A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre: Halloween Is Going to Be Jealous

SOUTHERN FRIED CRUELTY

by Matt Kurtz

Trench pulled the white cargo van into an area of the factory’s parking lot that wasn’t consumed by weeds.

“We’re here, gentlemen,” he said, staring into the review mirror.

Silence.

Only the full moon above and the van’s headlights pierced the darkness of the dilapidated textile plant. Trench climbed from the vehicle and moved to its rear, gravel crunching underfoot. He swung the doors open and stared inside. A smile spread across his face.

Three men lay unconscious on the scuffed metal floor. Their wrists were handcuffed behind their backs, ankles heavily duct-taped, and mouths gagged with cloth. Their various attires ranged from a wife-beater and jeans to a trucker’s ball cap and shorts to only a ratty pair of underwear briefs (soiled with a shit-stain). All lay next to one another, their heads just shy of the open door.

Trench couldn’t help but think how easy it would be to slide the unconscious men forward and hang their heads over the bumper…then just slam the doors with all his might. He didn’t think it would decapitate them but he knew it would, at the very least, crack their heads open like ripe melons.

No, that’d be too simple. Granted, he had a strict schedule with plenty of jobs throughout the day, but he absolutely refused to do any of them half-assed, especially the first one of the bunch. Besides, it had been made very clear to Trench that these gentlemen needed to be fully aware of what was happening to them (much like their victims, who had been completely conscious).

Trench retrieved an ammonia inhalant from his pocket, cracked it, and waved it under their noses. “Rise and shine.”

The men sprung awake, grimacing from the pungent smell. Their bloodshot eyes widened even more upon the realization that they were bound and gagged. They stared at one another then up at their captor.

Trench grabbed Wife-Beater and pulled him out, letting him drop to the ground unaided. With arms bound behind his back, the man landed on his collar bone and let out a muffled cry. He rolled over and stared up with a look that read: Why would you do that?

“Oh, I’m sorry, hoss,” Trench said. “Am I treatin’ ya…inhumanely?”

Wife-Beater’s eyes bulged from their sockets over Trench’s choice of words.

Trench shot him a wink then turned back to the van. “C’mon, fellas. Out ya go.” He grabbed Trucker-Cap and dumped him like a bag of trash.

Shit-Stain was the last out, hitting the gravel where he trembled uncontrollably. It might have been from the man’s lack of clothing on such a chilly night or the mere fact that Shit-Stain was scared shitless. Whatever the case, Trench couldn’t give a rat’s ass as to why the guy was vibrating. He had a job to do.

Trench hooked a hand under Shit-Stain’s armpit and dragged the man toward a cement wall built to protect a power transformer at the far end of the lot. His bare kneecaps scraped across the rough gravel which elicited screams of pain. Then the man really wailed passing over the broken beer bottle that Trench seemed to make a beeline for. He slid him to the wall, propping him upright in a seated position.

“Now you make sure you stay against this here wall. Don’t go wandering off. Understand?”

The man nodded with tears streaming down his face and blood down his dirt-caked legs.

Trench returned to the other two men and got them into position. Trucker-Cap was seated against an old oak in one of the lot’s crumbling tree boxes, his arms stretched backwards and manacled behind its thick trunk. A long heavy chain was looped around his neck and padlocked between two of its links, forming a steel noose. The other end of it was coiled into a neat pile on the ground beside him. Trench made sure the man’s sweat-stained cap was on tight by pulling its bill down and giving it a good shake.

Wife-Beater was left lying on his stomach in the middle of the gravel lot. Only now he had a thick steel chain threaded under his armpits and padlocked around his neck. And just like his buddy, the other end of his metal noose was arranged on the ground in a neat circular pile at the rear of the van.

Trench stepped dead center of the imaginary triangle formed by the placement of his prisoners.

“Now y’all are probably itchin’ to know why I pulled ya outta your homes at this time of night. Obviously if ya got half a brain in your head, you’d consider present company and what today’s date is as of midnight.” Trench paused and waited for a response.

They eyeballed one another then looked back at him in equal parts fear and confusion.

