well, at least our baby did,” Mary told her husband.
“Really?” Todd asked, paused and then asked again. Mary nodded her head and smiled. Her husband asked again and then ended his repetition with a loud “Wow!”
“There's a catch,” Mary said, disturbing Todd's nonsensical song and excited dance.
“There always is,” Todd answered.
“After Mr. Adio Yasu dies, I have to eat his brain.”
“Who is this guy?” Todd asked without expecting an answer. “Is he a cannibal? Does he want you to do witchcraft?”
“No, no, Todd,” Mary answered. “His brain will be cremated and I'll have to ingest the ashes. It's a religious thing. Maybe he's Muslim.”
“Muslims don't eat their dead!” Todd said. “C'mon, Mary. Don't say things like that. People are being killed in Europe because of cartoons with Muslims in them. You don't want them coming over here to get you, do ya'?”
“No,” Mary said. “They wouldn't like our snow anyway.”
“Yeah, Okay, Mary,” Todd said going into the kitchen. He asked his wife what she would like for supper. Mary said pasta will be fine and followed Todd through the doorway.
“You know, I didn't ask Mr. Yasu what religion he is, not that it matters,” Mary wondered aloud. “Where do they worship ancestors?”
“That's more toward the east.”
“No, the other direction,” Mary said. “I think he might be Egyptian. Did our Indians worship their ancestors?”
“What do you mean, saying ‘Our Indians’?” Todd asked Mary. His tone suggested she made another ethnic faux pas.
“You know, the ones that were in America before we got here,” Mary said.
“I assume you mean you white people,” Todd interjected. “Remember, I've got Ojibwa blood in my veins and so does that little Chippewa you've got in your belly!”
“And it makes you hotter, sweetie,” Mary told her husband.
Todd blushed. He gazed at Mary's swollen tummy. “Hey, might be born early. What are we gonna call him?”
“Adio,” Mary updated Todd with their child's name, part of the condition for taking the money from the contest.
“That's the billionaire's name,” Todd said taken aback. “You know what? Eight billion dollars buys a name. Heck, as many letters as he wants. It doesn't matter. Our son will be happy.”
“If we raise him right,” Mary cautioned.
“Money goes a long way toward that, honey. Go ahead and eat his ashes. If he was giving that money to me, I'd drink him raw in a glass of beer! Wait, is eating someone's brain safe?”
“Mr. Yasu said he is healthy and will show me documents to prove it,” Mary explained.
“I suppose everything that can hurt you will be reduced to carbon in the fire,” Todd wondered aloud. “Do it!”
“Oh, there's one more thing,” Mary said. “Mr. Yasu said he will be dead within the month.”
“Jesus, that's fast!”
“Three months is fast,” Mary said. “I have to eat the ashes before the baby is born.”
“It's getting creepy and strange, but that doesn't give Mr. Yasu a lot of time to change his mind. Just remember, eating those ashes is only gonna happen once!”
“Like selling my soul,” Mary mused.
With her husband's blessing, Mary called Tommy Brandt, the lawyer she knew as a school kid. The two grew up together on the same block. The coincidence is actually normal in this part of the country, the majority of the population around Ashland tended to stick around. Tommy agreed to pick up Mary and escort her to Mr. Yasu's mansion on Lake Superior.
In the morning, Mary dressed and was ready to go before Tommy arrived in his brand new pickup truck. Everyone in this town drove trucks. The wealthy owned new ones, and that's what the Gantz's were now. Mary felt certain she could justify the purchase of a brand new vehicle as a need for her and little Adio. Car shopping went on Mary's agenda this week.
Once Mary and Tommy were inside Mr. Yasu's mansion, Mary whirled in a blur of smiles, signatures and handshakes. If Mary wasn't on her feet and moving around so much, making her sore and exhausted, she imagined baby Adio actually being born today. There was yet another, additional, condition Mary needed to hear. Tommy insisted she pay attention, but Mary already decided to agree to anything Mr. Yasu wanted.
“Mrs. Gantz, it is important that you are available at moment's notice, until I am dead,” Mr. Yasu outlined. “Because when I die, my brain will immediately be removed and cremated. You will be contacted and my ashes will be delivered to you, wherever you may be. They must be consumed right away!”
