The Slob

The plan we settled on was about the best we could do considering our environmental limitations. Convincing The Slob that something even more dastardly than anything he’d done to us had occurred was the only way we presumed that he’d drop his guard. Creating a scene worse than our reality was the biggest challenge. Sandra and I had utilized some of the dishes that had been left in the room and the bone on the floor to bring our plot to life.

We scraped the bone against the side of the dresser and refined it to a point where it was a little sharper than we even expected to get it. Then we each cut ourselves as carefully as we could and squeezed our blood into a cup and a bowl that he’d left behind. We both thought the wrist might be a good place to gash. We could get a good blood flow and it would be easier to wrap up once we wanted to stop the bleeding.

It would have been nice to take advantage of some of the blood that had already been painfully drawn out of me. However, the stuff sitting inside the vacuum wouldn’t provide the effect we’d envisioned. When I examined it, I noted that it was far too watery.

Also, I’m not so sure Sandra would have been comfortable having the mixture of my blood along with that of my dead baby drizzled all over her. So, instead, we bled separately and sat with torn pieces of my used T-shirt patched upon us to help our wounds begin to coagulate.

Next, we took turns stirring our blood with the bone, I used one end and she used the other. We had to avoid letting it dry out and crust like it had on the floor and mattress. It needed to look fresh. It needed to look realistic. We needed to create the illusion that we’d turned on each other, and make our own little violent murder scene. But it would have to be staged in a believable manner. The Slob was a man who had seen a lot of bleeding and slaughter. We hoped our fresh blood would be enough to make it feel authentic.

We sat there for hours stirring our fluids on eggshells, just waiting to hear his footsteps, ready to spring into action. The tension was suffocating and we both knew if our plan didn’t work, we would most likely be annihilated. The only thing we could do to calm ourselves was to whisper back and forth, exchange some casual banter and try to pretend like the situation was a smidge less absurd than it actually was.

“So, you’re married?” Sandra inquired, gawking at the sparkle still wound around my finger.

“Yeah, we moved kind of fast. When I met Daniel, everything just seemed to fall into place. The house, the marriage, the baby…” I said, trailing off. It was like I’d almost forgotten about it for a moment and then the cutting reminder resurfaced. It made me feel like a bad person but I tried not to dwell and be strong. “I just miss him so much. I’d give anything to be back in our bed holding each other. He’s probably driving himself crazy thinking about me right now. Wondering where the hell I am.”

“I’ve never been married, I’m single. I’ll probably be single forever now,” Sandra replied with her own pitiful rendition of how shitty things had become. She solemnly looked at her lipless face and exposed teeth in the mirror hanging from the closet door. Her excruciatingly peeled and crinkly scalp was equally as hideous. Go big or go home, I thought, but still wanted to be supportive.

“Doctors can do some really amazing things now. I wouldn’t say the situation is completely hopeless,” I tried to add a minor inflection of positivity.

“The mortician is more likely to be the next doctor I’ll be seeing, or is it the coroner? You know what I mean… I’m not sure how I’m still alive, the pain is piercing but it seems like it should be worse. I just feel like I’m in some kind of permanent shock…”

I felt similar, it seemed miraculous that I was even able to function. My education told me that it was the adrenaline coursing through my system that was dulling my senses. We were both immersed and consumed by the survival mode we’d snapped into. But in time, that would eventually fade and the anguish of the brutality we’d endured would shine through.

I didn’t dare say that out loud, instead, I shifted the discussion away from our grim reality, “How did you even get here?”

“It was a night like most others for me. I was meeting some friends at this bar Olive’s I like to hang out at and I got there a little early. It’s not far from work, so sometimes I just grab a seat by myself until everyone arrives. I remember being there… I remember ordering an old-fashioned…” she explained, really digging to recall everything she could.

“You know, it might seem odd, but with all the madness around here, I haven’t really had a moment to think about it yet.” She handed over the bone to me so I could stir my bowl of blood.

“I do remember talking to someone… Yes, he was a really good-looking guy. He was funny and cute so I was really excited to be talking to him. I can’t seem to recall his name though… He had gray hair but was young, more salt than pepper. I remember asking him if he dyed it but he just laughed at me. And that was it, I can’t really remember anything else. I guess it doesn’t really matter how I got here. It only matters if we can somehow get out of here.”

“Well, I think we’re about to find out,” I yipped with a profound nervousness, suddenly nearly suffocating my words. The creaking of the stairs started up again and we both knew it was go-time. “That’s him, let’s go,” I whispered in a commanding tone.

We each moved like silent lightning, positioning ourselves in the best death poses we could remember from our practices. I crafted a strategic cut around my throat that looked really nasty but, in reality, wasn’t threatening in the least. I poured the blood all over my neck in the sliced area and rolled the cup under the dresser and out of sight.