Trench exhaled. “Okay, fellas. Don’t it seem like an odd coincidence that we’re having ourselves a Woodson Poultry Plant employee reunion on World Animal Day?” He smiled and raised his arms. “Hell, we’re out here to celebrate the chicken!”

The men suddenly grew real fidgety, shaking their heads and mumbling behind their gags.

Trench held up his hand and they fell silent. “I know you all got shit canned after that video was leaked. Some might say that losing your job was punishment enough. Unfortunately for y’all, the people that hired me, who prefer to remain anonymous, don’t think so. But all that’s in the statement they provided.”

He unfolded a piece of paper and a pair of reading glasses, both removed from his interior coat pocket. “Sorry,” Trench said, appearing slightly embarrassed over the need for specs. “Can’t read shit without my cheaters.” He placed the glasses on the end of his nose and cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen…” He began to read the letter with very little inflection. “The August 15^th videotape released to the press from an undercover investigation showed evidence of you three completely failing to recognize that chickens are living sentient beings capable of feeling pain and distress.” Trench guffawed and looked up at the men. “Kinda funny this whole thing’s over a few maltreated yard birds, huh?”

They failed to see the humor in any of the proceedings.

Trench shrugged and continued reading. “This videotape depicts scenes of the worst cruelty we have ever witnessed against animals and it is extremely difficult to accept that this is occurring in the United States of America. These heinous acts that you perpetrated during shifts at the poultry plant included stomping on chickens, kicking them, and violently slamming them against floors and walls. Ripping the animals’ beaks off, twisting their heads off, spitting tobacco into their eyes and mouths, spray-painting their faces, and squeezing their bodies so hard that the birds expelled feces—all while the chickens were still alive. Although your employment with Woodson Poultry Plant was rightfully terminated, we feel justice has not been truly served. After deliberation between various groups, we, acting as judge and jury, hereby sentence you to a proper punishment as yet to be determined by your executioner…”

Trench paused and thumbed his chest. “That’d be me,” then continued, “…ahhh…where was I…? Oh…hereby sentence…proper punishment as yet to be determined by your executioner. We grant him complete creative freedom in his choice of retribution, as long as it takes into account the particular act of cruelty that you engaged.” Trench carefully folded the glasses and paper, returning both to his jacket pocket.

Shit-Stain, Wife-Beater, and Trucker-Cap all stared at him, wide-eyed, with bated breath. Trench strolled back to the van, passing Wife-Beater on the ground, not even giving the man a second glance.

“Now don’t get me wrong, boys.”

Trench stopped at the bumper and picked up the loose end of Wife-Beaters chain from its neatly arranged coil. “I ain’t some animal lover the way these people are. But I do hold the firm belief that ya never harm anything without having every intention of serving it up on your plate.” Trench fished in his coat pocket and produced another padlock. “Must admit though, I’ve never had a particular fondness for yard bird. More of a red meat type of guy.” Trench looped the chain around the trailer hitch and snapped the lock through its links, securing it to the van. “So let’s get this show on the road!”

Wife-Beater’s eyes widened in terror. He frantically shook his head and pleaded incoherently behind his gag.

Trench crouched beside the begging man. “You’re the one that likes to throw live chickens against the wall and spike ‘em like footballs, right?” Not waiting for a response, Trench turned and addressed the other two men. “Now, since I ain’t strong enough to throw this here fella against the wall the way he does chickens, I came up with a pretty ingenious solution. So you two check this out and tell me what ya think.”

Although he was tethered to the van, Wife-Beater flopped and tried to squirm in the opposite direction to get away.

Trench climbed into the vehicle and fired up the engine. The tailpipe blew a cloud of exhaust and dust over Wife-Beater. The tires spun, kicking up even more debris, and the van shot forward.

Wife-Beater climbed to his knees, pleading for the vehicle to stop. His bulging, bloodshot eyes shifted between the unspooling coil of chain and the van speeding away in the distance. He turned back to his buddies and saw the horror on their faces. Then his chain pulled taut and he was ripped from the ground, flying forward after the van. Dragged across the parking lot, he kicked up a cloud of dust and rocks. His muffled screams were overpowered by the roar of the van’s engine.

