MY NAME IS GROBIUS SKRETT

My name is Grobius Skrett.

I was a defiler, a murderer, a slicer, a torturer and a by all accounts a fiend.

I was caught in the act, trepanning a maiden, boring into her head of final thoughts.

Under the yellow gaslight I can’t have been a pretty sight for the poor watchman who found me.  I imagine that it was the drill sunk into the woman’s skull that sent him whistling till his lungs near burst. Ha ha.

Held by the scruff, I was dragged from the heap as the matter gushed over my hands, my fine digits, such spiders of elegance and fingering beauty.

Manhandled violently by brutes, I just had the nick to lick my slick talons.

"You fuckin' fiend. Sick. Sick that’s what you are.  You'll get what’s coming to you Skrett!"

Far from the law I was quickly tried in the village court built more on superstition than the rule of torts.

"Grobius Skrett, you shall be buried alive, your hands and feet severed and your box wormed as is the custom of hereabouts for the rare monster that you are.  Your heathen ground will be the leper fields outside our walls. The worms shall be the most vicious we can gather.  No one will heed your screams.  Each one of us from the village shall relieve on your face before the box is sealed and the worms satisfied. No one will visit your hole.  No one will speak of you. Ever. From this day on you never existed!"

And so it was that I was taken to the village green, stripped, pinned to to the ground,

my hands and feet slowly sawn off, my wrist stump pushed into my mouth to keep me quiet whilst I was pulled over the cinder path to the leper graves shunned for a century.

Nobody spoke on that morbid cortege, my final stroll in the air which somehow moved me to puncture, to open, to wire, to truncate: my life’s work, a glorious pageant of blood and marrow misunderstood by these rural cretins.

I should have moved to the smoky city years ago where my name would live forever.  Grobius Skrett, the Da Vinci of flesh.

Burly gravediggers more used to Catholic rites had hastily dug a trench in the jaundiced tussocks. Beside it lay a roughly carpentered crate of thick timber, from which there would be surely no escape.  This was lowered into the trench, the sweating carpenter waiting nearby clutching the lid and his claw hammer, his eyes aglow with hate.

I was made to stand on my bleeding stumps beside the pit.  No attempt had been made to smoothen the wood and large splinters bristled inside.  Without a word the relatives of my victims came forward and were encouraged to defile my body further.  

My breast bone was first cracked with a mallet and then snipped open with the butcher’s iron scissors.  My genitals were sliced away with a cheese wire.  My skull was drilled; a rough mirror of the beautiful and lasting wounds I myself bestowed with scarce finesse upon those who came to know my work.

My mangled body was then thrown into the crate.  

As decreed, each of the village folk took turns to piss up on my face, the hot streams entering my mouth and burning my injuries.  I felt oddly cleansed as the steam rose and the village priest appeared over the trench shouldering a large wide-mouthed urn.

"This will be the last voice you hear Grobius Skrett.  The mouths which follow mine will not care for chatter but will consume you whilst you still think of what to say.  If you wish to repent to them, no matter, your prayers will be digested too. May your soul rot in everlasting hell."

The priest then tipped the urn and shook its heaving contents across my head and chest, where the blood was welling.  Although I could not see I could hear the timber lid being hammered shut.

I was alone with the worms.

In the faint dusky glow before the grave was fully filled I could see, albeit vaguely, the mouths of my hungry new friends opening and closing like fish out of water.  I was certain that I could also hear their ravening groans as they searched for ingress.

The moist beings entered first my split breast, no doubt compelled to follow the loud beating siren further in.

I had nothing but admiration for these limbless morticians and I dreamt of the fine slithering I might do should I escape, a man-worm, muscling like a walrus upon sleeping lovers.

I was arcing handless above a naked couple, smiling at the thought, when a large worm entered my head hole and gorged greedily across my brain, deleting my mind like a chamfer wizard.

I was done and Grobius Skrett was gone.

IT REALLY DOES TASTE LIKE CHICKEN!

Rudis had always been a horror nut.

Ever since he could remember monsters had ruled the world.

