Skin & Bones

By Dana C. Kabel

From a host of bestselling and award-winning authors come the stories from the darkest corners of their imaginations featuring one of the most abhorrent acts of mankind; cannibalism!

Throughout history, human beings have feasted on human flesh. Whether it was to survive starvation or to horrify their enemies or to satisfy their own deranged urges, people have eaten other people for centuries.

Skin & Bones features stories by Patricia Abbott, Charles Ardai, Lawrence Block, Joe Clifford, Angel Luis Colón, Bill Crider, Glenn Gray, Tim Hall, Rob Hart, Tess Makovesky, Terrence McCauley, Marietta Miles, Richie Narvaez, Stuart Neville, Thomas Pluck, Ryan Sayles, S.A. Solomon, Jason Starr, Liam Sweeny, Dave Zeltserman, and Dana C. Kabel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Nov 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463124222

Book preview

SKIN & BONES

Dana C. Kabel, Editor

Compilation Copyright © 2018 by Dana C. Kabel

Individual Story Copyrights by Respective Authors except

Among the Anthropophagi by Bill Crider previously published as an ebook original

Fruit of the Human Vine by Ryan Sayles previously appeared in Let Me Put My Stories in You

Hunting and Fishing in the Keys by Patricia Abbott previously appeared on Mysterical-E

Sometimes They Bite by Lawrence Block previously appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine

The Cronus Club by Thomas Pluck previously appeared in Life During Wartime and Other Stories

The Meat by Joe Clifford previously appeared in Choice Cuts

The Meatpacking District by Rob Hart previously appeared on Shotgun Honey

They’ll Choke on Your Lies by Angel Luis Colón previously appeared in Meat City on Fire (and Other Assorted Debacles)

Three Men in a Tub by Charles Ardai previously appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine

All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design by Zach McCain

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Skin & Bones

Preface: The Curious Draw of Cannibalism

Dana C. Kabel

The Good Word

Stuart Neville

Three Men in a Tub

Charles Ardai

A No Brainer

Patricia Abbott

The Cronus Club

Thomas Pluck

Already Dead

Marietta Miles

Long Pig

Liam Sweeny

Jungle Rules-A Black Jack Devlin Story

Terrence McCauley

Fruit of the Human Vine

Ryan Sayles

Sweet

Dave Zeltserman

Rabbit Stew

Tess Makovesky

The Meat

Joe Clifford

Desquamation

Glenn Gray

Black Friday

Richie Narvaez

Malthusian Harvesting

Tim Hall & S.A. Solomon

Among the Anthropophagi

Bill Crider

The Last of Hank

Jason Starr

Sometimes They Bite

Lawrence Block

The Politician’s Last Prayer

Dana C. Kabel

The Meatpacking District

Rob Hart

They’ll Choke on Your Lies

Angel Luis Colón

About the Contributors

Preview from 101 by Tom Pitts

Preview from Thieves by Steven Max Russo

Preview from Gravy Train by Tess Makovesky

In memory of the late Bill Crider, a talented and prolific author who gave endless amounts of encouragement and advice to new writers.

The Curious Draw of Cannibalism

Dana C. Kabel

Cannibalism is a word that makes some people cringe with revulsion and other people giddy with morbid curiosity. Other people being primarily writers and fans of horror fiction. When I first mentioned the idea of a cannibal anthology to my writer friends, I had no shortage of volunteers. In fact, they jumped at the idea of penning a people eating story. To put it mildly, I was overwhelmed with the response to this project.

As taboo as modern society would consider the act of eating human flesh, most people I have mentioned the project to have reacted with a glassy-eyed fascination towards the subject matter. It makes me wonder if we have something programmed into our DNA that draws us to the idea with morbid curiosity, despite the fact that as civilized humans we should abhor the very thought. Or maybe I just happen to associate with a lot of deranged people.

Perhaps that fascination comes from the fact that our ancestors ate human flesh from the time they could walk on two feet and bludgeon their enemies with a rock. From then on cannibalism became an act of ceremony. People devoured the remains of their deceased loved ones as a part of the grieving process. Some primitive tribes believed they kept the spirits of their departed ones alive within themselves by consuming them.

In tribal wars, the fallen enemies were consumed as both a celebration of victory and as an act to strike terror in the hearts of their enemies. For many years this was a normal way of life for the human race. But when cannibalism is mentioned today, most people tend to think of horrific incidents such as a Donner party scenario where starving people who are stranded in the wilds are forced to live off the flesh of their friends or relatives to survive. Or serial killers like Jeffrey Dahmer, who harvested body parts in his refrigerator for convenient consumption.

