CHAPTER III
Family Values

“I’m gonna fuck you until you scream!” spat Pilate Voorhees. “Now scream, you bitch!”

Abby let loose with a scream that resonated throughout the house. It was so loud that it woke her mother, Laura Wheeler.

Pilate came inside her. And then he rolled off onto the other side of the bed. He reached over onto the nightstand and picked up a cigar. He lit it and exhaled a cloud of smoke that was the color of blue steel.

Abby could feel his seed running down her thigh. She fought back the vomit that reeled up her throat in hot waves.

From her bedroom, Laura let out with a cry.

“Go and check on your mother,” said Pilate. “And tell her to shut up that damned screaming. It’s getting on my nerves.”

Abby climbed out of the bed. She slipped on her nightgown and left the bedroom. Laura was on the couch, crying.

“Why do you let him do it to me?” Abby asked. “He’s my father for crissakes!”

“I don’t know,” Laura said. She wiped away her tears. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“You could stop the bastard,” said Abby. She lowered her voice, not wanting Pilate to hear. “Help me, mother. He rapes me every damned night.”

Laura looked up at her daughter. She was beautiful. Her skin was rosy, and her long hair, the color of pale milk, ran down over her shoulders.

“You’re so pretty,” she said.

“Don’t try to change the subject,” said Abby. “I need you, mother. Where are you?”

“You’re going to kill us both, aren’t you?” asked Laura. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Abby looked down at the floor. She wiggled her naked toes.

“You’re not my mother,” she said. “There’s no way in hell that I’m your daughter.”

“But you are,” replied Laura. “And I love you.”

Abby laughed. And then she turned to go back to her bedroom.

“Fuck you.”

The Swamp Thing stood alone in the cornfield.

He wasn’t exactly sure why he was here, or what he was supposed to do, but he felt the waves of energy pulling off the scarecrow.

It was hung there in the cornfield, crucified. Its head, topped off with a hat that was too large for it, dripped down over its chest. It was clothed in rags with its tattered shirt and pants.

A crow rested solemnly on its shoulder.

Swamp Thing went over and touched the scarecrow. His arm shuddered from the power coming off it.

“This is it,” he told himself.

Then he broke himself down into molecules that streamed into the scarecrow.

He lifted his head and stared out at the cornfield.

The crow on his shoulder took flight. He watched it as it flew into the air.

And then he waited. It was something the Swamp Thing was good at. He could wait, patiently and lonesome, for a long time.

“Why me?” he asked himself.

But no one but the crow answered him.

Abby held both Laura and Pilate at gunpoint.

“Alright,” she said. “I’ve had enough of this bullshit. The both of you are going to find your way out to the cornfield with me. And if either of you thinks different, I’m going to put a bullet in you. Do you understand?”

Laura silently nodded.

“You bitch,” said Pilate. “I’m going to get you for this. Ain’t no way you’re going to shoot me with my own gun.”

Abby laughed.

“Get your skinny ass to moving, DAD,” she said.

Abby led them both out of the house. They walked across the yard, pitted with dead grass and red clay, out into the cornfield.

She led them straight to the scarecrow.

“What’s the meaning of this?” asked Laura.

“Shut up,” Abby told her. “And just stay still.”

Pilate looked at her. Abby was disgusted by his nude body. His ribs were poking out, and he was covered in skin cancers. His flaccid penis peeked out of its curly pubic hair.

“I’m going to beat your ass good and proper for this,” said Pilate.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” replied Abby.

Suddenly, from the scarecrow, the Swamp Thing regenerated himself. His molecules curled out of the corn fed body and resurrected himself in front of Pilate.

“You’re not going to hurt anyone,” he said to Pilate.

“Fuck you, swamp man,” Pilate said to him. “You ain’t gonna do shit.”

Abby stared at him. She was surprised that she wasn’t afraid of the Swamp Thing. And she was even more surprised that Pilate wasn’t.

Pilate spat at Swamp Thing. The mucous splattered on his chest and ran down in sticky rivulets.

Swamp Thing stepped forward and lifted Pilate into the air.

“You’ve made a mistake, little man,” said Swamp Thing.

He then threw Pilate onto the ground. As the old man did his best to back away, scrambling like a crab on his knotty elbows, the Swamp Thing reached out and grabbed him by the arms. With one mighty tug, Swamp Thing ripped them both off.

“You aren’t going to rape anyone ever again,” he told Pilate, and then he proceeded to beat the old man to death with his own arms.

Gore shot out of Pilate’s arm stumps as he lay dead on the ground. His facial features had been beat so bad that neither Abby nor Laura could recognize him.

Swamp Thing dropped the arms.

“I’m finished here,” he said. And he turned his back on both Abby and Laura.

“Thank you,” said Abby.

Swamp Thing looked over his shoulder at her. A smile was painted across his verdant features. And then he was gone.

“That was awful,” breathed Laura.

“Don’t think that I’ve forgotten about you,” said Abby. She nudged the pistol into Laura’s back. “You have retribution coming your way, you bitch.”

Laura stood still as Abby kept the pistol trained on her. She watched as her daughter walked to the scarecrow.

Abby unzipped his tattered pants. And then she pulled out a corncob from his crotch. Strangely, it stood erect.

“Off with your clothes,” Abby told Laura.

Without a word, Laura disrobed. She stood naked in the afternoon sun, a cold chill running down her spine.