He'd thought about them at school, in church, in the bath, in work and even at his wedding, where he'd imagined his wife to be the Bride of Frankenstein before he snapped out of it and gave her the ring!

Yes, Rudis was monster mad and in particular he loved the classic types; vampire, werewolf, ghoul, mummy, creature and Frankenstein. He'd seen all the films and attended countless conventions to do his favourite thing, to acquire the autographs of his 'scream' idols as he called them.

Rudis had the signatures of all the horror celebs of his generation like Robert Englund and Clive Barker. He'd even spent a fortune on long dead stars' scribbles like Lon Chaney, Boris Karloff and his prized possession, Bela Lugosi.

He dreamed of having a collection to rival anyone else and fawned over photographs of famous collectors like Forry Ackerman and his famous monsters Ackermansion. The Ackermonster even had a copy of Dracula signed by Bram Stoker and Bela Lugosi, not to mention Christopher Lee! Rudis thought this the coolest, most desirable thing in the world and he would have happily given his left arm to possess such a book!

On his jaunts around conventions Rudis had recently met Hands. Hands was also a big horror fan and introduced Rudis to a new character type that he'd not considered before, the cannibal.

Hands seemed to know all about the sub-genre and they spent many a happy evening together watching the classic films of the Eighties italian boom: Cannibal Ferox, Cannibal Man, Eaten Alive and the mother of them all, Cannibal Holocaust.

Rudis was a little sickened by what he'd seen but he had to admit there was something in it. Hands says it is the fascination in us all, whether we could eat another human being. Even mainstream movies like Alive, about the plane crash in the Andes, had covered the subject and there were many instances of real-live cannibalism in Western society.

"But aren't cannibals just the same as ghouls?" mused Rudis.

"No. Ghouls eat the flesh of the recently deceased." explained Hands.

"So what about Zombies then?" countered Rudis.

"Zombies eat the living, that's true, but they are undead, like Vampires. Foolishly they prefer guts and brains to actual meat. Besides, the Zombie genre is dead. When a zombie sunk its teeth into a shark it sunk to new depths!" retorted Hands, chortling at his own pun.

"No" continued Hands, "Cannibals are real people who covet the taste of living flesh, either raw or cooked. To the everyday person a cannibal is an Amazonian native with a loincloth and a bone stuck through his nose. But cannibals are real modern people enjoying their strange tastes in today's world, often in secret, but sometimes in plain sight."

"Oh Come on Hands. Are you telling me that there are cannibals here in our town eating its residents right under our noses? Its bollocks!"

"Rudis, just look at the slew of modern cannibal flicks. OK, Hannibal Lector made it sexy for the masses but it was Ravenous that really kicked off the new wave - or the new craving as I like to call it - an ace film, set in the Mexican -American War. Have you seen it? Its a good place to start but the new stuff is a cut above. Stuff like Green Inferno and Raw take it to the next level I'm telling you".

"And there's the whole Snuff thing." said Hands

"How do you mean, snuff?" replied Rudis

Hands went on."You know, did people actually snuff it in some movies! There was talk of actors and natives being murdered in Holocaust but the director, Ruggero Deodato, provided evidence to disprove the claims. Even so the rumours persist and there has been speculation whether real cannibals have sneaked onto some film sets as extras and that the films are actually being made for a whole new horde of fine young carnivores!" 

"Good grief. I thought Shadow of a Vampire was a clever satire, the Vampire vamping on set and all that but real cannibals in films watched by cannibals, that's just gross, but kind of cool at the same time!" considered Rudis.

"If you want to find out more about cannibal flicks there's a convention-cum-disco this Saturday night. Its strictly by invite only but eager folk will be coming from all over the country. There's a strong chance some of the actors from Cannibal Holocaust will be there. I know one of the organisers and I reckon I could get us in. You fancy it?" asked Hands

"Do I! Sounds ace. Will Deodato be there? I'd love his autograph," said Rudis already imagining bagging such a notorious name in his book.

"Could be. The guests at these things are always kept under wraps. Its an underground thing, sort of edgy. Totally left-field. Out there. They can attract some real nutters and some unwanted attention from the cops. You know," explained Hands.

