MicroHorror

Three in one night. That was a record for Michael Peterson. Each one of those stupid whores that will get in a car with just about anybody deserved it. They deserved every orgasm-inducing shove of the knife. They deserved every thrust no matter how much they pretended it hurt. They deserved to lie on top of each other, like winter cordwood, in the trunk of Michael’s car. That’s what they get for having a dirty crotch… dirty tongues… dirty eyes. These items, separated from their original owners, rested wetly in the glove box. Mother would be proud. Michael leaned forward and clicked the static-filled car radio off just as the DJ said, “And, incredibly, it appears that rampant canni–”

Michael stopped the car next to the access road to the river embankment. Although this was the same spot he dumped the first two in, but not the subsequent six, the stupid local police were still baffled and would never find them. He smiled, thinking of the harried, flustered calls to the FBI. Yeah, there was a pro in town, deal with it.

Michael turned the lock on his trunk. Lost in his Most Wanted fantasy, he failed to notice that there was movement… movement… in the trunk. Michael sighed and swung the trunk up, preparing for the mundane work of corpse disposal. In an explosion of flesh, Michael’s fantasy was abruptly cut shot and he fell backwards as the three naked, mutilated prostitutes exploded from the cramped space. Their mouths gaped, without tongues, thanks to Michael. The deep, black eye sockets made the former professional sex workers look like cartoon characters as they scrambled, one over the other, out of the trunk and toward Michael. Hands outstretched, clawing for Michael more in hunger than revenge, he was overcome easily. A weak man in general, the knife made him bigger and badder. So bad that not even Michael’s mother could beat him down. Michael’s knife clattered away, out of his pocket, as he fell, useless.

The spots that formerly contained the genitalia of the young women were caked in dried blood, the kind that looked like mud, as they swarmed their killer. Michael didn’t even get a chance to scream before his esophagus was ripped out and consumed. He writhed for a while under the attack and, in spite of himself, climaxed as one of them pulled his small intestines from his body with her teeth.

Too bad for Michael, but he enjoyed the silence when he worked. If the radio had been on he would have heard the news reports of walking corpses and cannibal murders.