Edward Lee - Family Tradition

Enoch wedged the girl’s stick-thin legs apart, while Esau inserted the fish all the way up into her vagina. A wet crunch resounded; the girl flinched. “Dang,” Enoch remarked at the sudden ooze of blood. “This here skinny one was cherry.”

“You don’t say?” Esau replied. “And you just popped it—with a trout!”

It was a hell of a way for a girl to lose her virginity. Once the trout was inserted—and still flopping—Esau pinched the labial lips shut with one hand, and with the other—

“Stop it!” Bess shouted. “You sick redneck FUCKERS!”

—he picked up a heavy-duty hand-grip stapler.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Bess screamed.

Clack! Clack! Clack!

Esau stapled those labial lips shut. Mavis, now stupefied by shock, flinched at each hard, metallic clack.

“Put her back up on the hook,” Esau said. “We’ll let her hang fer a few days, let that fish suck in all that pussy blood. It’ll be poached perfect time she’s dead. Then I’ll serve it up with some linguini and marinara sauce.”

Enoch hoisted Mavis back up, then lay the lash between her wrists over the stall hook. “There ya go, Slim,” he said.

Bess’ senses swam in turmoil. “What the FUCK is wrong with you crazy backwoods psychos!” she screamed from her own hook.

“We’se just providin’ our fine grandpap with the viddles he most likes,” Esau explained. He looked at her. “It ain’t nothin’ personal.”

Nothing personal! They stripped her naked, hung her off a hook, and cut a rent in her abdominal wall! What could be more personal than that?

Bess would find out in a moment more.

As Esau approached, Bess tried again to kick out, but by now, between the sheer horror and the depletion of electrolytes, her efforts were inadequate to say the least. Her big legs just slogged forward, harmlessly.

The bearded grin homed closer, then the dirty hand reached out. Then—

Bess screamed.

—then the hand reached into the cut in her abdomen. It reached in deep, fished around, then began to withdraw.

When the hand withdrew, it pulled with it the long gray-pink ropes of her small intestine, twenty feet and then some. Soon, off of one arm, Esau cradled a veritable roll of Bess’ innards.

Bess just stared, paralyzed and numb from the horror.

Esau tugged a bit more, extracting Bess’ stomach and duodenum. “Yeah, we can make some great haggis out’a that. And with the rest of the gut—”

He raised the great roll of small intestine like a prize.

“Shit sausage! Another one’a Grandpa Ab’s favorites!”

He cut the stomach off with bone shears, then carried the roll, as if carrying garden hose, to another table. Meticulously, then, with small pieces of roast string, he tied crimps into the intestine at eight-inch intervals, setting the stomach aside for later tendings. “Yeah,” he proclaimed. “Ain’t nothin’ like a fat girl’s gut to make the best shit sausage! Hot links here we come!”

Bess watched as the dirty rube slowly fed the roll of her own intestines into the pot of boiling water.

“Twenty minutes and then we’re there! It’s better than bratwurst!”

For whatever reason, Bess had a funny feeling more was in store for her.

And she was right.

Esau, first, dragged over the plastic bucket of fileted fish, then the bushel basket of vegetables. Closer, now, Bess was able to see that the baskets contained peeled and quartered white onions, shallots, potatoes, and wedges of fresh cabbage.

Esau stuffed the fish filets and the vegetables into the deep pit of Bess’ abdominal cavity. When he was finished, Bess’ belly stuck out round as a medicine ball.

“There it is. All full up now, huh? Like a stuffed turkey!”

In spite of the absolute insanity, some segment of Bess’ psyche managed to think: I’ve just been stuffed with fish and veggies… .

“Come on, Esau,” the brother complained. “Hurry it up, will ya? I’m gonna miss Big Papa Pump and the Macho Man!”

“We’re all ready. Git the drum, the big one.”

The question as to how long a human being could live without an intestinal tract soon became moot. Bess, all 240 pounds of her, was flopped into a 300-gallon industrial drum. A bucket of salt and a half bucket of black pepper was dumped on her head. “Yes sir-REE!” she heard Esau exclaim above. “We’se gonna pressure-cook the bitch!”

As the last of Bess’ energy ebbed away, the metal lid was placed atop the drum then sealed securely with a hammer. A sensation of revolving, then, as the drum and its still-living contents was rolled several yards and then placed in the fire-pit to cook.

««—»»

“Too bad you didn’t buy a boat with a head, Bobby Boy,” Ashton chuckled. He stood at the bow, peeing a high arc into Lake Sutherland’s still, crystal waters. “You’ve left me no choice but to urinate in public.”

“I also should’ve bought a boat with an ashtray.” Bob, sitting aft, flicked his cigarette butt into the water. “And a garbage can too.” He emptied a bucket full of empty beer bottles over the side.

“Don’t deface God’s Green Earth. Look!” Ashton pointed mockingly to the shore. “There’s an Indian chief crying!”

Ashton and Bob brayed laughter. The laughter echoed across the lake like a cannonade.

Fat, drunk, and obnoxious, the two brothers sat in the brand new 17-foot SeaRay, anchored in the middle of the lake. For the past several hours, they’d been dropping their eel-pots loaded with clusters of Zebra mussels, and so far…

They’d not caught a single Crackjaw eel.

So now they sat waiting—and drinking—hoping to find the right spot.

Ashton wiped sweat off his brow. “Whew! It’s hot—”

“And so am I,” Bob said. “I’m so hot I could pull train at the hot-tub club.”

“Don’t start talking that shit,” Ashton said, lighting up a La Corona. “I’m horny enough as it is.”

“Brother, I need to be held down hard and fucked like a pig, I’m telling you.”

“What are you complaining about? At least you’ve some hot cock waiting for you back at the ’Bago. Is Carol hung?”

Bob nearly inhaled his next sip of beer. “Are you kidding? Every night I feel like I got a french bread stuck up my ass. And when I’m blowing her, I practically need a shoe horn.”

Ashton gritted his teeth, wincing. “Oh, man. Don’t talk like that. It just makes me hornier.”

“I still can’t believe Sheree doesn’t know. When are you gonna tell her you’re gay?”

“Never. She keeps the house clean and I need her. She’s great furniture. No way anyone’ll accuse me of being gay. Arm in arm with a former porn star? ”

Bob cracked open two more cold bottles of Holsten. “Yeah…but what about sex?”

“I get around it. For all the time she’s been living with me, I think I’ve actually fucked her three times. When she’s hot to trot I give her the old line about being too stressed out from work. I generally just ask her for blow jobs…and I pretend it’s Leonardo DiCaprio.”

“Ha!” Bob belted. “Now that kid’s got an ass I wouldn’t mind getting my beard in!”

“Ha!” Ashton belted.

“Yeah, but you know, a woman’s got her needs,” Bob pointed out.

“Oh, I know she picks up guys behind my back.” Ashton chugged his Holsten. “That’s fine with me. I get what I want out of her, and she gets what she wants out of me. I bought her a Beemer, gave her a credit card. She’s happy. I don’t care if she picks up guys at bars and fucks them in the car. And me? When I need a stiff dick up my ass, or a pair of balls across my nose, I get a room at the Sheraton and call Pauncy’s Escorts.” Ashton tapped cigar ash into the lake. “As long as Sheree’s around when I need her to be seen with me, I’m happy. So what if she’s a gold-digger? Carol’s a gold-digger too, ya know.”