"Let's do it!" Rudis exclaimed.

Saturday night came and the two friends made their way to the outskirts of town. They arrived at an abandoned abattoir and knocked on the huge metal shutter. The shutter flew up and in front them stood Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

"Tickets?" he growled through his mask.

Hands handed them over, two unusually worn cards with "It's Splatterday Night! Movies, Dancing and Food for Discerning Tastes".

"Leatherface eh! Nice touch Hands" extolled Rudis.

"Yep, he's the doorman and the chef." Hands explained.

"And an old slaughterhouse! That's genius!" continued Rudis clutching his autograph book in his coat pocket.

They strolled past stalls rammed with DVD's and old VHS, zealous fans stooped over them. Then came a few stands of meat cleavers, kitchen knives, bone saws, skull saws and boning knives. 

"All prop replicas," explained Hands but they looked pretty damn real to Rudis.

There were aprons and huge plastic sheets for sale as well as waders and skullcaps. 

"All for effect. To keep the fans happy," continued Hands.

Next were rows and rows of photographs of famous cannibals like Bundy, Dahmer, Meiwes and Ed Gein, the cult's poster-boy, inspiration for Psycho and Texas Chainsaw. Rudis was getting excited. They were getting closer. He could feel it.

"Where are the actors Hands?"

"Over there in the corner by the ceiling hooks."

Rudis squinted but it was too dark in the corner. They continued to stroll through the abattoir, which was stuffed with fans jostling for the best merch.  They walked past further stalls of cooking equipment, huge chest freezers, plates, jars, decanters and masses of cutlery.

"What's all that lot for Hands?"

"All props mate," he replied but Rudis thought it a bit odd, modern kitchen gear at a film con. He felt his autograph book in his pocket and carried on.

The far end of the place was a dance floor. People were dancing to Maneater by Hall and Oates. There was a glitterball and something was being sprayed over the crowd from the sprinklers in the roof between the meat hooks. Whatever it was, thought Rudis, it was making them go wild. 

A blob of it landed on his face. He tasted it.

"Ugh! Yuk!" It tasted like blood and snot and God know's what. "What the hell is that Hands?"

"Just a little joke. You know, special effects. Fake blood and quorn blitzed up. For the fans mate!"

Rudis felt increasingly uneasy about this con but he followed Hands to the shadows where the actors were meant to be.

As they approached Rudis could see a group of people stood around a large flat metal brazier of glowing coals. The red light lit up their faces and they laughed and smiled as Hands greeted them with strong handshakes.

"Hands, we've been waiting for you! Where's your friend?" they guffawed.

"Don't worry! Rudis is here, right behind me. He's keen to meet you!" Hands went on "Rudis, these guys were all extras in famous cannibal films".

"Oh, that's fantastic! Great to meet you," howled Rudis reaching for his autograph book. "Would you do me the honour of giving me your autographs?"

"Of course! Of course," they enthused loudly stepping round the brazier.

Each one took the book and signed their name in turn and returned it to Rudis.

He stared at the names and the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise as he read them aloud:

"Back, Cheeks, Face, Breast, Thigh, Legs, Feet and ....."

The book was taken from him by his friend.

"...... and Hands. There you go Rudis. All signed!"

"But why, why those names?" stammered Rudis as the group came closer round him.

"It's what we eat my friend and it's what we'll eat of you!" bellowed Hands as Rudis was grabbed by the drooling company, mean fingers ripping his clothes from him and strong arms dragging him flat and face-down onto the red hot brazier.

"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" he screamed as Hands reached for a meat fork and a cleaver.

Some time later, after the chum disco had died down and the visitors had gathered round the barbecue, they'd all had their fill and stood licking their greasy fingers and chucking knuckles and ribs into the coals, where a small book of autographs turned to ash.

"Hey guys!" said Hands raising his arms,

"IT REALLY DOES TASTE LIKE CHICKEN!" they shouted together laughing holding femurs, collarbones and vertebrae in the air!

GUTTED

It started with the frogs.

I noticed them after a severe downpour that Winter.

