“Jesus is catering the last supper.”

Estranglo looked at Ariel and Bodoni.  Both of them looked as grave as his own self.  They both knew what he was going to say next.

“We should have destroyed the Messiah when we had the chance,” he said.

“There’s nothing we can do about that now,” said Ariel.  “We never knew that he would grow to such strength.” 

“Yes,” said Bodoni.  “And now we must atone for them.”

Estranglo nodded.  “There’s only one thing we can do.”

As Ariel and Bodoni stared at him, Estranglo continued to stir the soup in the cauldron before him.  Inside it were a myriad of body parts.  Feet bubbled to the top of the stew as he ladled it.

Nobody would miss the whore that they had murdered for the ingredients.

“Summon the demon,” Estranglo told Bodoni.  “Bring forth Perpetua.”

Bodoni nodded.

He went to the far corner of their cottage.  He knelt down and began to draw a circle on the hard ground floor.  Inside it, he forged a crude demon’s head.  Then he kneeled down before it; chanting.

“Help me,” he said, nodding to Ariel.  “The more the merrier.”

Ariel scowled, but he went and kneeled down beside his brother.  Together, along with him, he began to chant, too.

“Hurry,” said Estranglo.  “The stew is almost prepared.”

The chants became more erratic as Bodoni and Ariel were drawn into them.  They gripped hands as their heads began to whirl about on their shoulders.  And they went faster… and faster…

Until:

“Why have you awakened me from my sleep?”

Perpetua floated above them on a red gaseous cloud.  He looked every bit the demon that he was.  His ears rose into points, and he had a goatee that stretched down over his expansive chest.  His fangs were as white as his eyes were black.  His forked tongue slithered about in his mouth.  Two muscular arms were folded across his chest.

“Perpetua,” said Estranglo.  All three of them bent over in curtsy.  “We bow before you.”

“Enough of the slave worship,” said Perpetua.  “Get on with it.”

Estranglo looked up at him.

“We have made a mistake in allowing the Messiah to live,” he said.  “We never knew he would grow into such a threat.  We need help in destroying him.  Help that only you can give us.”

Perpetua bent back his head and laughed.  It made all of their skin crawl with fear.

“You three are worthless,” said Perpetua.  “Why should I help such failures as you?”

“You can succeed where Lucifer failed,” said Bodoni.  “You can escalate yourself in the bowels of Hell.”

Perpetua stroked his goatee.  “You certainly have a good excuse,” he said.  “To defeat Lucifer in anything would be a great accomplishment.  But still, what more do you have to offer me?”

“We are prepared with human flesh,” said Estranglo.  “We know of your affinity towards it.  We have arranged for you a fine feast.”

Perpetua leaned forward.  He studied the remains floating in the stew.  He licked his fangs.  “That appears to be good,” he said.  “But it needs a little something else.”

“And what would that be, my lord?”

“Your eyes,” said Perpetua.  “I want your eyes.  Show me how much you love your master.”

For a second, the three of them looked at one another.  Slowly, Estranglo nodded his head.  He was followed by Ariel and Bodoni.

They walked over to the wooden table beside the cauldron.  Lying atop it was a large silver spoon.    Estranglo picked it up.  His hand wavered as he held it up to his eyes.

“Do it,” said Perpetua.  “Or I leave.  I’m growing tired of this already.”

Estranglo pushed the spoon into his eyeball.  He held in his screams, his entire body shaking, as he spooned his eye out.  The other two watched as he did the second one.

He was followed by Bodoni.

Who was followed by Ariel…

Perpetua ignored the three blind men as he moved towards the table.  He picked up one of Bodoni’s eyeballs, studying the beautiful blue iris.

“I’ll do it,” said Perpetua.  “What the hell.”

And then he ate Bodoni’s eyeball.  It squished between his fangs.

“The Messiah is as good as dead.”

When Ingrid Romero crossed her legs, Pilate could see that she wasn’t wearing any panties.

