Cannabilistic Henry

By Raymond Wu

Zack and his friends spends a night at an Indian village. After finding ritualistic objects, the group discovers hell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raymond Wu
• Release date: Mar 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540140630

Raymond Wu

Raymond was born on August 22, 2003. He currently resides in Williams Lake BC, Canada. He enjoys writing creatively.

Book preview

Cannibalistic Henry

Ray.wu

1

The dirt splashed and dashed as rough solitary tires confined with pebble, debris, shrapnel of micro wine glass rolled over the tree skimmed road. Big thick scraggly dark green trees flew past the shining window shielding Lucy Way where her rather long nose glimmered in solid golden light bouncing past the endless multitude of the trees you’d often catch jutting across the territory of British Columbia, Canada.

‘’AHHH, Hennnnnnnnryyyyyyyyyyystttotttotpttpttptpttptptp’’

The pig squeals that follow about a night in their disastrous university thesis trip.

Shatters of porcelain glass. Dashing the ranting slobbering mad head into a pool of crimson frosted ice, the raving zero degrees of the inside of a 50 by 50 diameter ice box. The shrieking slam of a metal lid, the angry screams and the clutter of a lid striking the head, the nasty foul smelling putrid blood clotted matted mane of the thing howled as it was jammed into the box by it’s shrieking female opponent who dying too was amazingly rocketing a thick jet of pure entrails out her arm.

The thick gooey gore struck the psychotic thing that was once human, the slams of the lid over and over, the sick splatter and strike of numerous gallons of pure red solid slimy blood on metal and on the putrid red bulging skin of the monster inside.

A monster playing in a suit of man.

A man in a suit of man tormenting man. 

A monstrous pitched wail and a solid thump of the dead woman still clenching her bellowing wrist stump vomiting blood. The shivering dying thing inside the box howled too as it was dead also frozen in it’s prey’s own monstrous amount of blood. How could a monster like that die? What force could cause the heroine to shoot 100 gallons of her life blood out her hand less wrist? The destructively hideously mewling creature lying head down, flat limp in the long steaming ice box, steams of pure frost. Blue vapor turned crimson molecularly by the carnage of gore rushing like angry tidal waves, yet slowly hardening to freeze in the 6 feet ice box. The thing looked like a shiny red Frankenstein sculpture lying asleep halfway trailing out a coffin while it’s head is completely amidst in the dark slimy frozen dead interior.

-the big rumbling Camaro rolled past it’s riding second, a grease smeared yellow Chevrolet where each small gear shifting speeding car groaning on thick dirt carried several passengers along.

A large shining red 6-foot ice box bounced and vibrated in the stuffy dew dried back of the old peeling Camaro where in the front of the tremor tilted compartments, on the back seat sat Lucy Way who had a distant foggy mystifying blank stare that seemed to take on the hollow strange atmosphere of the skimming dark green pines themselves the whole way. Zack Donnel seated beside her calmly shook in the bumps of distant asphalt didn’t talk to this strangely behaved girl.

In fact, the closely and thinly shaved young man with the golden earring on the right, the almost vanishing side burns done by slow reaching razor only talked to the driver Derek Risplin.

The old coughing Camaro’s side passenger seat was taken by a double 6-pack of aging canned beer unbeknown by Derek of course, was seven weeks past expiring date as the pack Derek stole from his old Professors classroom closet.

The ice box bobbing was already most occupied for any source of space for the jingling beer.

Inside the blue frosty interior of the red linen eyes plastic ice chest stretched out in the back-compartment eyes can see was:

A bottle of light fizzing thinned purple grape soda whom Lucy with a bad history among alcohol demanded and most filling: a luxurious fat juicy side of pork loin the teens had bought at K-Mart to consume as a most nourishing treat during the nightly coursed meals into their vacation.

-Consume. Consume. Consumed friends

-he bloodshed into their vacation

-the deaths, the evil crawling man killed in the ice chest, the howling, the hunger in the cabin, the nearby windy force

-The Wendigo.

2

‘’ How did so many innocuous Indian Explorer die? Who was the one buried with the copper wood coffin indent? How did the cabins they made remain hospitable enough to have us stay in the same cabin they made in 1397? ‘’

‘’ Was the cannibalistic lust that took over the Indian campers really the only source to the death of them all?’’