Frogs were being squashed on the roads. Squashed flat till their innards popped out.

I saw the first one in my driveway. It was large and green and ... still alive. I was gutted as unfortunately the frog was.  Its entrails were outside of its body in what looked like a wet bag. For a split second I entertained the ridiculous thought that I could simply tuck them back in, sew up its belly and send it on its merry way back to the pond.

I scooped it up with a spade and placed the frog gently in a flowerbed. I had wrestled with the morality of killing it or leaving it and decided that I shouldn't play God and left it to nature and the doom of the wild night. The whole thing did leave me shaken as I cannot stand to see animal suffering and I remained torn about my inaction for days.

The death of the thing reminded me of Seamus Heaney's 'gross bellied frogs' in his famous poem. Worse, my apathy might have alerted his 'great slime kings' and I shuddered.

Weeks passed and I forgot about it after a while until one day I saw another flattened frog in the drive. This one was smaller and unquestionably dead, its guts completely splattered. Then I saw another one near where I worked and another one near the bakers where I get my lunchtime sandwich.

Now this was odd I thought. More than odd. I was seeing burst frogs on the streets allover the place as if ponds were spewing them out pancaked and they were landing where I walked.

Being a keen nature lover I wanted to understand this phenomenon and maybe even give a talk on the subject at the Naturalists' Club, which I had recently joined. My husband Blut thought I was daft. He had little interest in wildlife. Just the supernatural and cooking. He would boil a ghost if he could.

"Numbles, I just don't know what you see in all those smelly bugs. You wouldn't find me poking around in the dirt. Give me a turkey to cook, giblets and all, any day!"

Blut had always called me Numbles, ever since I'd met him two years ago now. He'd been in the library reading a book about orphanages. It was what we had in common from the start. We were both orphans. Connected to none.

We fell in love. Blut adored to cook and I loved to eat his sumptuous meals. His favourite food group was offal: liver, kidneys, sweetbreads, tripe, heart and toungue. He stopped short at brains, joking that too much thought had gone into them already to think about cooking them.

I'd never really eaten that much offal before. Of course I'd eaten meat but I'd just never really come across the other yukky bits. I'd never really consumed as much food at all till I met Blut. He said he just wanted more of me to love.

Blut once even scraped up some roadkill on a country lane. He said it was fresh and shouldn't be wasted. All fur and bone and gunk; he took it home, prepared the thing, cooked it up. 

He said it was hare but I'm not so sure. It could have been fox or badger for all I know. Disgusted with myself, I actually enjoyed it. Blut said it was his role in life to make me the best pluck as he called it.

Not long after eating the thing I was walking down a rain-soaked street in the city. It was early March and Spring was crowning. I heard a plop on the wet cross-roads as if something had landed with a clout. Then I heard another one and another. Stooping under my umbrella I peered at where I'd heard the sound and to my astonishment I saw that it was a bird. Noticing the crested head I realised that it was a skylark, that herald of Spring sunshine. Then I heard the songs.

The traffic lights turned to red and the cars stopped. I could hear the songs clearly. Being a naturalist I instinctively looked up. What I saw made my mind reel with bewilderment. Hundreds of skylarks were congregating in the rain-filled sky above the road I was standing on. They were all singing vigorously and hovering furiously in one spot as if impaled. I thought their little lungs would burst from their mouths.

To my horror the larks began to fall from the sky and drop onto the soaked tarmac, where they landed with a sickening splat. Almost immediately the lights turned to green and dozens of cars and trucks surged forwards from both directions and drove over the larks, flopping and slapping on the wet road. They were all crushed like beetles and their innards fanned out everywhere, maps of blue and grey tissues, the watery surface turning red with bird blood.

I gagged and was sick in the gutter. 

There must have been well over a hundred skylarks involved and I could think of no rational explanation for what had happened. Nauseous and upset I stumbled home. Blut made me a hot drink and suggested that what I'd seen was more supernatural than natural and that I should record anything else I saw like that so he could take a look.

After the larks Blut seemed genuinely excited by the prospect of me seeing more 'supernatural phenomena' and asked me to keep him posted.