Sandra had whittled the bone to a size where it fit perfectly into her earhole without puncturing anything important. She inserted the bone, plugging up her ear canal. Then she filled the entire orifice with blood and doused the side of her body and floor underneath.

The footsteps continued to close in on us, The Slob’s morbid obesity resonating under the weight of his sickening stride behind the wooden frame. The mere sound of his movement pushed my beating chest to a stressful thrashing it hadn’t felt previously.

They were now so close, they felt like they were on top of us. Sandra alertly threw her bowl underneath the bed and we both did our best to stop the blood from dripping down too much. Excessive movement would make things look a little too recent, gravity was not our friend in that moment.

The frightful sound we’d been rapidly conditioned to fear of the door unlocking echoed in my mind as the handle turned. I closed my eyes; it was the only way I thought I’d be able to pull it off.

What came next, I could only hear. My imagination was in overdrive conjuring the most pulse-pounding visuals. My heart was now pumping so manically I was afraid The Slob might notice the rattle inside me. I tried to meditate and control it as best I could.

I pushed myself to concentrate and think positively, praying that it somehow translated from my mind to reality like a wizard’s spell. At the very least, I hoped it would be able to calm me and keep my body still. I was aching to unleash a barrage of unrestrained tremors and teetering on starting to shake violently, but somehow, I found the strength to control it.

I heard the heavy footsteps dragging over the rug closer to me. They hesitated right when it felt like they were on top of me. I pictured his offset eyes looking down at me but also away from me. His massive foot kicked me in a primitive manner, as if that was an adequate way to validate if someone was dead or alive.

The footsteps carried away from me over to the area where Sandra had dropped herself. Again, I heard a couple of stiff kicks, nothing too sophisticated. After more contemplation, I started to hear a dragging noise. I couldn’t be sure, but if I had to guess, I’d have assumed that he was pulling Sandra’s body away. The sound continued to carry away from me, and to my relief, just as we had hoped, he didn’t close the door behind him.

I heard the body thump on each step of the staircase, he must’ve been dragging her downstairs. Once the noise had dissipated, I opened an eyelid in a way that was so subtle that it required a keen eye to be noticed. No one was near me and the door was wide open and calling to me. It was time to make a move. I retrieved the keys from under the mattress, we’d chosen to leave them there since we didn’t know which one of us might be left behind.

Sandra actually had a handgun at home. While she lived in the city, she was raised on a farm and was comfortable shooting rifles and almost any kind of firearm. If we could have picked how things would play out, we would’ve had The Slob take me instead. Her shooting experience would’ve given us a valuable advantage. We couldn’t afford a rookie mistake, so I hoped I’d be a natural.

I was taking a handful of verbal tips she’d given me about how to handle, load, aim, and shoot a gun that we’d discussed together while we were mapping everything out. And if I couldn’t remember any of that, I’d just be doing my best Arnold Schwarzenegger impression. Hopefully, it didn’t come to that.

I clenched the keys aggressively, pinning them against my palm to ensure they weren’t able to move around or jingle as I quietly tiptoed out of the room. I was almost glad that I was only wearing my torn Billy Idol T-shirt; the less clothing, the less racket. Billy’s face never looked so horrific. I couldn’t decide who’s was worse, his or mine.

The normally creaky steps didn’t seem to be an issue. I stuck toward the edges using the railings. I cautiously minimized any weight I applied and made it to the bottom without creating a stir. I must’ve hit all the right spots, go figure, maybe today was my day, I thought. I gazed down at my blood-stained hands and they now looked like a coal miner’s mitts. I must’ve scooped every speck of dust and grime off the mucky railings on the way down.

Suddenly, I remembered that Sandra was with that animal. I didn’t have time to digest the gritty details or be disgusted. I transferred my attention to the array of locks on the front door for a moment, debating if I should try the other keys. On the off-chance one of the keys did open it, I’d be leaving Sandra behind. Deep down, I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I had to get to the gun case.

I could hear some grunting coming from down the hall to the left of the staircase, which was the best I could’ve hoped for. It was the opposite direction to the parlor. I moved onward without a second thought. I hadn’t noticed it when I came in, but the case was right where Sandra said it would be. Against the far wall, near the fireplace, below the boar’s head.

I finally relinquished the death-grip on the keys in my hand, being careful not to make a peep as I pinched my fingers around the jade metal. I looked up at the wooden and glass case which had a green felt backing like a pool table. The key color made a little more sense as I gingerly inserted it into the lock. What the case was made from was irrelevant though, all that mattered was the killing device inside it.

