Spring Horror Collection: Meat Cute
I re-read that because I really don’t have nice eyes. My eyes are globs of slung mud and gravel on two cracked plates, yellowed by age and exposure. In fact, I’ve been asked many times before to stop staring – it’s gross, it’s weird, it’s scaring the children. I’ve never been complimented on my eyes before.
Usually on MONSTR, they mention the hook, because of course they do. It’s my best feature. It’s sharpened every night, carefully oiled, and well-maintained. I take pride in it, and it shows.
But on MONSTR, it’s usually the same B.S.:
But this message seems strangely sweet and sincere, and it’s been a while since I’ve had anything sincere, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I’ve had anything sweet. There’s no profile pic, but I’m not surprised, half of these assholes never put one up. However, the profile details catch me off-guard.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was human, a young human, and maybe he is. I’ve been caught by that before. Werewolf wannabes that swear they’ll change the next month, it’s just been an off-month or the moon isn’t really full yet. Fuckin’ normies. I’ve got no time, interest, or energy for them.
I have to look up what pokemon are since I’d been in the institution for a while and I’ve never been one to strike up a conversation if I didn’t have to.
Oh…they’re cute animals.
I’m baffled. Baffled but a little intrigued. I mean, he called me out, right?
This better not be some dumb kid trying to screw around with monsters. But if it’s legit…sure, whatever. I’ve heard of imps, but never met one. I’ve never really considered them for a date, but I’ve got nothing against them. I assume one monster cock is the same as any other, and I’ve had my fair share of monster cocks.
The funny thing is that I was actually considering taking a break from all this. At first, when I got out the institution and wandered back into the world as a “rehabilitated” man after twelve years, the changes were overwhelming. It was like everything had shifted overnight when I had been sleeping. Before I went in, phones were phones, cameras were cameras, and porn took thirty minutes to fully download and buffer.
I felt so young and so old at the same time, navigating through a different world, trying to catch up. Both terrified and inquisitive, I made up for lost time.
And when I first learned about apps, about how trusting people are now, I thought, ‘How easy! How brilliant!’. I started using the apps first as bait. There are some idiots that will meet anywhere without a second thought – abandoned hospitals, forgotten cemeteries, the middle of the damn woods where there’s no cell reception! It was such easy pickings…
But that’s when I fell into MONSTR, an app for the evil, twisted and monstrous, developed by the evil, twisted and monstrous. And I fell into it deep for months after discovering it, ecstatic that there was a platform for me. I wasn’t alone. And after the years of therapy, I could accept what I wanted and who I wanted.
And I’ll admit the random hook-ups with six-pack lagoon monsters, “physically-enhanced” lab experiments and all the multitude of were-animals was, at first, amazing. Night after night, just meeting other twisted souls for a good lay and slay was like heaven. And, yeah, sure, I had been tricked a few times by normies or by other crazed killers looking to add another notch to their machetes, but I’m good with my gut and even better with my hook.
So, it was a blast. It was hedonistic and it was fun. And it was Heaven…
Until it wasn’t.
Until I realized that I still went home alone at night and ate cold raviolis from the can in an overwhelming silence so deep and profound, I could barely swallow the congealed pasta. The thrill of it dissipated into the need for contact, for touch, for connection. As shitty as the institution was, there was always people, always chatter, always some new and young psychologist trying to be the one to break-through to the stoic killer. And everyone thought it was impossible…until one impossibly did it…
And I hate to admit that a part of me misses the connection and interaction…
I hear my phone chime and I’m surprised to see he replied so quickly.
Embarrassingly, that’s how I got my start, but I don’t want to say that and come off as a stereotypical asshole. I mean, teen-killers are a dime a dozen with serials. I’ve moved on, I’ve grown past that.
I try to even remember the last song I heard. It’s been so long. And I’m not talking WAP blaring from Geana’s side of the duplex. Real music. Music that felt real and genuine.