Shit-Stain squeezed his eyes shut and looked away. Trucker-Cap couldn’t; he continued to watch in absolute shock as the van made a wide U-turn. It eventually straightened out, racing directly for the brick wall that Shit-Stain was sitting against. Whether Wife-Beater was still being drug was open for debate since everything behind the van was completely concealed by the billowing dust cloud tinted red by the tail lights.

The van’s horn honked twice. Shit-Stain opened his eyes and saw the vehicle barreling toward him.

Smiling ear to ear, Trench hit the horn again and waved out the window. With ankles bound and hands cuffed behind his back, Shit-Stain wobbled to his feet to get out of the way. He hopped twice, lost his balance, and fell to the ground. His nostrils flaring, he attempted to climb to his feet again.

Trucker-Cap yelled at him to just roll out of the way but his gag made it sound like an old hound dog barking. Shit-Stain hopped once, tripped, and fell again. Before he could fail at a third attempt to flee, the van blew by and narrowly missed running him over.

The vehicle made a sharp right turn at the very last minute and skidded to a stop, parallel to the wall. The taut chain suddenly dropped to the ground and a red, white, and flesh-colored (flailing) projectile shot from the crimson dust cloud and slammed against the cement wall.

The impact splattered the object; half of it exploded into a pink mist while the rest painted the wall like a piece of art by Jackson Pollock. The chain’s links whipped against the cement with such force, they sent up a shower of sparks.

A bloody rain of bones, gristle, and brains descended over the immediate area, covering both man and machine.

“Holy shit!” Trench screamed from the van. “How’s that for a chicken toss?”

Turning on the windshield wipers to clear away the bloodstained brain matter and the single molar with a filling in it, Trench stuck his head out, honked the horn, and screamed again. “Abracadabra! Made that fucker disappear into thin air!” He jammed his foot on the gas and made another U-turn, aiming the vehicle at the remaining men.

Seeing the approaching headlights, Shit-Stain curled up in a ball and started to cry. The van swerved around him (dragging the chain with the blood-soaked sleeveless undershirt still tangled around its end) and skidded to a stop in front of the tree with Trucker-Cap. Leaving the engine running, Trench jumped out, unlocked the padlock around the trailer hitch, and dropped Wife-Beater’s bloody chain to the ground. He strutted over to the metal coil beside Trucker-Cap and grabbed the other end of his steel noose.

“This here’s dedicated to the one that pulls the heads off live chickens.” He winked at Trucker-Cap. “And there he is!” he said, playfully pointing at him.

Trucker-Cap frantically shook his head, the chain around his neck jingling like bells. Tears streamed down his puffing cheeks. Snot shot from his nose. He fought to break free from his restraints, his hands turning purple from pulling at the cuffs with such ferocity.

Trench ignored the man’s theatrics and padlocked the end of his chain to the trailer hitch.

While Trucker-Cap begged for his life and Trench returned behind the wheel, Shit-Stain gingerly climbed to his feet and started to hop in the opposite direction.

An engine roared. The van shot forward. The chain pulled tight.

And Trucker-Cap’s head ripped right off. His noggin was yanked away so fast that his ball cap simply dropped into his lap like it had been perched atop a balloon that had just been popped. A moment later, everything in the immediate vicinity of the tree was drenched in an arterial spray that shot from the corpse’s neck stump.

Shit-Stain refused to look back at the massacre. He kept hopping, hoping that if he didn’t fall there might be some chance he’d get away. Before he could get far, something round and hard, like an extra-large coconut, clobbered him over the head with a wet splat. He wobbled and stumbled to the ground. Both he and Trucker-Cap’s decapitated head landed in the dirt next to one another. Staring face to face with his buddy’s wide-eyed severed noggin, Shit-Stain began to vomit. Since his mouth was plugged with cloth, part of the puke shot up his nasal cavity and bubbled out his nose, while the rest forced itself back down his throat, choking him.

He was quickly rolled on his side. There was a flash of a blade then the cloth gag dropped away from his vomit filled mouth.

“Not gettin’ out that easy, hoss,” Trench said, holding an open Buck knife. He patted the man on the back like he was trying to burp a baby. “C’mon. Get it all out.”

Shit-Stain heaved, coughed, and hacked out the remaining vomit while its acid burned his nostrils and throat. With strands of snot and spittle hanging off his face, he looked up at Trench with watery, bloodshot eyes. “Please! Please, mister! They were chickens for Christ sake!”

