The Primal Kind
By Grant Wamack
In the early hours of the morning, hunger gnawed at my thin frame. It was a matter of instinct, the primal kind. So I whipped out some bacon from the fridge and a pan from the cabinet. I wondered where the eggs were, but I figured they were stolen by the goose people. I should really buy a gun to prevent these burglaries from happening. They are all too frequent.
Gas erupted from the stove then it evolved into fire. The heat warmed the bottom of the pan. I carefully laid out the juicy strips of bacon which instantly popped and sizzled. The smell was godly. A woman seeped out of the bubbles, growing at an incredibly fast rate, till she fell to the kitchen floor with a wet smack.
I dropped to my knees, “I will love you till the day I die” I said. Not a moment later, I got busy gnawing away at her thick juicy thighs.
She grabbed a piece of bacon right off the stove and bit into it. “This is great stuff,” she said in between chews.
Her eyes leaked grease. The best invention of mankind, next to bacon of course. Immediately, I licked her left eye. In response, she moaned in absolute ecstasy.
“You like that don’t you?” I asked.
She nodded.
I grabbed her hand and led her into the musty basement. She was like a newborn child tasting and feeling everything for the first time. Wonder dripped from her armpits and her eyes.
I got down on all fours and began peeling away the old floorboards till my fingers became ragged and bloody. I plunged my hands into the darkness beneath and pulled out a dirty brown sloth that wrapped its arms around me and whispered sweet nothings into my ear.
In the corner, laid a wooden casket, I forgot who it belonged to, perhaps Gandhi. We made our way in carefully, feet first. The sloth crawled off my back and scrambled away to some branch in the dark jungle that lay beside us. Nonetheless, I laid down all comfortable like and the bacon woman wrapped her delicious body around mine. Her grease seeped through my hand spun tweed suit and filled in the vast space around us.
Someone knocked desperately on the basement door, yelling incoherently. The sound of pans and glass clattering and smashing drifted down. Whoever was in my house, this intruder, was making quite a ruckus.
“Please make them stop,” I pleaded.
“Hush now. Don’t worry about them.” She closed my eyes shut. “The goose people are going into withdrawal. They need bacon. The whole goddamn world needs bacon.”
As she spoke I went into convulsions, frothing at the mouth, overdosing on bacon and love.
- - -
Biography:Grant Wamack writes weird fiction and has been published in The Flash Fiction Offensive, Nemonymous 8, Polluto #2, and 365 Tomorrows among other places. You can hear him talk about nothing at http://grantwamack.blogspot.com/.
By Grant Wamack
In the early hours of the morning, hunger gnawed at my thin frame. It was a matter of instinct, the primal kind. So I whipped out some bacon from the fridge and a pan from the cabinet. I wondered where the eggs were, but I figured they were stolen by the goose people. I should really buy a gun to prevent these burglaries from happening. They are all too frequent.
Gas erupted from the stove then it evolved into fire. The heat warmed the bottom of the pan. I carefully laid out the juicy strips of bacon which instantly popped and sizzled. The smell was godly. A woman seeped out of the bubbles, growing at an incredibly fast rate, till she fell to the kitchen floor with a wet smack.
I dropped to my knees, “I will love you till the day I die” I said. Not a moment later, I got busy gnawing away at her thick juicy thighs.
She grabbed a piece of bacon right off the stove and bit into it. “This is great stuff,” she said in between chews.
Her eyes leaked grease. The best invention of mankind, next to bacon of course. Immediately, I licked her left eye. In response, she moaned in absolute ecstasy.
“You like that don’t you?” I asked.
She nodded.
I grabbed her hand and led her into the musty basement. She was like a newborn child tasting and feeling everything for the first time. Wonder dripped from her armpits and her eyes.
I got down on all fours and began peeling away the old floorboards till my fingers became ragged and bloody. I plunged my hands into the darkness beneath and pulled out a dirty brown sloth that wrapped its arms around me and whispered sweet nothings into my ear.
In the corner, laid a wooden casket, I forgot who it belonged to, perhaps Gandhi. We made our way in carefully, feet first. The sloth crawled off my back and scrambled away to some branch in the dark jungle that lay beside us. Nonetheless, I laid down all comfortable like and the bacon woman wrapped her delicious body around mine. Her grease seeped through my hand spun tweed suit and filled in the vast space around us.
Someone knocked desperately on the basement door, yelling incoherently. The sound of pans and glass clattering and smashing drifted down. Whoever was in my house, this intruder, was making quite a ruckus.
“Please make them stop,” I pleaded.
“Hush now. Don’t worry about them.” She closed my eyes shut. “The goose people are going into withdrawal. They need bacon. The whole goddamn world needs bacon.”
As she spoke I went into convulsions, frothing at the mouth, overdosing on bacon and love.
- - -
Biography:Grant Wamack writes weird fiction and has been published in The Flash Fiction Offensive, Nemonymous 8, Polluto #2, and 365 Tomorrows among other places. You can hear him talk about nothing at http://grantwamack.blogspot.com/.
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