And it goes on like this for a while. I actually set down my cold can of ravioli. I actually turn off the rerun of The Munsters, even though I never saw this episode before. But I don’t mind.
In fact, I enjoy myself.
***
After two weeks of chatting almost every day, it got brought up that we should meet. I can’t remember if it was by him or me, but the other agreed quickly, maybe too quickly.
So, here I am and I’m nervous. I have my best, least-stained trench coat on, and even though it’s May, there’s still a cold wind that feels like Fall. It smells like disturbed earth and rain. It feels like a set-up. But here I am at midnight in Antwortet Park with friggin’ pack of pokemon stickers in my sweaty hand. Here I am like a goddamned idiot with his best trench on and hoping for the best, which I try not to make a habit. I even tried using beard oil, like a dirty hipster…
And why am I so damn nervous? This is nothing. It’s a stupid date that means nothing. And if it is a set-up, then who cares? I’ll just kill him and keep trying, I guess. Or maybe not. But maybe it’s not a catfish. Maybe this is real and there could be something to this. But maybe it’s not-
“Tony?” I hear a hesitant voice behind me in the shadows. He’s good, very good, at blending into the darkness. I don’t even see him at all.
“Jenglet?” I ask, in a general direction.
“Jenglot,” he softly corrects and steps into the light. He is small. Small and timid, or maybe just cautious. His skin is as black as jet and refuses to reflect an atom of moonlight. His body is short, lithe, looks hairless. Pointed ears, a grim little mouth with fangs that slightly poke out, and dark but curious eyes. His spiked little tail weaves nervously behind him. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans that he must have fitted for him.
“Hi,” I say, awkwardly, taking him in.
“Hey,” he replies just awkward, but laughs. “You’re taller than I thought.”
“You’re smaller than I thought,” I admit, but this bristles him.
“Is that a deal-breaker?” He asks, guarded, like he’s going to dash back into the shadows.
“Not really,” I say, “I’ve never met an imp before.”
“Oh,” he softens, “Actually all my brothers are bigger. Most imps are. I’m a bit of a runt.”
“I killed my mom,” I blurt out, and realize that maybe wasn’t the best thing to say.
“Oh, sorry? Or…congratulations?” He’s tentative.
“I mean, I was so big as a baby. I guess…I guess I just killed her. So, maybe being tall ain’t so good?”
Things are so much easier when the other monster doesn’t speak any human language, or when it’s just a quick tugjob behind an old, abandoned haunted house. I am not good at this. The talking, the being talked at. I wince under my beard.
But he smiles, laughs once, baring his white sharp teeth. “Yeah, maybe so.”
“I found these,” I stick out the stickers as an offering, but then realize my mistake, “I mean, I got them. I bought them. At a store.”
Gingerly, he takes them and beams. “You bought these for me?”
“I guess. I mean. Sure. Probably.”
I need to re-read the Dale Carnegie book that I stole from the asylum. But, in fairness, it’s not my fault that half the pages have the scribbled ramblings of the other patients. But in this moment, I acutely realize that I should be better at this.
“Thanks,” he says, tosses them into the air and, in a wisp of black smoke, they’re gone. He kindly explains, “I teleported them home.”
“You’re not an imp kid, are you?”
He looks to the side, an almost human move. “No, I get that a lot, though. I look young for my age. I’m two hundred forty-two. That’s about…twenty-two in your years, I think?”
“Still young. I’m thirty-four. But to be honest, I feel like half my life was taken away.”
“You wanna walk through the park some? You can tell me about it if you want…?”
“Am I…?” I gesture to my dirty coat, to my hook, and my long ugly mug. “You’re good with this? Or is this a friendship thing, or…? I usually just hook up, so I don’t know how dates work.”
“This is…your first date?” He asks and his astonishment embarrasses me.
“I’ll be honest, I got out an asylum a few months back and before that…I wasn’t ready for this,” I shrug, “I wasn’t ready to accept this…for myself. But…I got some good help and I feel ready now, I guess.”
