Chavez couldn’t hold the knife anymore, so it fell into the mess he’d been cutting off his flank. The flesh and blood and creamy fat had mixed into a red slurry. He looked up, lips moving as he pleaded for painkillers. The crazy Asian chick in the latex nurse’s getup stepped up right away with a pill. She put it against his lips. He took it. When he said, “Gracias,” the pill fell out. Ever helpful, Mara bent at the knees, retrieved it from the slurry, and fed it to him once more.

“Don’t. Don’t eat that,” Sam said. His voice never broke a whisper.

Chavez tried to swallow it. He coughed a couple of times before working up the spit to wash it down.

By then, the chick had slunk away to the bar, which held top shelf bottles, a smoking hibachi, and three steel bowls.

Crampton arrived with a roll of bills. The top was a twenty. “That was great,” he said. “One hundred for the floor show.” He looked like a business man, bald as a cue ball, and maybe forty or fifty years old in an off the rack gray suit and white button-down shirt. Whatever tie he’d been wearing was long gone. The top button was still fastened. When the trio first encountered him at Tito’s Bar and Grill, Crampton seemed like a fun guy with money to burn. Now? Sam wished they’d never agreed to hang with him, his chick, or his wad.

Turning from Chavez to Sam’s dad Martin, Crampton said, “I’ve got another hundred if you eat what he carved.”

“Raw?” Martin asked.

“We can cook it if you like. Mara? How’s that hibachi doing?”

“Sizzling.” The Asian with the heavy eyeliner and fetish party costume spaced out the syllables so they were each an individual word.

“Bowl me,” Crampton said. She obligingly tossed over a steel bowl, which the man caught despite holding a wad of cash. The guy had skills beyond skills. “Scoop them in here.”

“Two hundred,” Martin said.

Sam wanted to scream, “Don’t dicker with the devil, Papá!” But the words caught in his throat and desert dry mouth. The warning remained locked down.

Crampton’s broad smile showed a surprising number of teeth. Those white choppers were shiny with saliva. “I love a negotiator, but for that money, you have to gobble up every portion.”

While he leaned down and used the knife to shovel the slurry into the bowl, Chavez fell over backward, both men were giggling like kids getting away with something.

Sam dropped to a knee next to his collapsed uncle. He shook his head in horror, one hand over his mouth to hold in the retching. When he looked at Martin, his eyes shimmered with puke tears. “Papá, stop! Tío’s lost so much blood.”

“Shut it, mijo. We’re doing business here.” Martin hurried the bowl over to the hibachi, slapped it down, and let the human stew heat. Soon enough, it was bubbling, and he used the knife to stir it. “Anyone got a fork?”

Crampton chuckled as he shrugged. “Sorry, pal. The knife is our only utensil. You’re just going to have to drink it like soup.”

Martin took the bowl between his hands, too high and drunk to notice the red hot steel cooking his palms as he lifted the lip to his mouth and poured the muck into his open gob. He chewed when necessary, and he filled his mouth more after every swallow.

Sam hurried to his father and grabbed his elbow. “Stop, dad! Come on!”

“Mara, can we get this kid a little chemical relaxation?” Crampton asked.

The unconcerned chica in sexy nurse cosplay obligingly held up a black glass bottle adorned with a cute sticker of a skull and crossbones. The skull was topped with a pink bow, suggesting the warning was just a gag.

Sam swatted the Asian’s hand away, sending the bottle rolling across the floor. “I don’t want any of your shit. You fucked up my dad and my uncle. You’re not doing the same to me.”

“I didn’t fuck up anyone,” Crampton said. “I offer, and they accept. That’s how business works, little man. The sooner you learn, the happier you’ll be.”

Business had not been good for Martin or Chavez, Sam knew. Their jobs were put on the line when ICE showed up at the construction site, demanding papers from everyone. His third generation American dad and uncle ended up handcuffed and on a police truck for an hour. When released they were informed that having immigrant looking workers in this political environment was bad for business. The white site manager let them go on the spot, and their final pay was tied up in fucking red tape of some kind that neither man had been able to articulate to their uncle.

So, they had gone out for beers and a few rounds of “Fuck Fuhrer Trump and His Nazi Dickhead Party,” a song Tío Chavez had composed after their first beers and which grew funnier and longer with each repetition.

Then, they’d met up with Crampton and his crazy hot chick, and he’d produced a bundle of bills, inviting them to do some crazy shit. It had all been harmless at first, but escalated quickly. Now, they were in a small house on Houston’s north side. Sam originally thought it belonged to Crampton or his party pal, but there were no pictures of either of them on the walls. It was a pasty white family in those photographs, a smiling blonde mom and dad, a dour high school girl with boot polish black hair, and a smiling middle school son with the same cornsilk hair as his folks.

“Done, bitches.” Martin dropped the steel bowl on the floor. Smoke rose from his hands and spilled between his lips. His voice was ragged. Sam feared his throat was scalded. “Give me that motherfucking money.”