It wasn’t a pretty sight.

Ingrid stood about 5’ tall.  She was extremely skinny and squat.  Her auburn hair was tied back in such a tight bun that it pulled back her facial features.  She stared across the desk at Pilate with sharp, beady eyes.  Her mouth seemed to be in a continuous pout.

“Do you accept this mission?” asked Pilate.

“Certainly,” replied Romero. 

Pilate was pleased to hear that.  Romero was a top-notch employee.  If she said she could get this mission complete, he wouldn’t doubt it. 

He pushed a photograph across the desk to her.  Romero picked it up and studied it. 

“This is the Swamp Thing’s daughter,” he told her.  “Her name is Tefe Holland.”

“Pretty girl,” replied Romero.

“I want her brought to me,” said Pilate.  “And I want her alive and well.  There’s already been a serious mishap regarding her father.”

“I don’t have a problem bringing her back alive,” Romero said.  “The question is finding her.”

“Does that put a wrinkle into your mission?”

“Oh no,” said Romero.  “The chase is always more fun than the catch.”

Pilate pulled out a cigarette.  He lit it and puffed it to life.  He blew the smoke across the desk.  Romero didn’t seem to notice it.  As quickly as he lit it, he stamped the cigarette out in an ashtray.  He was glad to see her stone cold resolve.

“I suggest you start looking in the swamp,” said Pilate.  “We have reason to believe that the Swamp Thing is dead.  You might be able to find her there” – he stopped, a sly grin spreading across his face – “grieving.”

“I’ll do that.”  Romero sighed.  “Is there anything else?”

“No,” replied Pilate.  “That’ll be all.”

“Good.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

“Of course,” said Pilate.  “I look forward to your success.”

Romero nodded.  And then she uncrossed her legs.  Pilate felt his stomach churn as he was offered another look at her crotch.

“Good luck,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Romero.  “But I won’t need it.  I never fail.”

As she left Pilate’s room, he sighed. 

“Indeed, you don’t,” he told himself.  “You never fail to upset one’s stomach.”

“Oh, my God!  Suck it, baby!”

Clyde Jones leaned back in the cab of his tractor trailer and moaned.  He pushed Laura’s head down further into his crotch.

“Here it comes,” he moaned.  “Just a little bit more… just a little bit… ah!”

Laura sucked down his cocksnot, gulping every bit of the goop that was as thick as egg-drop soup.  Then she pushed herself out of Clyde’s lap.  She pushed back her hair, smiling.

“Was that good, baby?” she asked.

“Oh shit,” said Clyde.  “It was better than good, honey.”

Laura laughed.  “That’ll be twenty bucks.”

“Now how could I forget that,” said Clyde.  He pulled out his wallet and fished out a twenty dollar bill.  He handed it across to Laura, who accepted it and placed it down the front of her blouse.

“Is there anything else you’ll need?” she asked.

“Not tonight, honey,” said Clyde.  “I’ve got to get this big assed rig back home.  I’ve got a wife and kids waiting, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” replied Laura.  “Remind me to never marry you.”  She saw Clyde shoot her a look, and smiled at him.  “Relax, baby,” she told him.  “Don’t get too uptight.”

Clyde winked at her.

He fired up a cigar and blew out a smoke ring.  Then he pulled a bottle of Jim Beam from beneath his seat.  He opened it up and took a long pull of the bourbon.  He offered it to Laura, but she begged off.

“Did you hear about the murder we had in town?” she asked him.

Clyde shook his head.  “Nah,” he said.  He took another drink and capped the bottle.  He returned it beneath his seat.  “Has it got the whole town in a hubbub?”

Laura pulled a crumpled pack of Pall Mall out of her shirt pocket.  She fingered out a cigarette.  Clyde lit her up.

“Somebody killed a kid,” she told him.  “I heard whoever did it tore him completely apart.  Ripped off his legs and arms and head, everything.”