“So keep your water bottle full, Mary,” Tommy interpreted for his excited friend.
Mr. Yasu refilled the glass in front of Mary. The water overflowed and spilled on the antique wooden table. Mr. Yasu wiped it away with a clothe napkin brought on a tray with the pitcher of water. Mary bet the water is imported, despite the fact the mansion overlooked a fresh water lake so big that the other side could not be seen.
Both Mary and Tommy signed their names and unborn Adio became an heir to billions of dollars. Tommy watched Mary do far more than sign papers. The emotional wear and tear took its toll. He requested, as a friend, that she go home and deal with the financial aspects tomorrow. Mary enthusiastically agreed and slept in Tommy's SUV on her ride home.
Before Tommy reached Mary's house, her cell phone rang and then vibrated. The anxious phone failed to wake her. As Tommy and Mary were only a few blocks from their destination, Tommy didn't wake his friend. Whoever called Mary, called back repeatedly. She slept the entire time. Mary didn't wake until Tommy rocked into her unstable, mud driveway.
The irate cell phone jolted Mary fully alert. She hastily answered the call and then waited silently on the phone. Mary did not respond to the caller until right before she hung up.
“I'm at home,” Mary said and put the phone back into her purse. She looked wide-eyed at her friend Tommy. “Mr. Yasu is dead. His ashes are coming here.”
“Just his brain,” Tommy specified. “I am certain anything else is excluded.”
“Thanks Tommy,” Mary replied, not sure what Tommy said or even she told him.
Inside the house, Todd sat in his recliner. His drive, started this morning, must have wrapped up earlier than expected. But, because of the events of Mary's day, the bonus Todd earned for early deliveries was now just a lump of pocket change. The man worked hard and helped Mary with her burdens, but hardship is no longer needed. Although, Mary wished Todd could help her drink the brain of Mr. Yasu. Alas, hope is futile.
“Tommy, guess what? Mr. Yasu just died!” Mary announced tottering into the living room.
“Yeah, I know,” Todd said. “They called for you to say that. Then they called again, and said you weren't answering your cell phone.”
Mary nervously checked the messages recorded on her phone. She swatted her friend's arm, hard. “Tommy, why didn't you wake me up?”
“Jesus, Tommy!” Todd shouted in cooperation with his wife. “You're our lawyer. You're supposed to watch out for us!”
“I'm sorry,” Tommy said. “Mary looked so tired, so I let her sleep. I was thinking of her and the baby.”
“Eight billion dollars is what you should be thinking about right now. Last night, Mary told me that guy was about to kick the bucket!”
“Shh,” demanded Mary. “Let's think how I'm going to drink the ashes. What do we have here?”
“Water,” Tommy offered.
“You're really no help today, Tommy,” Todd continued.
“Stop being jealous, Todd!” Mary said in a raised voice. “We have ice cream, right? How does an ice cream shake sound?”
Mary led Todd and Tommy into the kitchen where she checked the freezer. She pulled out a frost covered tub of strawberry ice cream and put the cardboard container on the counter. The ice cream needed to melt a little before they can concoct the vehicle to convey Mr. Yasu's ashes.
“You gotta drink it,” Todd opined.
“I wonder how that will be,” wondered Tommy aloud.
“What do you mean?” Mary asked her friend.
“From what I understand, about ancestral worship, a village elder carries the souls of all those in his family who died before him. Are the souls affected by the cremation?” Tommy wondered aloud. “And now, they're going into a milkshake.”
“I hope you made certain I only agreed to swallow ashes, Tommy,” Mary said.
“Shut up, Tommy,” Todd added.
Todd blended a cup of milk with two cups of ice cream and presented he homemade shake to his wife. Mary thanked her husband and took a spoon from a kitchen drawer. Long minutes afterward, as the milkshake turned to warm slush, a black executive sedan came up the muddy drive.
An anonymous someone, in a black three piece suit, came to the front door to drop off a plastic pill bottle. A child-proof screw cap sealed the brown translucent bottle. The driver silently handed the container to Mary and turned around.
“This is it!” Mary turned around and said to Tommy and her husband. She held the plastic bottle before her, at eye-level. The classy delivery man got back into the expensive looking car and drove away.