Crampton clapped Martin on the shoulder, a chummy gesture. “My man! One hundred bucks coming right—”

“Nah, man. Motherfucking two!” Martin held up two digits for emphasis.

Crampton held up his hands and the money wad in mock surrender. “I misspoke there, friend.” He counted off twenty dollar bills. “Two hundred smackers for one hell of a show.”

Mara offered a golf clap as a sign of her own appreciation, and Martin licked his lips as he watched her.

Crampton turned his grin toward Sam. “What else would you do for a hundred bucks?”

Sam shook his head. “Nada.”

“Actually, that might not be true,” Crampton said. His lips spread in a wide grin. As Sam’s dad gave a wail, now noticing his palms, Crampton’s smile faltered. “Mara, give him something to help him with the pain.” The Asian woman moved quick, recovering the fallen vial, opening it, and dumping it into Martin’s mouth. “Walk with me a minute, kid. I think I’ve got your number.”

Crampton guided him up a hallway, “I know all about you Sam.”

Before Sam could interrupt to say there was no way this guy could know one damned thing about him, Crampton carried on. “Sam the Man. Sammy. Can I call you Sammy? No, of course not. Sammy is a kid’s name. You’re Big Sam. Eighteen and with the world spread out before you. But one thing’s calling to you, right? The big mystery? The unknown that calls you, begging you to choke the old chicken two sometimes three times a night?”

How could he know? Sam thought.

They stopped before a nondescript door, and Crampton’s hand moved off Sam’s shoulder to the knob. “Behind this? The answer waits.”

He turned the knob and shoved. The door glided open. A slant of light from the hallway spilled into the dark room, illuminating gray carpet, the side of a California King bed, an armoire, and at the far end of the room, a girl. She was eighteen or nineteen, and crouched down on the floor. Her bedraggled hair was boot polish black, she was the girl from the pictures, but she was not dour. She was smiling despite having brownish muck smeared across her mouth and nose. More of the stuff gloved her hands, rising from the fingers all the way to the elbows.

Sam said, “That doesn’t look like chocolate.”

Crampton chuckled, “Will you stand up, Tanya?”

She did, revealing a black nightie and panties. More of the dried brown mess stained her legs. She was not a prisoner. She had no shackles, cuffs, zipties, ropes, or collar and leash holding her in place. She turned a little, offering them a look at her pale, strong legs and arms, flipping up the nightie in the back for fan service. Her giggles were neither girlish nor sexy. They were kind of hot but seriously crazy.

Crampton gestured toward the girl. “This is Tanya. Tanya, meet Sam the Man.”

The girl stopped turning and curtsied. Her lips spread in a wide smile. There were little meat chunks between her incisors and canines.

Sam could not stop stealing looks at her. The narrow hips and the projections of her erect nipples behind the black silk. He hated himself for not turning around and walking out. He hated his growing stiffy even more.

Sam asked, “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing at all, Sam. Not one thing is wrong. In fact, Tanya here is happy as a clam. Made herself ten thousand dollars just this morning. Isn’t that right, darling?”

Tanya’s head bobbed in slow but steady agreement. Her smile intensified.

Crampton continued, “Best of all, she’s broken in. Doesn’t have her cherry like you do. She popped that a long time back. Tanya’s good at being bad, if you understand what I’m saying. And since her parents are gone for, well, they’re just gone. She’s looking for a little company. I bet she’d be willing to break you in, too.”

Tanya licked her lips, slow and sexy the way porn girls did on those websites Sam visited in the midnight hours. She made Sam feel like a popsicle on a hot, summer day. Like all she wanted in the world was to gobble him up.

Reaching into his jacket again, the white man pulled out his money roll. “Now, how this usually works is you’d pay for the privilege of fucking her. That’s just exploitative abuse though. But tonight, old Dirty Uncle Crampton is going to be giving you each one hundred dollars to ball your brains out. Since you’re each getting paid, neither of you is the sex worker. Or maybe you both are. But for each other.” He drew his two index fingers together in a salacious way.

Sam asked, “And you’re going to watch or something, right? I-I don’t think I could—”

“Not at all, Sam,” he said. “A guy’s first time is a private affair so far as I care. If you’d like Mara to sit in, she’ll probably go for it. And if she likes what she sees, she might even ask to join in.”

The idea of that dead eyed Asian woman with the too heavy eyeliner and the fetish costume sitting in the room, turning her dead gaze upon him was too much for Sam. “No thanks.”

It was then that the little voice of reason piped up, asking, “What the hell am I even thinking?” The idea of getting paid to pop his cherry should have been turning his stomach. But after his birthday last month, he’d had the hardest time turning off his sex drive. When the need came upon him, he was immediately looking for somewhere to jack off, get the tension down. Even now, the feeling was firming up.

Even with that urge burning away his reason and sending his dick to rising, Sam managed to whisper, “This feels wrong.”

Crampton leaned over, offering a stage whisper in Sam’s ear. “I understand. You’re sensing something off. Well, I wasn’t quite honest before. Tanya here might be a little loopy. Not so much that she can’t make her own decisions, you see. Just a little wild. But you’ve heard about how hot it is sticking your dick in the crazy, right?”