In the animal kingdom, so many of our fellow carnivores eat their own species that it is almost strange that we do not. Pigs, lions, chimpanzees and cats are just a few of the mammals that are known to eat their own young offspring. And praying mantises and some species of spiders practice sexual cannibalism, where the insect devours its mate immediately after copulation. In most cases it is the female that eats the male. Fortunately sexual cannibalism is not known to occur in the human species. I’m pretty sure I would be celibate if I had to worry about my mate slicing my head off and devouring me in the wake of a roll in the sheets as the praying man-tis does.

Please don’t think that I am trying to campaign for the re-introduction of human cannibalism into our modern society. Thankfully, I feel a natural revulsion at the thought of homo sapien delicacy. As this project developed, I did some deep esoteric thinking on the subject. I went through a troubling period of self-discovery in which I became abhorred by the overwhelming amount of graphic violence that I have been reading, watching and writing about for several years. I began to feel a lot of guilt for being a purveyor of violence and wondered about the dark side of my character makeup. What kind of a person am I to be drawn to such disturbing subject matter?

Then I began to realize that there is all kinds of violence in this world and when we expose it for what it is through our art, we give ourselves the opportunity to examine it and expel it through our stories and try to understand why some people do the horrific things that they do. It also caused me to take a scrutinizing look at how we indulge our extravagant hungers.

This led me to the belief that human cannibalism is alive and well and thriving in modern society. On a metaphysical plane, of course.

Look at how we treat our fellow human beings today. Our society is rampant with greed and gluttony, while 850 MILLION people are starving throughout the world. Con-sider the irony of a wealthy actress like Sally Struthers in those commercials for Save the Children. Sally stood in an African village surrounded by starving kids while she basically told us that if we didn’t donate twenty dollars a month to the cause those kids would die. In the meantime the head of that organization at that time, James Bausch, was making $300,000 per year.

I couldn’t find any information on Sally’s profits from those commercials, save the words that she wasn’t paid directly from Save the Children. In fact, other actors such as Scott Bakula, James Garner, Brooke Shields and some others took no money from the charity for their appearances, but were paid by their Hollywood publicists to appear in the commercials according to The Chicago Tribune.

I’m not trying to pick on Sally or the other celebrities for their humanitarian efforts to help this worthy cause. Nor would I dissuade anyone with charity in their hearts to donate to such an organization, because they do help people in need. The idea behind their public pleas for donations is that people are more likely to donate when they are asked to do so by a celebrity. It is a theory that holds weight when you consider that the charity’s donations jumped from twenty-nine million dollars in 1976 to one hundred three million by 1991. But the fact remains that our society pours billions of dollars a year into the entertainment industry. We have an obscenely gluttonous budget for the casual luxury of movie watching while 12.9 percent of our world population is starving to death.

Our society’s general indifference towards world hunger amounts to a kind of cannibalism in my mind. While some of us feast heartily on our dubious luxuries, children are dying because they simply don’t have enough to eat. As a human race, our moral priorities are pretty messed up.

As long as we continue to stuff ourselves full with entertainment, bigger houses and flashier cars at the same time human beings on our planet are gasping their last breath be-cause of a lack of nutrients, we are cannibalizing our own race.

I’m not imploring anyone to stop going to the movies, buying DVDs or—God forbid—buying books. But rather to consider whether any human being is worth being paid thirty million dollars a year to act in a couple of movies. Our most popular athletes make fifty to one hundred million dollars per year for playing games. Our highest paid CEOs make be-tween twenty-seven and ninety-tight million dollars per year. And though our lawmakers make considerably less money than our entertainers, should we really be paying them a hundred and seventy thousand dollars a year when the median U.S. salary is but a third of that? Just some food for thought…pun intended.

So please turn forward and enjoy these tasty morsels of dark delicacy and don’t feel guilty about the money you shelled out to indulge in a bit of morbid entertainment; most of us working Joes and Jills work hard enough at what we do to reward ourselves with the few luxuries we can afford. Just be grateful that you’re that you’re fortunate enough to be in a position to buy rather than to beg.

Bon appétit,

Dana C. Kabel

Back to TOC

The Good Word

Stuart Neville

Ivan Cutler woke with the woman’s hand still in his…but cold now. He squeezed, felt the bones under her skin, the joints now stiffening.