“You don’t mind me being so small?”
“You don’t mind that this is my cleanest trench coat?”
His eyes sparkle with delight before we both hear an ear-piercing scream rip through the silence. Turning, we see a young woman. All long hair and long legs. Tight waist and yoga pants. She’s spotted us and had the audacity and gall to scream out. Some people, man…
She starts to run away and I charge towards her instinctively, matching her pace easily, as we run along the path of the park. The thrill of the chase isn’t lost on me. It’s freeing. It’s intoxicating.
Helpless, gasping, crying, she trips and crashes to the ground a few feet in front of me. And seriously, I don’t even know how she did it. I mean, she’s wearing sneakers, for Christ’s sake. What the hell did she even trip on? The concrete is level and smooth… But here we are and here she is on the ground, crawling and sobbing.
Backing up from me, still on the concrete, she puts her hands out defensively. In a high pitch, she screeches, “Please no! Please! I’ll give you money! Just let me go!”
This is kind of my favorite part because she’ll soon figure out that there is no reprieve, no good knight in white armor. This is her death and I am her destroyer, and she will accept that in her final moments because there’s nothing left for her to do but accept that.
I lumber closer, hook raised and glistening in the moonlight. My heart’s pounding and I hope Jenglot’s watching. I hope he’s enjoying the show.
She’s still crying out. “Please, no! Please! Stop! Plea-”
And then suddenly, with a guttural splatter, her throat gushes open. It splays apart like a snapped trap of torn flesh and ruptured muscles. Blood spurts forth like a fountain head, wild and uncontrollable. She tries to gasp and just squirts the blood farther, getting all over my “nice” trench coat.
Her hands reach for her throat, then reach for nothing, held helpless and twisted in the air. She foams and gurgles, eyes bulged and pleading until they slowly glaze over. The little jerks of a sudden death ripple throughout her body, long legs twitching against the gravel.
I stare, uncertain of what happened, at what’s going to happen…
Just standing here, blinking, in shock.
She almost falls back, but is stiffly caught from behind. Dark claws reach out from behind her back and embrace her body. Jutting from her throat I recognize the thick spike of a tail poking through her still seeping neck before it slips away.
Her body collapses slowly onto him, and I realized that he has her body propped against his small frame. His dark face partially peers from behind her long, blood-spattered hair to look at me. His eyes are still curious and nervous, and a soft pink tongue slips from his mouth to lick his lips. My breath catches in my throat.
“Was that a dealbreaker?” he asks me, quietly, almost a hiss, “That I stole your kill?”
I laugh, full-bellied, and he quirks his little head.
“Nah, maybe some years back…But I’m a different man now. I used to kill…well, for a lot of reasons. Maybe some I still don’t even know yet. But now,” I shrug my heavy shoulders and smile despite myself, “Now I kill for me. I kill for fun. So, no. That doesn’t bother me. The chase was fun.”
He smiles, too, eyes gleaming in delight before he leans to her and bites down into her flesh, tearing the meat there. I crouch where I’m standing, closer on his level and he watches me as he chews, blood dripping down his jaws.
“Hey, can we do this again sometime?” I ask. “I’d like to see you again.”
He grins, full white teeth, now pink from the blood and bits of flesh clinging there. And it’s the most fucking adorable thing I’ve ever seen. If he was a pokemon, he’d be my favorite.
“I’d really like that, Tony,” he says and leans back down for another bite.
What if ours weren’t the only reality? What if the past paths converged, if those moments that led to our current circumstances got tangled together with their alternates and we found ourselves caught up in the threads?
Marla returned home after the funeral and wake. She drew the key in the lock and opened the door slowly, the looming dread of coming back to an empty house finally sinking in. Everyone else had gone home with their loved ones. They had all said, “goodbye,” and moved along.