“That's not a lot,” Todd said upon spotting the shadow of ash inside.
“About half the bottle,” Mary said opening the container. “Do you dare me to swallow it, just like this?”
“No,
Mary,” Todd answered. “Put it in your shake. You'll need supper
after that, too.”
“There you go Mary,” Tommy encouraged.
“Think about supper.”
Mary smiled and let the guys know she only teased them. They all went back into the kitchen, where Mary stirred a fluffy ounce of white powder into her milkshake.
“It's not so bad,” Mary said after taking a brave and dedicated first-swallow. “I can't even taste it. We need some malt for our milk shakes.”
Tommy thought about explaining the difference between a Malt and Shake and then reconsidered. He said goodbye to both Mary and Todd and drove back to the city. Todd made salads as Mary finished her shake. They avoided talking about the ashes, or Mr. Yasu's sudden passing, but Todd still needed to make his point.“With Mr. Yasu dying, right after you signed those papers,” Todd qualified. “It makes me think he wanted to lock in this deal faster than we did.”
“Let me finish,” Mary hushed her husband and took a deep breathe before she swallowed the last warm cream goop from the bottom of the glass.
“Do I have to lick up all the film the milkshake left on the inside of the glass?” Mary asked. Todd shrugged his shoulders.
“Tommy went home,” Mary answered her unspoken question. “This would have been a good question for him.”
After a moment, Mary made her decision. “I will.”
Mary wiped her index finger along the inside of the glass. The frothy film felt gritty. The sensation dissuaded her from the idea of cleaning the glass. “I'm not going to do it.”
“You can call Tommy on his mobile,” Todd said.
“I'm not going to do it,” Mary repeated. “Period.”
Todd warmed up the lasagna he and Mary had made last weekend. He prepared plates for the two of them and sat down. Mary took a few bites before telling her husband she felt like going to bed.
“I think I drank that shake way too fast,” Mary hypothesized. “I've got a terrible headache.”
“Well, I bet you had a lot to do today,” Todd said helping his wife from the kitchen table. “You were gone a long time with Tommy.”
Mary made a loud sigh and climbed the stairs alone. By the time she reached the top of the flight, Mary laughed. Something made her giggle, despite feeling exhausted, which is maybe why she laughed. Mary didn't know what was funny, but the mystery made her quandary funnier.
“What's so funny, honey?” Todd called from the bottom of the staircase.
Mary shook all over her body. Her voice quivered, barely perceptible. “I just need to lie down.”
“No, you need to go to the hospital!” Todd shouted as he looked for his cell phone. He abandoned his search to race up the stairs. Todd caught his wife before she fell. They went into the master bedroom together.
Todd helped his wife lay on the bed as she shook and jerked her limbs. When Mary wasn't quivering, she lay rigid and supine on the bed. Her arms and legs spread straight out from her body.
“Todd, I hurt,” Mary managed to say.
“Hold on, I'm looking for my mobile phone,” Todd said in haste. “Forget that, I'll just use yours.”
Todd raced downstairs to find his wife's purse. He brought the bag back with him and found the phone on his way up the stairs. Todd called 911 while his wife in the master bedroom. Thankfully, Mary went unconscious and was spared her paralyzed misery. Todd prayed the baby did okay.
Mary lay, without taking a breath, for a long time. Todd panicked when he realized his wife hadn't breathed for several whole minutes. He attempted to give her CPR, although her heart sounded like it still beat. Todd heard two strong hearts. He doubted he heard the baby. Its heart could not possibly beat as loud as his wife's.
Todd breathed air into his wife's lungs. He could not recall how long to wait between repetitions, because Todd consistently failed to pay for CPR – First Aid certification every other year. His lack of memory justified why the validation cycle was so short.
Despite feeling woefully rusty, Todd kept his wife filled with fresh air. While he rescued his wife, Todd grew fascinated with the bump in her belly. The spherical portion of Mary seemed fixed in place and unmoving. The baby inside of her pressed Mary's spine into the box-spring mattress. When Todd exhaled into his wife, her lungs filled but did not disturb the heavy, tight orb of her gut.