Sally Dresser, a cheery extravagantly extraordinary young woman read from her neatly clenched thick sheets of notes and read once with sweeping fingers from the rubric paper.

Henry Cloe swept a large strong yet proportionally thin hand around her nestled thick curly honey blonde hair. His slow paced yet deliciously aimed soft chestnut brown green eyes focused past Sally’s bulgingly white teethed happy smile to beyond the dusty yellowed stained rims of the front window where followed by Derek’s Comoro, the Chevrolet silently rumbled onto a narrow-cut strip of oak etched into the red soil dirt.

The Chevrolet was here.

The great reaching, swooping and rising branches, trees danced in the wind, meters above the rusting turquoise while lined green of the Chevrolet’s bumper.

White green spring leaves danced and tickled the roof, the scraggly scrawny branches tinkled calmly on the hind bumper.

The trees. They had dead white thin waving trunks. Perhaps a geologist might have been able to identify what kind was the dancing lining trees that dared to grow on the soil of a massacred Indian Village. I don’t. As the reader, you don’t. The young adults didn’t. They didn’t care damn.

They drove one bumping up, another bumping up, they crushed leaves and fallen twigs and occasional corpses under the black dirt with no care in their pulsating brains, always full, always of nudity sex, slash fingering orgasm, tongue rolling pleasure to their sexual mate. Their dear dead carelessness, their dull agendas.

Why oh why, has stories like this pounded across pages of all kind, everywhere and every era?

If young people were keenly aware. Strong in the wit and courage. With tight and durable fast thinking, analyzing brain that connects to the world occasionally. They would’ve made torment stories like this brutal one a carnage-full but logic lacking pulp.

Torment. Evil. Sadistic forces pray on naivetes and intellectual desolations to cause the thread to a horror story. Why you must understand this agonizing bit of literature is because the signs of the unknown weird force that had been with them ever since they reached the Indian boundaries would have been noticed, tossed away with keenness and isolated with no harm coming to anyone.

But the two group of young people lacked clues and wits and independent thinking’s. 

Lucy Dresser had been sitting next to Zack Donnel the entire time. Distant. Hazily terribly appearing dead. She didn’t breathe. Yet she sat up tall on her yellowing beet red seat. Her eyes wide open, blinking occasionally. But even those lightning fast motions seem abnormal. Rapid. Rapid for even the act of snapping an eye shut with speed surpassing for exemplary, the release of a bullet out a well firing gun for professional use

Lucy was somehow off and her seat friend Zack didn’t notice.

He avoided trying to make conversations to her yes, but did not for once wonder if she was sick. 

The boy; greasy mouse hair brown haired teen was a clotted young sexual conformist. He never set the inappropriate daydreamed motion of a sexy young nude woman shining in moaning grease rising and falling, wide yawning mouth devouring a big ripe pointed penis up and down in an extremely satisfying sloppy blowjob off his mind for once.

The boy was socially confused and even now, their shuddering Camaro two minutes after bumping past the etched log for the entering of the Indian Village the busily sweating boy ignorant of a slightly drooling Lucy was still rapidly chattering to Derek who sweeping past his rust blonde hair with a pale caring driving hand laughed and responded back about the dreamily pretend sex with Sally Dresser.

They bellowed with laughter as Zack mentioned he wanted to nibble, nibble ‘’a sheared nip of Sally’s pubic hair’’.

The old Chevrolet bumped up beneath an old swaying oak tree. Tied to it’s obese rough branch was a rotting chair attached to chains rusted to a shade of beet red.

‘’Holy shit!’’ Derek cried as parking beside the old swing chair he heard a terribly loud groan erupt out the chair that now softly collided with his side of the window.

He got out.

Soft wind blew at his brazen hair. His intensely set crinkling swirls of blue that coloured his interested eyes swept across the surrounding land he now stood on.

Miles of haggardly pines circled the village on top dull blue mountains made up of aging black oaks. The village it self was like the middle ages. Soft sandy dirt based beneath Derek’s high bottomed brown Engineer boots; swaying dark green trees tall as buildings rooted thickly to the sand dirt was carelessly growing in between the triangular square cabins. The trees grew on the big patch of empty sandy land where Derek, his pals and their hot rods slept on.

Derek without turning back to join his friends who, Zack was grunting getting the big ice box out the back compartment,