He sat up on the bed. The stubby brown chloroform bottle rolled as the mattress shifted, the handkerchief alongside it. He’d needed two doses to get to sleep last night. His blood had been up.

The pillow still lay on the woman’s face, a handprint around the size of Ivan’s upon it. She hadn’t struggled much when his weight bore down on her. Hardly any fight in her at all. Then they had lain down together and slept, both of them fully clothed. Ivan was a man of God, after all.

What was her name again? Oh, yes. Mrs. McCausland.

Ivan found his shoes at the side of the bed, put them on, and went down the hall to the kitchen. A nice, homey little cottage nestled between the hills of the countryside. Just the sort of place he liked. Quiet, no one around.

Cheese and bread from last night’s meal lay on the table, next to Ivan’s weathered bible and the small caliber rifle. He sat and had some breakfast, even though he wasn’t particularly hungry. He barely noticed Mr. McCausland in the armchair by the fire, a small blackened hole in the center of his forehead, his mouth agape.

Once he’d eaten, Ivan went back to the bedroom and found Mr. McCausland’s razor. He filled a bowl of water and shaved at the dressing table mirror. Then he dressed in his good suit.

There. That felt better.

He fetched his large canvas bag from the Vauxhall Victor he had taken three months ago from a grocer in Sligo. It was a sparkling new 1958 model, barely five hundred miles on the clock. He had changed the plates once he crossed the border back into Northern Ireland. A good car. The grocer would have missed it had he been alive.

Ivan toured the cottage, stuffing anything that seemed of value into his bag; a few ornaments, the couple’s wedding rings, a faded photograph in a silver frame. And there, under the bed, in a shoebox, was exactly what he’d hoped for: rolls of money. All pound and shilling notes. He quickly leafed through the cash; a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds.

Praise the Lord, Ivan said, stuffing the money into his bag.

He stood to leave, but something caught his eye.

Mrs. McCausland’s skirt.

He reached down and straightened the hem.

Ivan did not like to leave things untidy.

He went from room to room one last time, ensuring that he’d left no traces of himself. His last act was to prop the rifle in Mr. McCausland’s grip. As if he had turned the gun on himself.

Well, people would say, he must have gone mad. Killed his wife then committed suicide; tragic, really.

And they would tut and hiss through their teeth, and some, if they were papists, would cross themselves as they shook their heads.

Ivan stopped at the door to the yard, his car gleaming in the morning light. He looked back into the cottage, one last check to make sure.

He liked everything just so.

Ivan drove the country roads all day long before he saw the smoke ribboning up between the fields, the telltale lick of a farmhouse chimney. He slowed the car, looked all around.

No one for miles.

He drove further, found the lane leading to the house.

So isolated. So perfect.

Hens and a cockerel scattered as he drove into the yard, a collection of outbuildings on one side, a cottage on the other.

Perfect, Ivan said.

He shut off the engine and got out of the car. Chickens bucked and bawed at him as he crossed to the cottage door.

Ivan knocked twice; good hard raps.

Who’s that? a voice called.

Ivan replied, Hello?

Da’s in the big shed if you’re looking for something. It was a woman’s voice.

Perfect, Ivan thought.

There’s no beef left, she said, but there’s pig and chucks.

Hello? he called again.

Heavy impatient footsteps, then the door opened inward. A sturdy woman stood there, perhaps forty years of age, ruddy cheeks, good teeth for a farmer.

There’s no beef left, she said. There’s only pig and chucks. Go on over to the big shed. Da’ll sort you out.

Ivan gave her the softest of smiles. I don’t need any beef, he said.

We’ve no beef left, she said, her countenance remaining firm. Pig and chucks. And maybe a wean o’ eggs. But that’s all.

Ivan allowed his smile to broaden. I mean, I don’t need any food.

She folded her arms across her chest, her patience visibly grinding away. Then what do you want?

Ivan moved closer, one foot on her step. I want one thing, and one thing only…to share the good word.

He raised his hand, showed her his worn bible. He held it to his chest, face out. The word laid down by our Father, the Gospel of my savior, the Lord Jesus Christ. Tell me, Mrs.…

She looked from the bible back to his face.

Mrs.?

Taggart, she said.

Mrs. Taggart. His cheeks began to hurt. Tell me, Mrs. Taggart, are you a believer? Have you taken the Lord Jesus as your savior?

She sighed, and the tension melted from her stance.

Long ago, she said. But I’m not one for talking about our savior on doorsteps. You better come in.