The siren of the ambulance infused Todd with a fleeting moment of hope. The rattle and pounding the EMTs inflicted on the front door alarmed him. The door should be unlocked. Todd rationalized Tommy had locked the door behind him when he left the house. Todd had the right idea about his wife's friend, when he told her that Tommy couldn't help Mary to save her own life.
Todd's only thought, besides saving his wife, was chasing away threats like Tommy, who got an extremely late start when he came to court Mary. Now that she had a fat trust, the cockroaches will come out of the woodwork. But right now, Todd needed to keep his wife and his billionaire baby alive.
Putting jealous thoughts aside, and after blowing another gust of air into his wife, Todd raced downstairs to allow the EMTs inside the house. Todd stomped back up the stairs with the emergency technicians in tow. The two men followed closely, eager to push Todd aside.
Mary sat upright, with her legs over the side of the bed, when Todd entered the master bedroom. The pair of EMTs squeezed themselves into the room to confront another false alarm. They promptly turned around. Todd escorted them downstairs and apologized, but ignored the EMT who badgered him for answers. Mary followed everyone to the front door.
“I want a divorce, Mr. Gantz,” Mary told her husband.
“What?” Todd asked and let his mouth hang open.
After spending a moment, contemplating what his pregnant wife asked, Todd forcibly ejected the EMT from his house. He locked the door before confronting Mary.
“Mary, what happened?” Todd begged his wife. “It's that goddamn Tommy, isn't it?”
“Mr. Gantz...” Mary said to her husband.
“Stop calling me that,” Todd abruptly ordered. “Why are you calling me that?”
“I'm sorry, Todd. This is actually the first time we've met,” Mary said. “I am Adio Yasu.”
“Stop playing around, Mary,” Todd told his wife.
“Your wife perished in pain,” Mary said. “I am Adio Yasu, and as Mary Gantz, I am divorcing you.”
Todd stood and stared at his wife. Something truly felt different about the woman he married, like a stranger behind a familiar mask. Todd failed to comprehend what she told him, but knew their marriage was over.
“Don't fret, because I'm giving you a generous bribe to go away. A million dollars will guarantee you some lost years.”
“But the baby,” Todd reminded the visage of Mary.
“Like my father before me, and for past generations, I will bear my namesake son and transfer my soul to his body. I become him, or he changes into me.”
“I don't understand,” Todd mumbled.“Your wife received several thousand dollars,” Mary said. “Take that and find a motel. Go and puzzle this mystery away.”
“Welcome to the slaughterhouse!”
Mr. Brink greeted Mrs. Erin Hofstetter, a reporter for the local newspaper in Binger, Texas. Mr. Brink had invited the Binger Evening Times to his new Minotaur Meats plant, a long windowless barn wrapped in corrugated tin siding and painted pastel green. Erin waved her gangly photographer, Miss Pat Hendrickson, ahead.
“The animals are killed in there?” Erin asked Mr. Brink, feeling a little nauseated as she pointed at the closed entrance to the slaughterhouse and meat packing plant. “And their meat is also packaged at this location?”
“Yes, ma'am,” proudly answered Mr. Brink. The balding and pudgy, yet charming and somewhat attractive, owner and operator of the exotic meat company opened the magnetically locked metal door. He bowed and bid the small town reporter and her photographer to enter.
“We are completely up to health codes. You can hear the air conditioners run while we stand outside,” Mr. Brink said referring to the tedious moan of spinning fans. “The building might not be pretty to look at, but I'm telling you the truth when I say many of the neighboring, traditional, slaughterhouses appear very much the same. And more importantly, our location keeps the costs low for our customers, as well as provides American jobs.”
“That was the argument used to institutionalize monster wrangling and to sell their meat for human consumption,” Erin said in danger of sounding confrontational. She hoped she stayed within professional bounds at the start of gathering the profile for her story.
Twenty years ago, during her years in college, Erin flirted with vegetarianism, because of youthful idealistic ethics. Eventually, she returned to her dedication as a carnivore because of two important reasons, expense and convenience. Erin understood the financial side of Mr. Brink's argument. Erin just didn't like adding another meat to the generic menu. Cows, chickens and pigs presented enough choice for anyone. Ostrich and buffalo stood right on the line of acceptability, according to Erin's standards. Minotaur is out of the question.
