Sloughing Off the Rot by Lance Carbuncle Page B

pounced on the backs of the heavy-footed bull beasts and scratched at the massive animals’ eyes. Other animals became tripping blocks for the members of the horned stampede and were crushed under hooves. As the bull beasts slammed into the ground, other jizz-critters pounced on them and tore open the bovine underbellies, unraveling the mess of intestines, feasting on the entrails. And the melee swirled in a bloody current all around the clearing at the center of the arena where the Chellovecks spat their mad shit from blow-horns.
    When the song ended, the trumpet-Chellovecks held their horns to their sides and gazed at the fracas around them. Without the horns blowing, the jizz-critters felt no need to steer clear of the center of the pit. The swirling current of animals scattered. The Chellovecks found themselves in no better of a position than the bull beasts as they fended off attacks from all manner of animals. One trumpet-Chelloveck swung his horn wildly at the crush of furry attackers, knocking five-legged dogs and fish-birds to the ground. But, the effort proved futile when the massive longhorn of a bull beast poked through his back and out of his chest. With a Chelloveck-kabob on his spike, the bull beast flicked his head to the side and tossed the little-big man aside, leaving him to bleed out and be trampled and fed on by the panicked jizz-critters. Before the remaining trumpeters could scramble for safety, the frenzied animals knocked them to the ground and tore them to scraps.
    “Ah, what is this vonny cal?” said Chelloveck to John. Chelloveck smacked an open hand to his forehead and grimaced. “Such a kick to the yarbles – three more of my sons tossed at the dung heap like nothing more than soiled holy undergarments. Three more sons that I have to replace.”
    In the pit of the arena the jizz-critters tore each other down until there was almost nothing but carnage. Several victorious creatures still lived but suffered mortal wounds. A new crew of Chellovecks entered the arena and whacked with sledges at the heads of still-alive but dying critters, dispatching them wholly and completely. And the crew tossed the carcasses onto a wagon and dragged them from the arena, leaving a muddy, bloody sludge on the ground. During the cleanup-intermission, Chelloveck called for more food and drink for his guests. And the crowd of Chellovecks roared in approval. John gladly accepted and gorged himself on scruff goat and hard cider. When he started to tell Santiago how nice it was to have a full feast, John saw that his crazy-eyed, shaggy friend was gone. The ebony pipe, still smoking, sat on the table as a marker, holding Santiago’s place. John picked up the pipe and drew heavily on the fuming bezoar.

     
    And the feasting continued. Chellovecks chugged cider and gnawed on meat until their bellies grew taut and their thoughts muddied. Although the hunger for food was sated, a desire to witness more carnage possessed the Chelloveck spectators. In their drunken revelry, the Chellovecks screamed for more entertainment. Down in the arena, Chelloveck guards forced prisoners to engage in mortal battle with one another merely for the amusement of the Chellovecks. Men, tied back to back, fended off jizz-critter attacks with their bare hands. Weapons were set in the middle of the arena and the men scrambled to claim their implements of destruction, smashing each other’s bones with maces and clubs and bricks, slashing at each other with knives and swords, poking with pitchforks, striking out with sticks. The bloodier the ground became, the more the Chellovecks whipped themselves into a frothy mania.
    Just when it seemed that the slaughter had reached a climax, three more Chellovecks in colorful ephods strode to the center of the pit, stepping over bodies and body parts on the way, and started blowing more steaming licks from convoluted blow horns. In answer to the creaching, chaotic horn racket, a platoon of unarmed