“Get over there to him,” said Abby.

“What are you going to have me do?” asked Laura, though she already knew.

“Bend over and get your ass on that corncob,” said Abby. “You’re going to rape yourself for all the times that you let that bastard touch me.”

Laura did as she was instructed. She screamed out loud as she sodomized herself on the corncob.

Abby threw her head back and laughed. Then she stared at Laura, who had tears streaming down her face.

“Talk about getting literally corn holed,” she said. And then she reached out with the pistol and shot Laura in the head.

Laura fell off the corncob with a disgusting PLOP.

“Nobody is ever going to touch me again,” said Abby. “And if they do.” She blew the smoke filtering away off the pistol. “That’ll be their tough shit.”

Cranston shot Dick in both kneecaps.

Dick screamed. He reached down, trying to stem the blood that was streaming from his wounds. He fell down onto the floor.

He dropped his machete.

“Oh dear,” said Cranston. “Someone just made a big mistake.”

He went over and picked up the machete. He held it in his hand for a moment, admiring the blade. And then he jammed it into Dick’s outstretched hand.

“I’m doing this for your own good,” said Cranston.

He ignored Dick spitting in his face as he bent down beside him. The saliva dripped down off of Cranston’s leather mask. He searched through Dick’s pocket and found what he was looking for: the knife.

Taking the blade, he squashed it into Dick’s other hand.

Cranston leaned back, admiring his handiwork (no pun intended). Dick was crucified to the floor.

Then he reached out with the pistol and knocked Dick unconscious.

“Now,” he said, “let’s check on our other visitor.”

Cranston went over and kneeled down beside Jimmy.

“Are you okay?”

Jimmy, awakened from the gunfire, turned around and looked at him. Blood was streaming down his forehead. He reached up and wiped it away.

“I’m doing better than your master,” he said, and he nodded to where Cranston’s sadomasochistic master was lying dead.

“Yes,” said Cranston, “indeed.”

“Okay,” said Jimmy, regaining his footing. “Let’s get this shit over and done with.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Grab some chalk or something,” Jimmy told him. “And we’re going to draw a pentagram around him.”

Cranston did as he was told. He returned to the scene with a piece of chalk he grabbed from his art study.

“Get to drawing,” commanded Jimmy, “while I figure this shit out.”

He flipped through the Cremorium Vestum as Cranston drew the pentagram.

“Okay,” said Jimmy. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Jimmy kneeled down over Dick’s body.

“Repeat after me,” he told Cranston. And then he began to read from the book. The words flowed smoothly from his mouth. Jimmy was surprised to learn that he could understand the book so well.

They both continued to chant. And then…

The demon ripped its way up from Dick’s stomach. Gore spewed about the room and onto Jimmy and Cranston’s faces. Bits of torn muscle snaked out from the wound as the demon appeared. It floated up on a wisp of red smoke. Its body was muscular. Egg yolk yellow eyes peered out of its contorted face. Two horns sat proudly on its forehead.

Then it began to feast on Dick’s face.

“What’s gone wrong?” asked Cranston.

“Nothing,” said Jimmy, wiping away the blood. “This is what’s supposed to happen. It needs to feast off its host first.”

And that’s just what the demon did. It tore off bits of Dick’s face and shoulders. Shredded flesh hung from its fangs as it devoured what it could of Dick before Jimmy began to read the final spell from the book.

“Be gone!” screamed Jimmy.

The demon turned and stared at him. Then, in a cloud of blazing smoke, it filtered away up to the high ceiling of Cranston’s mansion.

Jimmy pulled the knife from Dick’s hand and tossed it across the room. And then he wielded the machete. He sliced it through the air.

“Can you imagine being chopped to death with this thing?” he said.

Cranston felt his stomach turn. He puked as he looked down at Dick’s corpse. He vomited right onto his face.

“Sorry,” said Cranston, weakly.

“I don’t think he’s going to mind that,” said Jimmy. He stood up and tossed the machete aside. Then he pulled out a cigarette and lit up. This time, as he coughed, he noticed that the blood was back in his saliva. He smiled. He wasn’t as far away from the grave as he’d thought.

“Is it over?” asked Cranston.

“Yeah,” said Jimmy. “That should’ve done the trick.”

“Thank God,’ said Cranston. He stood up, wiping the puke off his mouth. “I’m so glad it’s over.”

“Yeah,” said Jimmy. “Now, you get to clean up the mess.”

“How will I explain it?” asked Cranston. “Somebody is bound to miss him. What am I going to do with the body?”

Jimmy jerked a thumb towards the fireplace. “Burn it,” he said.

“Yes,” agreed Cranston. “That’s what I’ll do.”

“Got any bourbon?” asked Jimmy. “I feel like shaking hands with Jim Beam.”

“You’re a soulless bastard, you know that?”

“I’ve been called worse,” said Jimmy. He walked over to the bar. Instead of filling up a tumbler, he unscrewed the bottle and took a long pull. “That’s some good shit,” he said.

“Help me get this body over to the fireplace,” said Cranston.

“No way, buddy,” replied Jimmy. “That’s all your doing. I’ve already done my part in this whole fiasco.”

“You’re just going to leave?” asked Cranston.

Jimmy shrugged. “Sure,” he said.

Cranston sighed. He wiped blood, snot, and puke off his face and looked at Jimmy. “What do we do now?” he asked.

“Now,” said Jimmy, “we live with it."