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Edward Lee: Family Tradition

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Edward Lee Family Tradition

Family Tradition: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Edward Lee and John Pelan have cooked up yet another tasty treat. They will whet your appetite with a delectable trip to the Pacific Northwest in search of the rare Crackjaw Eel. This romp through the woods is flavored with inbred rednecks, sauced with generous helpings of sex, and topped with an ending that’s sure to have food critics raving the world over. Only those with strong stomachs and a taste for heavy spice should attempt this meal. In FAMILY TRADITION, Lee and Pelan show that there are far more terrible things lurking in the rain forests of the Pacific Northwest than amphetamine-crazed rednecks...secrets man was not meant to sample. Indulge yourself and enjoy the sumptuous haute cuisine served up by these two masters of guerilla gastronomic outrage. Not only will you think twice before visiting the woods again, you just might never look at food in quite the same way. From the duo that brought you Goon, Shifters, and the cult favorite Splatterspunk, FAMILY TRADITION is a feast of the senses that is best devoured before it devours you. Enjoy the grub!

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“Those five-dollar charges are racking up,” Carol noticed.

Ashton grinned over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, hon. Bobby and I got it covered.”

“I guess that’s the pull-ferry,” Sheree surmised. They parked near a rickety dock and crude gravel boat ramp. A red Ford Explorer sat parked further down. The “pull-ferry” was nothing more than a rowboat connected to a pulley system of thick rope which stretched all the way to the island.

A wooden sign informed: PULL-FERRY FEE $5.

Ashton chuckled to his brother. “Think we can afford it, big guy?”

Bob pulled out a choke-wad of cash. “Aw, gee, I don’t know! I guess we better go back home!”

Sheree frowned at the laughter which was now obligatory.

The Winnebago literally rocked when Ashton and Bob got out; Sheree thought of two cows being pushed off a cattle car. Her eyes, however, felt snagged to Carol’s ass as she climbed out. A big perfect swervy ass filling up that tight denim skirt. Sheeze, Sheree though through a prickly flush. Two pinpoints of heat speared her nipples. If I was a man I’d want to fuck her hard in the dirt… She got out behind Carol, cruxed by the sudden kindle of lust. Sure, in the porn business, Sheree had licked more pussies than the average kindergarten kid had licked lollipops, and so much hair pie had sat on her face she thought she was a fucking park bench. But it was all for the show, all for the camera and the billion-dollar-per-year industry of men jerking off in front on their tv sets. Personally, Sheree wasn’t into women (she was into cock). Her mind drifted back to previous Hollywood boyfriends and suddenly her birth canal grew slickened at the constant recollection of touch, handsome men slapping her down and fucking her hard. Chicks didn’t do it for her.

Her breath felt short when she glanced at Carol again. Suddenly she could think of nothing but eating Carol out and boning her with a 14-inch strap-on. And then receiving the same ministrations. Guess it’s just been too long since I’ve been laid, Sheree deduced. Fuckin’ Ashton, the fat limp-dicked pompous ass. I guess when there’s no Option Number One, Option Number Two doesn’t seem too bad.

It was just a coincidence, of course, but once Sheree’d gotten out of the Winnebago, her muse of lust lingering on Carol…

Carol turned around and smiled.

“Come on, girls!” Bob insisted. “Chop chop.” He irritatingly clapped his hands twice very loudly. “Let’s get across the lake, get our account settled.”

“Yeah,” Ashton hooked on. He, too, clapped his hands. “Plenty of daylight left.”

Sheree and Carol straggled after the two rotund twins. When the four of them stepped onto the row boat, Sheree thought it might actually submerge from the excess of weight. As Ashton and Bob turned the crank, the boat began to creep across the lake’s surface, reeling up rope as it went. It wasn’t much for speed, but Sheree had to admit: the scenery was unbelievable. The lake water was clear and shimmering as Waterford Crystal, and the upcoming island seemed to glow in a variety of fresh, fecund greenery. But they had traversed a third of the way across the lake before—

“Whew!” Bob remarked.