She moved aside, allowed him to enter.

Thank you, Mrs. Taggart, Ivan said as he stepped past her.

You can call me Ma, she said. Everyone else does.

Ivan’s gaze toured the room, his brain taking an inventory as it went, noting items of value. Not much, as it happened.

And is there a Mr. Taggart? he asked.

Da. He’s in the big shed.

Your father?

Ma laughed. Dear bless us, no, my father’s dead this twenty years. My husband. We’ve called each other Ma and Da since I don’t know when.

Ivan smiled again, and nodded. I see. My grandparents used to do the same.

Aye, I suppose it’s auld fashioned nowadays.

Sometimes the old ways are the best.

Ma wagged a finger at him. "That’s right. That’s what I keep saying. They wanted us to put the electric in here to the house. But I says, no, I’m not having wires in my walls. I’ll stick with my oil lamps. No one knows what that electric does to you.

Sure, there’s wee Mrs. Convery down the road, she got the electric in, next thing you know she has the cancer in her teats.

The urge to laugh crept up on Ivan, but he smothered it with a hand over his lips, imitating an expression of shock. He had become adept at feeling one thing, showing another.

Get away with you, he said.

I’m telling you, Ma said. She’s dead and buried a year now.

Ivan shook his head, tut-tutted, furrowing his brow by just the correct amount. I hope she knew the Lord Jesus, he said, clutching his bible to his chest.

Aye, she did.

Well, that’s a mercy, isn’t it?

Aye, it is. Her face softened. Here, you’ll take a wee cup of tea.

Ivan raised his free hand in protest. Och, I wouldn’t trouble you.

Sure, I’ve water heating anyway.

Well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble.

Not at all. She waved at the table. Go on, sit down.

Ivan took a seat and set the bible down beside a large bowl of freshly peeled potatoes. Another bowl of skins sat alongside it. His head filled with the earthy, starchy smell.

Ma fetched a tea caddy from a shelf and set about scooping leaves into a pot.

A small knife lay on the tablecloth, its blade smeared white with potato residue. Ivan lifted it, tested the edge with his thumb, hissed as it drew a line of tiny red beads from his skin. He brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked the blood away.

One thing you won’t find in this house is a blunt knife, Ma said, watching him from the stove. Da keeps them all like razors. You could shave with that there.

Ivan swallowed the metallic tang. Is that right?

Ma set two mugs on the table. He makes his living with his knives, just like his father did, and his father before that. They were all butchers. Da got trained up cutting meat for the prisons. Crumlin Road and Armagh.

It’s a good trade, Ivan said.

She poured deep red-brown liquid through a strainer into each mug.

It keeps us going. We rear some cattle ourselves, and you saw the chucks out in the yard, and some of the local farmers bring their animals to us for butchering. Keeps him busy. Milk?

Ivan nodded, and she poured milk from a jug.

And what do you do yourself? she asked.

Ivan put the knife down and lifted the bible.

This. I spread the good word.

Ma sat, lifted her own mug to her lips.

Are you a minister or a pastor or something?

No, Ivan said. A missionary.

She put her mug down, sat back, eyebrows raised.

What, you mean going to Africa, preaching to the darkies?

Ivan gave her his most sincere look.

Every man, woman and child deserves to hear the good word, don’t you think?

Och, I know, but Africa…

And India, Ivan said, And South America, and China, and Korea. I’ve brought the good word to black men, brown men, yellow men, red men, and any other shade of man you can imagine.

All them places, Ma said. My goodness. Me and Da went to Blackpool one time. On our honeymoon. We had to get the boat.

Ivan changed course. So you sell the meat from here? Like a shop?

He imagined coins and loose banknotes changing hands, felt a small spark of excitement inside.

Sort of, Ma said. Da works in the big shed. You’ll have seen it when you drove up. He sells the meat from there. That’s where he does the butchering too.

Ivan had indeed seen the big shed. A long and low structure, walls and roof made from corrugated iron. He pictured the inside, carcasses suspended from hooks, sides of meat laid out on marble slabs. He imagined Da toiling there, money in a tin box, and…who else?

All by himself? Ivan asked.

Wee Danny Toal from up the way comes and helps the odd time. He’s the other sort, but he’s a decent enough young fella.

Another person, Ivan thought. That could be troublesome, even if it was only a boy.

Is he here today?

No, he’d be in school today.

Ivan nodded. So just you and your husband, then.

A crease appeared on Ma’s brow, and she looked at him a little more closely.