“Ain’t anything worse than a child killer,” Clyde muttered.  “And they haven’t caught who did it?”

“Nope,” said Laura.  “From what I’ve heard, they have no idea.  Some say it was just a vagrant passing through town.  I don’t know.”

“Well, I hope they find him and string him up by his balls,” said Clyde.

Laura sighed.  She looked at the Big T Truck Stop sign out the window.  This was what her life had been reduced to.

“I’ve got to get back to work, baby,” she told him.  “But I hope to see you the next time you’re through.”

“Oh honey,” said Clyde, hitching up his pants.  “You’ll definitely be seeing me.”

Clyde watched her climb out of the cab.  He waved to her as he started up the engine.  Then he gave her a blast on his horn.  Laura watched him until his tail lights disappeared into the dark.

On the radio, Hank Williams Jr. began to sing “A Country Boy Can Survive”.  Clyde sang along with him.

There was no one else on the road.  Clyde hadn’t passed a single soul since he’d left the Big T Truck Stop.  It was well past midnight, and he figured most folks were at home in bed. 

Outside, a full moon appeared behind a bank of dark clouds pregnant with rain.

He rolled down the window to toss out his cigar.  And that’s when the massively hairy arm reached into the cab.

Clyde screamed like a little schoolgirl.

The thing’s massive claws ripped open his jaw.  His dirty rotten teeth were exposed beneath the gory wound.

He jerked the rig off the road.  It crashed down through the brush.  Finally, as it came to the bottom of the hill, the vehicle overturned.  Inside the cab, Clyde could smell gas coming from the burst engine.

“Jesus Christmas! Holy Jesus goddamn! Holy Jesus jumping Christmas shit!” Clyde managed through his wounded jaw.

The thing leaped down off the top of the cab.  In the glow of the full moon, Clyde couldn’t believe his eyes.  It was a werewolf.

And then the engine exploded in a fireball that reached towards the sky.

The werewolf turned and bound off into the inky darkness.  It didn’t have time to wait for a barbequed feast.

It loped up and across the highway.  It didn’t give heed to the roadside sign that read:

YOU’RE LEAVING HOUMA, LOUISIANA
HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR STAY!

“I can’t believe it,” breathed Shelley Summers.  “It’s the Swamp Thing’s corpse!”

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Mark.  “I told you I knew where it was.”

“I never believed it,” said Shelley.  “I never thought we’d find it dead.”

“Yeah, well, at least you found it.”

Mark watched as she began to take photographs.  Personally, he hadn’t thought they’d find it dead, either.  The last time he’d seen it, it’d been alive and running through the swamp.

Shelley continued to take pictures of the Swamp Thing’s husk.  It was the final resting place of his last body.

“Well, how about you pay me now?” said Mark.

Shelley put down the camera and stared at him.  He was unbuckling his jeans.  She could see his stomach, as white as a fish’s belly, unroll beneath his too tight t-shirt that read SMELL MY FARTS.

She sighed.

She had agreed to give him a blowjob if he led her to the site.  Now, it was time for her to shit or get off the pot. 

“Alright,” she said.  “Just hold your horses.”

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out.  Mark’s head exploded in a gruesome tableau of bones, brains, and shredded flesh.  His fat body, headless, crumpled to the ground.

Ingrid Romero stepped from the darkness.  Her smoking pistol was held out in front of her, trained on Shelley.

“What are you doing?” she cried.  “You just killed him!”

“And?” said Romero.

Shelley looked from Romero’s impassive face to the gun that was held point-blank towards her.  A stark realization passed over her.

“Please,” she said, “don’t kill me.”

“Oh yes,” said Romero.  “Beg for your life.  It makes me hot.” 

“You can’t do this!”

“Of course I can,” replied Romero.  She smiled.  “Now start taking off your clothes.”

“What?”  Shelley couldn’t believe her ears.

“Take off your clothes,” Romero repeated.  She reached out with the gun, taunting her.  “I don’t plan on raping a corpse.”