The Beast
By Shawn Wunjo
The beast requires feeding just like everything else.
The hose that the attendant inserts in her posterior is long and flexible. It surges as it moves, fills the cavities deep within her heavy body with the juices of a life that comes from death. A cruel razor of rubber scrapes across her eyes, rough hands tugging at her jaw, separating the teeth, peering into her being and grabbing, fastening across hooks and twists that conceal still more fluids, the reds and whites that drool from her underside as she roars, eagerly sucking in the viscous liquids that she needs to survive. I pat her gently as the attendant leans over, nods to me, makes a gesture. Kill her, he says, and I nod back in response, doing it easily, emotionlessly and completely with a flick of my wrist. Within an instant, she rumbles to a quick death, sighs quietly to stillness. I squeeze the talisman that decides whether she lives or dies, then hand the attendant the paper he needs to do his job. The transaction is quick and dirty. I sign the contract, knowing that within moments, the beast will howl in the throes of her rebirth, thick and heavy again, eager for the road.
- - -
Wunjo is a victim of a Proto-Germanic reconstruction via Gothicism. He sees things that hide from others and only eats (and dies) when he absolutely has to.
By Shawn Wunjo
The beast requires feeding just like everything else.
The hose that the attendant inserts in her posterior is long and flexible. It surges as it moves, fills the cavities deep within her heavy body with the juices of a life that comes from death. A cruel razor of rubber scrapes across her eyes, rough hands tugging at her jaw, separating the teeth, peering into her being and grabbing, fastening across hooks and twists that conceal still more fluids, the reds and whites that drool from her underside as she roars, eagerly sucking in the viscous liquids that she needs to survive. I pat her gently as the attendant leans over, nods to me, makes a gesture. Kill her, he says, and I nod back in response, doing it easily, emotionlessly and completely with a flick of my wrist. Within an instant, she rumbles to a quick death, sighs quietly to stillness. I squeeze the talisman that decides whether she lives or dies, then hand the attendant the paper he needs to do his job. The transaction is quick and dirty. I sign the contract, knowing that within moments, the beast will howl in the throes of her rebirth, thick and heavy again, eager for the road.
- - -
Wunjo is a victim of a Proto-Germanic reconstruction via Gothicism. He sees things that hide from others and only eats (and dies) when he absolutely has to.
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