“You have tasted the meat, haven't you?” Mr. Brink asked looking astonished.
“No, I haven't,” Erin insisted while Pat nodded her head.
“Oh, it's good!” testified Mr. Brink as he winked and pointed at the photographer.
“I wouldn't,” mumbled Erin in reply. The idea of eating something that appeared five-sixth human put her off.
“Besides,” stated Mr. Brink. “In this economy, a businessman uses the resources available to him. People already feel thankful for that demon invasion in Los Angeles. The sort of people living in California probably had it coming to them anyway. Don't write that down. That's just my own opinion away from Minotaur Meats. But you know what, I am my company and I'll sell food to west coast survivors. If they buy enough, I might give hot dogs and hamburgers to the relief efforts out there.”
“I suppose that's generous, Mr. Brink,” Erin commented.
“Yeah, you're right. Don't write any of that down either. I didn't say anything. A customer is a customer wherever they are from. What do you want to know, before I take you on a tour?”
Mr. Brink led Erin and Pat down a short hall of closed metal doors. The doors presumably led to offices. The tour did not include interviews with persons in administrative and executive roles, other than Mr. Brink himself. The owner and CEO of Minotaur Meats held the reporters at a heavy looking door. Muffled screams of pain, anguish and fury seeped through the sheet metal barrier.
“Yes, what's making that noise, the minotaurs or minotauris? What is the plural for minotaur?” asked Erin.
“We're probably running early,” Mr. Brink said as he held the door shut. He yanked on the handle in an attempt to gain a tighter seal. “The animals are in the shoot, on their way to the killing floor.”
“Uh, we're not going to watch them get killed, are we?” Erin asked alarmed. Erin's condition to attend the tour is that she would not witness the killing and butchering of the monstrous animals. Because of their bovine heads, she expected watching minotaurs murdered will look like a grotesque massacre.
“Oh, no, not unless you would like to,” Mr. Brink extended.
“No, thank you,” Erin replied in vehemence.
“I still need to get pictures of the room,” Pat urgently requested. “The editor wants them.”
“Mark?” Erin asked knowingly and in disgust.
“Yep.”
“All right, as usual, go ahead of me,” Erin arranged. “Tell me when they're done killing.”
Mr. Brink opened the door, smiling, and encouraged Erin to join them right away. Pat's screech cut the invitation short. She struggled to ready the camera. Something in the pit, below the walkway on the other side of open door, made the woman anxious for a shot.
“Erin, there's one of them still in the stockade,” Pat called back to Erin in an excited, hushed tone. “Have you ever seen a live minotaur? I haven't. Oh my God, it looks like a man with pubic hair and everything, including a big uncircumcised penis.”
Pat paused her description of the living monster so that she could concentrate and take pictures. While the minotaur bayed, dismayed within the enclosure, Mr. Brink and the reporters could not whisper to each. Erin suspected the camera flash perturbed the thing more than would normal speaking voices.
“Oh, Erin, it defecated all over itself,” Pat described. Her scowl folded wrinkles in acute angles around her mouth and eyes. “Oh, and it doesn't have a tail, just a bald bull head with horns.”
“We wash the carcasses thoroughly before they are butchered,” promised Mr. Brink. “They may be disemboweled before that. You're not interested in seeing any of those things?”
“No, just the packaging,” affirmed Erin.
“I still have to get pictures,” Pat maintained.
Pat squeezed past Mr. Brink, back into the hallway with Erin. Mr. Brink pulled the door shut again. The angry and frightened sounds of the naked animal still rang through the barrier.
“Well, there's only one way into the packaging room from this point,” Mr. Brink said directly to Erin. “It's all right with me if you walk around the building and wait at the rear door for us. The door is next to the loading bays. You'll see our company trucks as you walk down the length of the building. I'll be right there after I walk your photographer through the plant.”
“No, that's okay,” Erin objected. “I'll go through with you both so we'll be done at once.”
A sharp rifle shot made everyone jump and stopped the bellows of the minotaur. Mr. Brink smiled. He waited a moment before he said anything to his visitors from the press. The man posed, with a mute and stupid grin, as if for a press photo. Two more dampened snaps animated Mr. Brink and he threw open the door.