There were no choices, only a single pump-action shotgun and a crumpled box of shells beneath it. Thankfully, this was a gun that I’d discussed with Sandra. With us being held captive on a farm, we thought it might be one of the more likely weapons to be present. I loaded it with the shells until I couldn’t anymore; it took six of them.

As gradually as possible, I pumped the handle and ejected a shell casing onto the floor. I peeled back the safety just as she told me. Apparently, she’d given excellent instructions. I was ecstatic that everything was as simple as she explained. I just hoped that she would get to enjoy the fruits of our labor, I hoped that The Slob hadn’t found out she was still alive…

For a moment, I felt like I was in a movie, except no one in the movies walked around naked with guns, at least not the kind of movies I was picturing. Once I was in front of the stairs again, I could hear the grunting start to pick up. It sounded like an agitated gorilla was pounding on something and wheezing. This was not a sound I would ever find myself venturing toward under any other circumstance.

It was still drifting out from the bedroom behind the stairs. There was a tiny slice of light creeping into the gloomy room through the mostly covered windows. I made sure to watch my shadow dancing on the walls so it didn’t distract him from his actions on the bed. I tried to keep my gun steady but there was a bit of a tremble in my arms. As I got a little closer, my angle changed and I was able to see the offensive exhibition that was unfolding.

The Slob’s ass was the first thing I noticed; it was so massive, you couldn’t miss it. It had more craters than a nuclear test zone and matching sores and blisters like someone who chose to live in one. His perspiration glistened off of it between the patches of curly overgrown hair. His minuscule penis was barely hard, it pathetically continued to slip in and out of Sandra’s puckering vagina.

The penetration was almost entirely overshadowed by the abnormal growth that looked far too substantial to be his scrotum. The sack looked more like an enormous tumor or cluster of cysts than a pair of nuts. It was so vast that each time he pumped into her he had to invest energy to drag the chafed orb over his sad sordid sheets.

I could tell it was her from the lips, they were still sewn on but were being split so aggressively it was hard to watch. The Slob had chosen the missionary position and, because he was leaning a bit forward, I could see both of their private areas clearly. The irritated unnaturally affixed flesh was starting to loosen up and gash open. It didn’t seem like it was capable of hanging on much longer.

I was impressed with how convincing of a job Sandra had done playing dead. I wanted to stop the torture for her as soon as possible. My only reservation was that the gun I had wasn’t particularly targeted from what she explained to me. Shotguns usually send out a spray fire and my fear was that my inexperience might injure Sandra in the process of trying to save the day, or worse…

I decided the best approach would be to crouch down low and sneak up from behind as close as I could without him noticing me. He seemed possessed by the moment and gluttonous pleasure that his assault was providing him. Once I was positioned below him, I could angle up and keep the shot away from Sandra.

The first step that I took I could hear, but apparently, the grunt machine didn’t. After a few more, I was almost at his back. Feeling I was close enough, I squared the gun in a way that I felt would cause it to project upward through his neck and head while not endangering Sandra. Was I ever wrong…

If—and at the time, it didn’t seem like a big if—everyone continued as they were, the plan would’ve executed flawlessly. But I guess God likes lemonade because as my finger launched itself toward the trigger, Sandra rocketed up off the mattress. She extracted the bloody sharpened bone from her earhole and drove the polished white point into The Slob’s eye. A crimson flood rushed out and down his face as he shrieked.

His massive, flabby body fell backward into me as the shell blew out. But when the gun went off, it wasn’t in front of The Slob’s face anymore, it was in front of Sandra’s. As if her head hadn’t been through the wringer enough over the past couple of weeks, this was the vile cherry on top. There was no coming back from such a catastrophic blast. Her entire upper and lower jaw left the skull and splattered against the wall.

Her left eye was also absent, but what confirmed that it was over for her was when I looked at her neck. All the tissue and most of the spine was gone, leaving a gaping hole. The disproportionate heights of the flesh looked like it had been eaten away by acid. She stayed sitting up for another couple of seconds before her spine snapped, tipping her head back behind her right shoulder. I felt an instant regret and dread, followed by a sickening envy. Her agony was over at least. Mine still felt like it had just begun.

The shotgun had fallen to the floor when The Slob’s blubbery frame crushed me. He ripped the bone out of his eye socket and, inadvertently, also his eyeball. It sat like a meatball at the end of a curved fork. He displayed rare emotion. Throughout all the moments of mayhem I’d seen him inflict, he never appeared angry, just wicked. His anger was true as he screamed and began to pound my already distorted face again unmercifully.

Like some depraved rerun repeating over and over, I was once again on the verge of the darkness traveling in and out of consciousness. His drippings continued to fall upon me. As his blood and frothing saliva rained over my ravaged face, it all went black.