Her daughter Misty and son-in-law Joel had caught a flight to Springfield so he could be at work the next day for the big meeting. Her brother Darcy was on his way back to Montreal. Emmett and Ruth were at home next door, probably washing dishes from the big meal they had helped to provide afterward, seeing as their kitchen light was on. Marla remembered there being food but couldn’t recall what exactly as she hadn’t felt like eating. Sandwiches probably… she’d have to thank them later.
Marla had felt supported up until she turned the key in the lock after the services, but then the realization sank deep in her throat like acid reflux, hanging heavy on her heart – everyone else had other lives to return to except for her. She sighed and stepped through the threshold onto the outdated beige linoleum tile and the braided rag rug that stretched across it. She closed the door behind herself and sighed again. She wiped her shoes reflexively on the mat before just kicking them off to land in a haphazard heap in the entryway.
The still silence of the house enveloped her, its oppressive emptiness palpable – she could feel it on her skin, taste it on her tongue. It was bitter. She sighed and walked purposefully to the living room, the large rust-orange sofa waiting to greet her. She flopped into its empty embrace, dropping her purse at her side as she did so.
A familiar, husky voice greeted her from deeper within the large, empty house. “Where have you been?”
Marla looked up and glanced around. Her husband Frank was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, drying a bowl. Marla gasped, her hand shooting to her mouth. Her clutched appendage took on a life of its own, slowly relinquishing itself of her gaping jaw and extending a first finger to point at the specter.
“Frank?” she spoke hesitantly.
“Yeah,” the man replied, holding the now-dry bowl nestled in the faded blue-and-white-checkered kitchen towel in both hands. “Who else would you expect?”
“But you’re dead,” Marla spat, the words falling limply from her mouth of their own accord.
The 66-year old man looked around confusedly and turned to face Marla, his silver hair sparkling in the light from the kitchen, illuminated from behind like a halo. “What are you talking about? I’m just here washing up after lunch. You were gone so I made myself some soup. Where have you been?”
“No, I just got home from your funeral,” Marla spoke quietly. “You are dead. After the boating accident… You drowned. I went along to the hospital – they pronounced you dead on arrival.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frank said. “What boating accident?”
“The sailboat… You were going to take me out,” Marla coughed, her brown eyes glossed over with tears.
“We don’t own a sailboat,” Frank said bluntly. “Sure, I’d thought about it – it seems like a cool retirement hobby – but it’s just too expensive. We’ve talked about this, we can’t afford it.”
Marla glanced out the bay window towards the driveway where the small sailboat sat on its trailer, its orange hull reminiscent of the Florida citrus industry, and also of the life jacket Frank should have been wearing when he’d been pulled under. Marla cringed and turned back toward the kitchen. She sighed and spoke again, “But the boat’s out front. The guys at the marina helped to bring it back… after you… drowned.”
Frank had retreated to the kitchen to put away the bowl. Marla followed. She stood in the doorway and studied the man intently. He was unmistakably her husband, there was no denying it even despite her having just witnessed his waxen lifeless body in the coffin at the wake before the burial, though this Frank was a slight bit more overweight than she remembered.
“Well, that’s not possible. Because I’m still here,” Frank grumbled. He turned to face her, his blue eyes edged with worry. “There now, it was probably just a dream. You knew I wanted a boat and your anxiety just formulated the worst-case scenario…”
“See for yourself,” Marla said, her voice lilting with every syllable.
Frank strode into the living room and stared out the bay window. The driveway was vacant save for some bits of Spanish moss strewn over the concrete from the neighboring live oak tree. He turned towards his wife.
“But there’s no boat,” he sighed. “You must have had a bad dream. Did you fall asleep in the car in the garage again?” Concern was written all over his face, deepening every crease and wrinkle. “Is that where you were? The garage?”
Marla glanced again at the boat, plain as day, and turned to face Frank. Her voice grew stubborn. “It’s right here. How can you miss it?” she said, pointing at the orange behemoth.
“Honey, there’s nothing there,” Frank exclaimed, exasperation creeping into his voice.