Life carried on as normal for a while until the visit to the aquarium. I had wanted to see the new exhibit, the Amazonian Manatee, for ages. Blut came along too.

It was a Saturday and despite the threat of Spring sleet Blut and I were enjoying the sea cow lazily curling around the depths of its pool. We had a ring-side seat in front of the huge glass window. The water itself was outdoors but we were inside watching the graceful beautiful creature.

Suddenly the heaven's opened and the sky turned dark. A torrential hailstorm had begun and the surface of the manatee's pool began to get hammered. The water seemed as if it was boiling and the manatee became agitated. It peered up at the commotion.

It was then that we noticed the leeches. 

They emerged from the tropical plants at the side and pulsed slowly but surely towards the animal. More and more appeared until hundreds of leeches were heading upwards like an army of lips.

They attached to the distraught manatee at once and began to suck. Within seconds their bodies were filling with the creature's blood and growing bigger. The things didn't stop and the helpless sea cow writhed in agony as hundreds of them drained it of life, which was decanting into the distending leeches at a horrific rate.

The suction of their combined radula was too much for the manatee's weakened belly and with a final shriek of torment it burst open. The leeches filled to horrifically huge sizes with its disgorging guts. 

I screamed as if I was watching a vision of hell and buried my face into Blut's chest. I could not watch any longer. He simply stared at the terrible scene.

The shapeless animal, now completely dead, drifted to the bottom of the tank, a limp hollowed disemboweled bag. The legion of engorged leeches floated to the hail-lashed surface and bobbed like sacks. First one, then another, then another - they all began to disgorge their gory contents into the water and within a couple of minutes the top was a deep ooze of intestines, fat and bile.

The horror at the aquarium left me traumatised and I retreated completely into myself. I simply could not understand what was happening. I had stumbled into a nightmare and was scared to go out. I was sick to the stomach.

Blut was a rock. He said it was pure chance that these things were happening. A dose of bad luck that would quickly pass. He kept telling me. I took time off work and Blut looked after me, feeding me, massaging my tummy and keeping me warm in bed.

At the end of my first month off work he asked me if I would like to visit a friend of his.

"She's a an old friend and we go back a long way. I've known her since grammar school days. She's a sort of Queen actually. Of noble blood actually. It'll do you good to get out and meet someone interesting and new. We can sit in her house and drink tea".

Despite still being afraid of things, it sounded surprisingly safe and pleasant so we set off arm in arm taking along a bottle of red. The evening was dark and misty and when we arrived at the house it was swathed in fog.

The detached building was pointy with an unusual tower on its flank. It looked like a gothic castle in the jaundiced gassy air. Blut knocked and the door opened. We were greeted by an incredibly tall, elegant and ancient lady. 

She was dressed in a red velvet evening gown and her long white hair was tied up into a large bun, which was pinned with an impressive metal spike. Her face was primeval with a large pursed mouth daubed in black lip-gloss. Her big eyes were like petri dishes but for me the most striking feature were her fingers.

They were long and thin. So long. Twice as long as a normal persons and tipped with ridiculously sharp nails, which were more like talons than anything. They gave the impression of crabs at the end of her arms. Skin crabs.

There was an unpleasant smell coming off her; a mixture of lilacs and hung game. I thought of butchery and funerals.

"Blut. How nice to see you my dear. And you've brought your young lady I see. How very sweet. Please come inside". Her voice was a whisper, a snake grating over the desert.....and her accent; it was so strange. Foreign perhaps. Eastern European maybe.

We entered the dark place were we were offered green tea.

"Its good for the digestion my dear, hot and cleansing. An enema in a cup you might say."

I thought the analogy most unsavoury but simply put it down to the old lady's eccentricity. We walked into a larger gloomier room where the tea was waiting on a tray. I was sure I saw someone small and crooked, holding a jar of what looked like frogs, passing through a side door but couldn't be sure. 

I shrugged it off but the whole house and its creepy owner did seem otherworldly and I was astonished that Blut knew this woman at all.

