Cannibal Corpse, M/C

Butch took Boyle by the legs and dragged him effortlessly down the hall into the bathroom, hefted him into the tub. The Mad Hatter stripped the shower curtain free, tested the strength of the rod, nodded with satisfaction that it was steel and it was screwed firmly into the wall.

“We’ll make a fine and secret work here,” said he.

Slaughter and Butch slid a plastic bag over Boyle’s head. He moaned and stirred slightly. The Mad Hatter went over to him, stuck the muzzle of the Glock up to the bulge of his head and pulled the trigger—pop, pop, pop—as he whistled Gounod’s “Funeral March on the Death of a Marionette” which was impossible to hear, Slaughter knew, without conjuring up images of Alfred Hitchcock. Boyle trembled and went still. The bag was essential, Butch pointed out, in that it helped to contain the bone chips and brain matter that otherwise would’ve sprayed around the room.

Butch took Boyle by the legs, hoisted him up, lifted him up so the top of his bagged head just brushed the bottom of the tub. The Mad Hatter, whistling merrily, tied his ankles together with rope, then roped him to the shower curtain rod. The rod bent down, but held. Already blood was running from the bag around Boyle’s head. The Mad Hatter pulled it free, set it aside.

When Slaughter stared at him he said in a singsong voice:

“There was a lady all skin and bone,

Sure such a lady was never known:

It happened upon a certain day,

This lady went to church to pray…”

The Mad Hatter took out a carving knife. He slit Boyle’s throat and the blood really started to run. “This will drain our pig a lot faster,” he said. “About five, ten minutes and we can commence work on him.”

Butch and the Mad Hatter lit cigarettes, chatted about the weather, all the rain they’d been getting.

Slaughter felt a greasy, heaving sludge crawl up his throat. Felt his mouth go hot, wet, and sweet. He pushed past the Hatter and Butch, vomiting into the toilet with great shaking spasms until there was nothing left and he was just coughing and gagging and spitting.

Butch patted him on the shoulder. “It’s always tough the first time,” he said. “You’ll be okay. Now your cherry is popped. Ain’t that right, Sean?”

The Mad Hatter laughed and then sang:

“On looking up, on looking down,

She saw a dead man on the ground;

And from his nose unto his chin,

The worms crawled out, the worms crawled in.”

Butch and the Hatter tossed their cigarettes into the toilet, flushed them, along with what Slaughter had deposited in there.