Marla huffed and strode to the entryway, gathering her shoes from where they waited in their haphazard heap alongside the braided rag run on the worn linoleum floor. She marched out the door as Frank took vigil in its open frame, still staring at her. She stomped out to the boat and slapped her hand on the fiberglass surface with a resounding smack. The boat was warm to the touch, having baked in the Florida sun. She turned back towards the front door.
“See!” she bellowed.
The door stood open, empty. No one was there, watching. Marla sighed again and walked back inside. The vacant house once again enveloped her in its oppressive emptiness. Frank was nowhere to be found.
So I guess it’s goodbye for now. Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
Today on Nightmarish Nature we’re gonna revisit The Blob and jiggle our way to terror. Why? ‘Cause we’re just jellies – looking at those gelatinous denizens of the deep, as well as some snot-like land-bound monstrosities, and wishing we could ooze on down for some snoozy booze schmoozing action. Or something.
Honestly, I don’t know what exactly it is that jellyfish and slime molds do but whatever it is they do it well, which is why they’re still around despite being among the more ancient organism templates still in common use.
Jellyfish are on the rise.
Yeah, yeah, some species like moon jellies will hang out in huge blooms near the surface feeding, but that’s not what I meant. Jellyfish populations are up. They’re honing in on the open over-fished ocean and making themselves at home. Again.
And, although this makes the sea turtles happy since jellies are a favorite food staple of theirs, not much else is excited about the development. Except for those fish that like to hide out inside of their bells, assuming they don’t accidentally get eaten hanging out in there. But that’s a risk you gotta take when you’re trying to escape predation by surrounding yourself in a bubble of danger that itself wants to eat you. Be eaten or be eaten. Oh, wait…
So what makes jellies so scary?
Jellyfish pack some mighty venom. Despite obvious differences in mobility, they are related to anemones and corals. But not the Man o’ War which looks similar but is actually a community of microorganisms that function together as a whole, not one creature. Not that it matters when you’re on the wrong end of a nematocyst, really. Because regardless what it’s attached to, that stings.
Box jellies are among the most venomous creatures in the world and can move of their own accord rather than just drifting about like many smaller jellyfish do. And even if they aren’t deadly, the venom from many jellyfish species will cause blisters and lesions that can take a long time to heal. So even if they do resemble free-floating plastic grocery bags, you’d do best to steer clear. Because those are some dangerous curves.
But what does this have to do with slime molds?
Absolutely nothing. I honestly don’t know enough about jellyfish or slime molds to devote the whole of a Nightmarish Nature segment to either, so they had to share. Essentially, this bit is what happened when I decided to toast a bagel before coming up with something to write about and spent a tad too much time in contemplation of my breakfast. I guess we’re lucky I didn’t have any cream cheese or clotted cream…
Oh, and also thinking about gelatinous cubes and oozes in the role-playing game sense – because those sort of seem like a weird hybrid between jellies and slime molds, as does The Blob. Any of those amoeba influenced creatures are horrific by their very nature – they don’t even need to be souped up, just ask anyone who’s had dysentery.
And one of the most interesting thing about slime molds is that they can take the shortest path to food even when confronted with very complex barriers. They are maze masterminds and would give the Minotaur more than a run for his money, especially if he had or was food. They have even proven capable of determining the most efficient paths for water lines or railways in metropolitan regions, which is kind of crazy when you really think about it. Check it out in Scientific American here. So, if we assume that this is essentially the model upon which The Blob was built, then it’s kind of a miracle anything got away. And slime molds are coming under closer scrutiny and study as alternative means of creating computer components are being explored.
Jellies are the Wave of the Future.
We are learning that there may be a myriad of uses for jellyfish from foodstuffs to cosmetic products as we rethink how we interact with them. They are even proving useful in cleaning up plastic pollution. I don’t know how I feel about the foodstuff angle for all that they’ve been a part of various recipes for a long time. From what I’ve seen of the jellyfish cookbook recipes, they just don’t look that appealing. But then again I hate boba with a passion, so I’m probably not the best candidate to consider the possibility.