Tanya clicked her teeth together and then reached back to slap her own ass with a meaty thwack. She was a smokeshow, all right. Round in all the right places. Even covered with whatever that muck was, Sam found he was getting a boner.

Crampton finished, saying, “Well, buddy boy. Here’s your chance to find out. First hand.”

The man in the suit left Sam standing in the bedroom, stewing in his own desire and guilt. The slant of light diminished as the door pulled partially closed. He could still make out the girl as a pale shape, now walking his way in the dark.

“Hey, I—”

“You’re meat,” she said. “And I like meat.”

Tanya’s mouth found his, with a startling suddenness. The kiss was hot and demanding. Her hands clawed at him, trying to rip his T-shirt.

This attention set Sam’s erection flying even higher. It sent out little pain signals from the confinement. It needed freeing, it needed flogging, it needed release.

Sam touched her smooth skin. It was warm. Took in the scent of her girl sweat and the dried, pungent smell of her smeared face. The taste of her was savory. He’d been right, this wasn’t dried chocolate.

It was blood.

Sam didn’t want to think about where it had come from. His dick was screaming, now, distracting him from uncomfortable, inconsequential details.

She reached down and fumbled with his button and zipper, sending his jeans and then his shorts to the floor. The kiss broke, and the paleness of her smile was a white smear in the dark as she roughly jerked him. His breath caught, and the mix of pain and pleasure was startling. Sam always used a sheath of tissues when he did this to himself, all the better to catch the mess and not get it all over his bed linens or carpet.

He squeezed her tits, and . . . and then dared himself to reach down on her, pushing inside her panties and then to the alluring groove of her pussy. She bit her lip and rocked against his hand, jerking him even harder now.

Tanya apparently didn’t care about mess.

Or contraception either, he discovered when she unlatched his hand from her in order to drop to her knees and stare down the barrel of his erection while she jacked it. Her smile parted and then her lips surrounded it, and the wet warmth of her mouth sent ripples throughout his body. The pleasure was too fast and too much, and Sam realized was going to . . . going to . . .

Oh shit. Not yet. Not now!

Before he could climax, her teeth clamped down, and her head worked side to side, tearing through the soft tissue. As her teeth clicked together, Tanya pulled her head back, and took a fresh spray of blood in the face.

Sam stumbled backward, tried to run out the room, but the agony pushed all the strength from his legs.

In his mind, that rational voice piping up too late, demanding to know: Why had he stayed at all? Why hadn’t he run before? Why hadn’t he—?

The blood-soaked girl leaped upon him. Straddled him. Giggled around her mouthful of meat. Chunks of his masticated manhood fell onto his chest, glistening with saliva, blood, and jizz.

The slant of light widened as the door swung wide.

There was Crampton. Gazing up from the floor made the man look upside down. Sam realized there was a seam under his chin. As though the round, human face was a mask worn by something utterly without humanity.

Revelation comes with extremes. The clarity that agony provided allowed Sam to soak in the truth of this moment. Crampton wasn’t human. He was something else altogether, a creature that preyed upon the desires of foolish human beings.

That creature rained down twenty-dollar bills upon the two of them, cackling. “Hell of a show. Better than your folks ever managed.”

Sam spat blood when he wanted to shout words. Nothing he said would matter now. He struggled against the girl, but she held him in place with ease. A slip of a thing, but possessed of power Sam could not hope to overcome. The blood still spurting from the stump made her nightie flutter. It was slowing, and so was his heart.

Crampton spoke softly, lovingly. “Tanya, honey?” The girl gazed at him in rapt awe, utterly devoted to his every word. “Remember how you earned that ten thousand this morning? Cleaning up the mess your folks left behind?”

She nodded, sagely. Licked her lips all over again.

Crampton smiled cheerily. “Good girl! When you’re done playing with this one? I’ve got two more out here needing to be cleaned up as well.”

She smiled and Sam saw hunks of his own flesh joining whoever else she’d chewed on before. “Meat,” she said, like it was the sweetest, sexiest thing in the world. “I like meat.” She turned her insane eyes down toward him and purred. “I eat meat. I looove meat.”

Sam managed to shove one of his hands up off the floor, aiming for her face to shove her the hell away. If he could get out from under her, then he could run, warn his dad. Then someone would get away.

Tanya smiled as she chewed off his index and middle fingers. The fight went out of him, them. She leaned down, clamped her teeth on either side of his windpipe, bit down hard and opened his throat like a Christmas present.

Her face was red as a candied apple when she sat up again, gleeful as a Jack O’Lantern while chewing and chewing and chewing and chew—

About the Author:
Daniel R. Robichaud lives and writes in Humble, Texas. Having worked for over two decades in academia and corporate R&D, he’s turned to writing full time. His fiction has been collected in Hauntings & Happenstances: Autumn Stories as well as Gathered Flowers, Stones, and Bones: Fabulist Tales.