“All right, Pat, let's go!” Mr. Brink said gregariously. “And we'll tell you, Erin, when everything is all clear.”
“I'll just wait on that walkway above the stockade,” Erin proposed.
“The air gets quite foul in there,” warned Mr. Brink. “The animals seem to prefer the filth and other unwholesome things. We feed them the offal of their own species. The things smell worst than pigs! And another heard of minotaurs is coming in very soon. You are welcome to watch them, of course.”
“Fine, I'll come with you two then,” Erin relented. “I'm just not going to look. Tell me if there's something I should see. It just seems like I'm running the gauntlet for this story, which the newspaper really appreciates – by the way. Please, don't get the wrong idea. I just wish I could be a little more enthusiastic. Thank you again, Mr. Brink.”
“That's understandable,” Mr. Brink admitted. “A great many people can't get over the creepiness of eating a monster, or even deer or duck.”
“I know what you're saying, Mr. Brink,” Erin said. “It's the way they look.”
“That's the very reason a lot of people buy the meat,” answered Mr. Brink with his eyebrows raised, creasing his golden dome.
“I was curious,” Pat volunteered.
Mr. Brink winked and pointed at the woman again. He peeked into the eerily quiet stockade and hustled the two women onto the walkway. The air reeked of feces and blood. The stench nearly made Erin vomit. She scrambled for a place to throw up. The feces covered rock floor seemed an acceptable target. Leaning over the handrail exposed the dead minotaur as it was pulled from the dreadful pit. At that point, Erin did puke. A shower of coffee and partially digested breakfast spread in the air as vomit fell from the walkway.
Erin could not see the whole creature. The wide aluminum rails on the chute concealed most of the monster, as well as the people who towed it away. She watched a pair of filthy, bare human feet disappear through an opening onto the killing floor. The accidental peek made Erin ill again.
“Hey, I should have gotten that!” Pat shouted. “That shot would have been great at the Christmas party!”
“And Mark would have loved it too, right?” Erin suggested as she wiped her chin on her bare forearm. “Give me a tissue, Pat. Let's get out of this unbreathable air.”
“Here you go,” Mr. Brink said handing his silk handkerchief to Erin. “The next room, the killing floor, is worst.”
“Then just show me where to go and I'll hold by breathe, stay focused and rifle through to the, what is it, butchery?”
“Actually, I was going to show you the head incineration altar,” Mr. Brink revealed.
“What is that?” Erin asked.
“The burning flesh there smells worst than the waste here,” said Mr. Brink.
“But what is it?” Erin asked again.
“That is where we reduce the minotaur heads to ash and bury them under still water,” Mr. Brink answered.
“Why would you do that?” Pat asked. “I thought you used every part of the monster. Those horns will sell for a lot of money, and the skulls. What about head cheese?”
“No, the heads are problematic,” Mr. Brink said. “Upon death, the heads quickly become poisonous and lethal. I don't even think there is a safe time to eat anything off those freakish things. They behave more like wolves than they do like bulls or people. I just think minotaurs are evil.”
“Didn't you say the meat tastes good?” Erin asked confused.
“Well, sure it does,” Mr. Bink backpedaled. “Pat, here, agrees.”
“That's very interesting, Mr. Brink,” Erin stated. “Why, then, are you selling the flesh?”
“As every age of mankind realizes, money speaks louder than God,” confessed Mr. Brink. “I just hope I share a cell in Hell with a rich sinner. King Tut is a good one.”
“I think they were all forgiven with Christ's resurrection,” Erin pondered aloud.
“Well, none of us are born with a ‘Get Out of Jail for Free’ card, except for the Dalai Lama,” conjectured Mr. Brink. “I'm sure there are plenty of rich roommates to be found in Hell. If history hasn't already provided one, somebody is sure to come along.”
“This is for a newspaper article, guys,” Pat complained. “And I think it reeks in here too. If the head incineration stinks worst, I'm not even tempted to take a picture of an altar.”
“I suppose that's just as well, because there is no photography permitted in the sacrificial chamber,” Mr. Brink said. “Video is fine, unless it's paused too long. We imagine kids might eventually figure that out at home.”