So it seems that jellies are kind of the wave of the future as we find that they can help solve our problems. That’s pretty impressive for some brainless millions of years old critter condiments. Past – present – perpetuity! Who knows what else we’d have found if evolution hadn’t cleaned out the fridge every so often?
Feel free to check out more Nightmarish Nature here.
Continuing our junkyard dawg werewolf story from the previous St. Patrick’s Days… though technically he’s more of a wolfwere but wolfwhatever. Anyway, here are Part 1 from 2022, Part 2 from 2023 and Part 3 from 2024 if you want to catch up.
Yeah I don’t know how you managed to find me after all this time. We haven’t been the easiest to track down, Monty and I, and we like it that way. Though actually, you’ve managed to find me every St. Patrick’s Day since 2022 despite me being someplace else every single time. It’s a little disconcerting, like I’m starting to wonder if I was microchipped way back in the day in 2021 when I was out lollygagging around and blacked out behind that taco hut…
Anyway as I’d mentioned before, that Scratchers was a winner. And I’d already moved in with Monty come last St. Patrick’s Day. Hell, he’d already begun the process of cashing in the Scratchers, and what a process that was. It made my head spin, like too many squirrels chirping at you from three different trees at once. We did get the money eventually though.
Since I saw you last, we were kicked out of Monty’s crap apartment and had gone to live with his parents while we sorted things out. Thank goodness that was short-lived; his mother is a nosy one for sure, and Monty didn’t want to let on he was sitting on a gold mine as he knew they’d want a cut even though they had it made already. She did make a mean brisket though, and it sure beat living with Sal. Just sayin.
Anyway, we finally got a better beater car and headed west. I was livin’ the dream. We were seeing the country, driving out along old Route 66, for the most part. At least until our car broke down just outside of Roswell near the mountains and we decided to just shack it up there. (Boy, Monty sure can pick ‘em. It’s like he has radar for bad cars. Calling them lemons would be generous. At least it’s not high maintenance women who won’t toss you table scraps or let you up on the sofa.)
We found ourselves the perfect little cabin in the woods. And it turns out we were in the heart of Bigfoot Country, depending on who you ask. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen one. But it seems that Monty was all into all of those supernatural things: aliens, Bigfoot, even werewolves. And finding out his instincts on me were legit only added fuel to that fire. So now he sees himself as some sort of paranormal investigator.
Whatever. I keep telling him this werewolf gig isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, and it doesn’t work like in the movies. I wasn’t bitten, and I generally don’t bite unless provoked. He says technically I’m a wolfwere, to which I just reply “Where?” and smile. Whatever. It’s the little things I guess. I just wish everything didn’t come out as a bark most of the time, though Monty’s gotten pretty good at interpreting… As long as he doesn’t get the government involved, and considering his take on the government himself that would seem to be a long stretch. We both prefer the down low.
So here we are, still livin’ the dream. There aren’t all that many rabbits out here but it’s quiet and the locals don’t seem to notice me all that much. And Monty can run around and make like he’s gonna have some kind of sighting of Bigfoot or aliens or the like. As long as the pantry’s stocked it’s no hair off my back. Sure, there are scads of tourists, but they can be fun to mess around with, especially at that time of the month if I happen to catch them out and about.
Speaking of tourists, I even ran into that misspent youth from way back in 2021 at the convenience store; I spotted him at the Quickie Mart along the highway here. I guess he and his girlfriend were apparently on walkabout (or car-about) perhaps making their way to California or something. He even bought me another cookie. Small world. But we all knew that already…
If you enjoyed this werewolf wolfwere wolfwhatever saga, feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
VoodooPriestess
March 24, 2021 at 2:35 pm
I actually have a jenglot woodcarving XD so I be happy.
Jennifer Weigel
March 25, 2021 at 8:04 pm
Ah spring, when the scent of love hangs heavy in the air…