Ivan put a hand on her forearm, gave her a comforting smile. Oh, all I mean is, you haven’t been blessed with children. I didn’t want to come right out and ask in case it upset you.

She looked down at his hand. Her eyelids flickered, and the crease on her brow faded. She let out a lungful of air.

No, she said, shaking her head. No, we weren’t blessed. I did pray for things to be different, so did Da, but the Lord had His own plans for us. What about yourself?

Ah, now, the question he had been asked so often.

No, he said. My wife and I did intend to have a family, but she…

Ivan let the words trail off as he took his hand away from Ma’s arm, looked down at his finger, and rubbed the spot where a wedding band might have been.

Ma leaned in close, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes wide.

She what?

Ivan swallowed, looked away, looked back.

She perished, he said.

Och no, how?

Ivan closed his eyes, gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, and opened them again.

Malaria, he said. When we were in India.

Ma’s lower lip trembled. Och, I’m awful sorry.

Ivan inhaled, straightened his back, nodded.

She gave her life to the Lord Jesus, he said. She died spreading the good word for Him. I will see her by His side when the time comes.

Ma reached for his hand, squeezed it, her eyes brimming.

Aye, you will. You will in soul.

She pronounced it sowl, common as she was.

Ivan swallowed again to suppress a laugh. It worked every time, this wife nonsense. Every single time.

Ma’s face brightened.

Here, she said, you’ll stay for dinner, won’t you?

There we go, Ivan thought.

Oh, no, I couldn’t, he said. I don’t want to impose.

She squeezed his hand tighter and said, You’re imposing nothing. You’re staying, and that’s that. I’ll be annoyed if you don’t.

She sat back, a hint of sinful pride on her face, twining her fingers with his.

We’re having veal, she said.

Ivan’s stomach responded, a quiet grumble she couldn’t possibly have heard. Veal? he echoed.

Aye. A grin burst from her. Da butchered a bullock just this morning. You don’t get that every day, do you? You’ll stay for a bit of veal, won’t you?

Well, it does sound—

Ivan felt the draught of cold air before he heard the door slam against the wall. He looked up, saw the broad man filling the doorway. Sleeves rolled up, blood spattered on his forearms and apron, a brown paper package in one hand, a long a vicious looking knife in the other. Ivan felt the man’s gaze boring into him, but he did not avert his eyes. He remained locked there until Ma spoke.

Are you all done, love? she asked.

The man—Da, obviously—took a step into the kitchen.

Aye, he said. What’s this?

Ma looked down, realized her hand still held Ivan’s. She let go and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

We’ve a visitor, she said. Mr.…

She looked at Ivan, confusion breaking on her face. You never told me your name.

Ivan stood, extended his hand toward Da. Ivan, he said. Ivan Cutler. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Taggart.

Da kicked the door closed behind him. He approached the table, dropped the package on it, revealing the freshly butchered meat inside. He placed the knife alongside it, then raised his right hand toward Ivan’s.

Ivan went to take it in his, but stopped short when he noticed the blood caked on Da’s fingers, beneath his nails, in the creases of his skin. His hand suspended in the air between them, he looked up to Da’s impassive face.

I…uh…

A broad grin split Da’s features.

I near caught you red-handed, he said before a laugh erupted from his belly. Ma giggled, brought a hand to her mouth.

I should’ve told you about Da, she said between snorts. He’s a one.

Da whipped his hand up, his fingers aloft, his palm out, like a policeman stopping traffic. Ivan tried not to flinch.

Look, Da said. The Red Hand of Ulster.

Ma cackled and hooted, unable to contain herself any longer. Oh, don’t get him started…he’ll have you in fits!

She got up from the table, still giggling, went to the stove and filled a bowl with warm water. She brought it, along with a bar of soap and a towel, back to the table. Da set about scrubbing his hands and arms, bloody water spilling onto the wood.

Is that tea? Da asked.

Aye, Ma said. I’ll get you a cup now. Sit down, Ivan.

Ivan did as he was told, keeping his attention on Da.

He’s a missionary, Ma said, as if Ivan couldn’t hear her.

Da studied Ivan for a moment. Is that right?

That’s right, Ivan said.

Where’ve you been? Da asked.

Ivan gestured with his hands to take in the entire world. Oh, Africa, India, South America, China, you name a place, I’ve been…

Borneo, Da said.

Ivan hesitated, unsure if a challenge had just been made, his mind scrambling through the pages of the