Sitting down I looked round the room through the murk. I began to notice trays everywhere. There were large trays on the floor and smaller trays resting on sideboards. 

The trays were punctuated with jars and bowls. I couldn't see their contents fully in the gloom but the glint of a liquids was apparent.

Blut and I were also sat on chairs in what appeared to be a huge shallow tray as well. I wondered if the whole place was riddled with leaks and rain had been pouring in for years.

"Blut tells me you've been plagued by some unexpected experiences of late my dear. How did you feel?"

Surprised that Blut had told her anything personal about me I said that I had been upset and confused.

"Were you frightened?"

"Yes."

"That's good. You've done well Blut".

"Thank you M'am."

I was dumbfounded by this exchange and asked what on earth they were talking about. I put down my tea.

"What do you mean, Blut has done well?"

The old crone stood up to her full height, her sinewy fingers wriggling at the end of her velvet sleeves.

"Forgive me my dear. I haven't explained a thing have I. Blut has been getting you ready you see. He's been fattening you up and guiding you to my, lets say, little pranks and yes, so that you would become frightened. Indeed, the more frightened the better actually. It tenderises the offal!"

"Blut, what is she saying? For God's sake tell me what she's talking about?"

Blut had stood and gone behind the back of my armchair. He was massaging my shoulders slowly but with increasing pressure.

"Don't worry Numbles, everything will be revealed shortly," he replied and to my horror both he and the old lady began to chuckle.

I'd had enough and began to stand. Blut pushed me back down violently and grabbed me in a bear hug from behind. I screamed into the room of trays but no-one was listening.

The old woman came closer and removed the long spike from her hair. She smiled her black-gloss grimace and pricked me on the temple with the tip of the spike. I was immediately paralysed, unable to move a muscle.

"Let me introduce myself dear. I am Viscera, Satan's Haruspex, his Queen of Entrails!"

"Blut is my trusted familiar and he shall be richly rewarded for bringing you to me this night."

"My Arch-Lord requires me to divine his coming; to find the sooth in the guts of those without parents each two years that pass. He waits in Hell for my mancy you see, my best fingering."

She unbuttoned my top with her crabs' legs and exposed my plump belly. I was afraid now, more afraid than I had ever been in my life. Exposed and trapped I began to laugh hysterically as the terrible hair pin was positioned just below the cross of my brassiere. 

One edge of the cursed thing was razor sharp. It began to draw a red line - first down, then swiftly across - my bare abdomen. She stepped back.

The line quickly opened up and blood gushed with sickening force. I screamed. My innards followed and they slopped out in steaming links sliding across the shiny floor. I shrieked with indescribable pain and stared in disbelief at the violation of my young body.

"Excellent deary, excellent! A tremendous set of tender pluck; such a mirrored sheen to be proud of too and a lovely pallet of blues and purples. What a treat. And now to work!" she exclaimed towering over the carnage.

She knelt down; her velvet dress draped in the blood slicking round her knees. She stared at me with the upmost cruelty before hefting my insides and vigorously rubbing her face in them. I screamed in agony. She looked up again smiling, her face basted in my warm blood, her black lipstick smeared across her cheeks.

She then poked her long left index fingernail deep into my innards, displayed like a dinner in front of her. She began flicking intestines and pushing bowels to find the perfect pattern for her master.

"Good, good, good! Lucifer will be so pleased with this, you auger well. So well my dear. This was a fine disembowelment, a rare bowling indeed, one which portends a visit from He himself. You are honoured truly!" the Haruspex enthused, licking bile from the iridescent liver still connected to my body.

"We shall have to keep her alive for our Lord, Blut. Lie her down in her tray with the prize sweeties just so. Her own blood and some meat gobbets will sustain her till Leviathan hears of this orphan's grand pile."

And so I am laid out in the vessel, gutted like a school frog, defiled and desecrated, where I have waited now for days, wracked by unfathomable pain and where I have written my story with my own finger in the blood pooled around me in the tray. No-one misses me but there maybe others.

Today He who will end me comes, so take heed for the sake of your life. Beware Viscera, the Haruspex, Queen of Entrails ..............