Ashton drew a fat forearm across his brow. “Damn!

Then they both sat down on the boat’s forward seat.

“Sorry, girls,” Bob explained, huffing and puffing and lighting a cigarette. “We’re tuckered out.”

“Yeah,” Ashton followed. He lit a La Corona Whiff petite cigar. “We’re old men compared to you two young racehorses. Hope you don’t mind taking a turn on the crank.”

Oh for God’s sake! Sheree yelled in her mind.

“No biggie, boys,” Carol said, shooting Sheree a knowing grin. “Sheree and I would love to.”

“Besides,” Bob added with a chuckle. “You don’t want us wearing ourselves out, do you?”

“Yeah,” Ashton added. “Then we’d be no good for tonight.”

You’re no good for anything ANY night! Sheree thought.

The two women stood up, got on either side of the handles. They began to crank. But Carol’s frequent grins proved she was going along with the joke. The grin seemed to say This is the price we pay for living with a pair of fat stooges.

Now that Sheree and Carol were on the crank, the boat began to make some headway, in spite of her conclusion that this “pull-ferry” was about six hundred pounds heavier than it should be. Every time Carol rowed down to display her immaculate cleavage, Sheree squeezed her lip between her teeth. Christ, I’m soaking…

The brothers smoked and swapped more bad jokes as Sheree and Carol cranked for all they were worth. The smoke from Ashton’s cigar kept sweeping Sheree’s face, such that she could see herself slapping it right out of her loving boyfriend’s fat mug. She was glazed in sweat by the time they’d cranked to little boat to the ramp on the other side.

“Good job, girls,” Bob complimented, flicking his cigarette butt over the side.

“Yeah,” Ashton said. “You both get an A…for Attractive!

And you get an F, Sheree thought. For FAT.

The boat raised a good six inches when Bob and Ashton stepped off. Carol stepped off next, and grabbed Sheree’s arm to help her off.

“Oh, gross,” Sheree remarked instantly. “Sorry I’m so sweaty.”

“I am too, so don’t worry about it,” Carol assured. Then she leaned to Sheree’s ear and whispered, “Besides, I’d love to lick it all off.”


— | — | —



Chapter Four


“’Fraid you’re right, Esau. This one ain’t worth a ’skeeter off a dead skunk’s ass.” Enoch cast an eye at the skinned girl. She looked like bone scraps, little more.

“Bet she don’t weigh more’n wad of my hock.”

“Bet she don’t.”

Of the two huge men, Enoch was more huge, three inches taller than Esau’s six-foot four, and twenty more pounds than his three hundred. Both had beards they hadn’t trimmed in years, long bushy hair, overalls and workboots. Tried and true rednecks, Northwest style. Esau had dragged the girl’s skinless corpse here to what he and his older brother simply referred to as the “tarp.” It was actually an odd, large gully that existed toward the center of the island, about twenty feet wide, fifty long, and God knew how deep. An ideal place in which to discard scraps like this fairly useless thing from the girlie prison. Several days of hard work had been required to effectively cover the gully; Enoch and Esau had felled a dozen trees over it, providing a sufficient framework over which they had unrolled great sheets of olive-drab tarp. Over that, they’d piled enough branches and leaves that the gully was perfectly camouflaged. It was a minor concern but a concern nonetheless. Not too many folks ventured out to Hartsene Island but on the rare occasions when they did, Enoch didn’t need them to be finding out what they’d been doing out here all these years. Their needs had turned the gully into a giant belly full of bones and human gruel; no doubt hundreds of bodies had been dumped beneath the tarp.

Esau threw back the end piece of tarp—the corpse-pit’s door. “’Bout the only good thing was her skin.” He grabbed the corpse’s stiff feet, dragged it over to the dump-hole. “A skinny gal’s skin is tighter, fries up better, ya know?”

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