While alternating the Buck knife from hand to hand, Trench carefully slipped on leather work gloves. “Don’t matter if it was only a cockroach, hoss” he said, waving the blade around. “I was hired to do a particular job and it’s time I finish it.”

“Oh, God! Please don’t!”

Trench crouched next to Shit-Stain and pointed the knife at his face.

“Now, you…you were the one guilty of tearing off them chicken beaks for a chuckle.”

“They’d already been through the hangin’ line. They was dead, Mister! Their throats already slit! I swear!”

“Hell, now. I’d seen the tape and I beg to differ. Them chickens hadn’t even made it to the line. They were squawkin’ in the coop when ya pulled ‘em out and did your business. Eye for an eye, remember?” He knelt, clamping his meaty thighs around Shit-Stain’s head to hold it still. Trench stuck a finger in each nostril, pulled the man’s nose up, and placed the blade underneath it. “Now, you hold still when I start cuttin’. I’m gonna be mighty pissed if I slice myself on your account.”

“NO! Wait! Wait! What you’re doing…how is it any different than what we did to those birds?”

Trench paused for a moment then let go of the man’s nose. “Hmmm. Ya know…this is wrong.”

Shit-Stain nodded; a glimmer of hope danced in his eyes that he might be set free, unharmed (at least physically).

“A chicken’s nose is really just two holes on top its beak,” Trench said, repositioning himself beside Shit-Stain’s right shoulder. “So their beaks would be the equivalent of our mouths. And it’d make more sense if…” Trench stabbed the knife into the dirt, freeing both hands to stick into Shit-Stain’s mouth.

The bound man screamed as one of the gloved hands hooked onto the roof of his mouth while the other clamped down on his jawbone.

The veins in Trench’s forearms bulged as he pulled apart with all his might. There was a sickening crack, a tearing sound, then gurgling.

With eyes rolled back in his head and tongue dangling practically to his chest, Shit-Stain floundered on the ground. His bladder and bowels released, coating him in a muddy mixture of shit, piss, and blood.

Trench stepped back and looked at the bloody mandible in his hand. “As for your comparison of me and you, I already told ya…I only kill what I plan on eatin’.” He gave the jawbone the once over. There was hardly any meat there but he’d find use for it somehow, having been raised to use all parts of the buffalo.

While Shit-Stain gasped and gargled out his dying breath, Trench turned around and took in the carnage coating the area.

He walked to the back of the van, climbed in, and slid one of the extra large (320 qt) polyurethane coolers to the edge of the open door, tossing the jawbone into it. He double-checked to make sure the cooler’s drain plug was firmly in place (or there would be one hell of a mess inside the vehicle) then removed the axe and snow shovel (perfect for scooping up the squishy bits) that were mounted on the van’s interior wall.

Trench checked his watch and smiled. Ahead of schedule.

He stepped from the vehicle to start gathering the meat for his next couple of meals.

AN HOUR LATER, THE cargo van plowed down the rural highway toward the rising sun. Trench sat behind the wheel with a cell phone raised to his ear.

“Gotcha. Yes, sir, I understand.”

A billboard blew by, announcing ANDERSON FUR FARM – NEXT RIGHT.

“Will do. Okay, I’m at the next one. And just to be clear, you’re fine with me keepin’ as many skins as I want, right?” Trench smiled and nodded. “Why yes, sir. You did promise lotsa perks with the job. Okay, sir. I’ll be checking-in to give ya an update when I’m through here and headin’ to the next one. Uh-huh, will do.”

Trench snapped his cell phone shut and tossed it into the passenger seat. It landed on top of the folded pouch that contained his skinning tools. Since the minks wouldn’t be harvested until next month, the amount of employees needed to run the farm would be next to none. Trench could only hope that there would still be enough working today to reupholster his leather couch. He estimated he’d need the skins of four or five normal-sized employees. Maybe less if some of them were big ol’ fat people.

Whether skinny or fat, they were cold, heartless monsters, deserving of the same fate as that of their victims.

Trench put on his blinker and began to slow for the upcoming exit.

It was time to go to work.