Cannibal 4H Chapter Twenty: A Day at The Races by Eurytion
THE TREES WERE CLOTHED in a harlequin costume of terra-cotta, gold and umber
leaves, the occasional loden green needles of a pine or a spruce serving only to
emphasize fall's onslaught. A handful of high chalky clouds danced their way
eastward in the wind as the sun continued to rise up the dome of a milk glass
sky. The morning chill, more invigorating than a cup of black coffee from
Rowena's, had been replaced by a temperate breeze whose movement snapped the
pennants on the triple-spired red roof of the grandstand to and fro.
August's Cannibal Fair was a local event, attended mainly by local residents
since almost every county in the country had their own version of that summer
festival. But the three days in October devoted to the Chiron Cup races were a
major regional event attracting spectators and competitors from beyond a
five-state area.
The substantial influx of outside money from the Cup festivities was a boon to
the community's economy, providing an appreciated cushion against the ups and
down of farming. Not all local residents welcomed out of town guests with open
arms. Dara Henderson and her clique, who aired their grievances like the weekend
wash, always groused loudly about the crowds, the noise, the difficulty of
getting a meal in the town's restaurants and the overwhelming volume of traffic.
Most of the business owners were too busy tallying up the day's receipts to take
notice of the complaints.
While the races were the main attraction, they were not the only inducement to
visit. For two days before the races the fairgrounds were filled with musical
acts, plays and other smaller entertainments such as acrobats, jongleurs, and
illusionists. There were competitions for best musical group, theatre troupe,
saltimbanque show, and strolling player.
Meals were also the subject of competitions. The cuisine served at the Cup races
was more upscale and varied than at the fair, with dishes such as servelles au
berrenoir or beef en daube offered by the caterers to the owners in their
private dining area. Pot-au-feu, cassoulets or lobscouse were available in the
clubhouse eatery while grandstand residents could dine on boiled dinners,
sausages and sauerbraten. Of course, as befits an area whose main industry was
human cattle ranching, excellent barbecue from the chuck wagons dotting the
grounds was available to all. More than four dozen head of cattle, many from
the Geryon's ranch, would be spit-roasted to a dusky umber over open fires,
while another dozen would find their dismembered way into the broilers to be
served on a stick or as sandwiches.
Billing itself as "your guide to the nation's best fairs, festivals and other
celebrations," Callithump magazine did an annual feature on Chiron Cup cuisine
which rated the various offerings and included recipes for the most popular.
Rival restaurateurs jockeyed to appear between its covers. Ernst Grayh, who
together with his wife Mitzi, ran Procrustes' Carvery, a fashionable restaurant
in the next county, had raised the bar this year by running a series of
advertisements before the races promising a new specialty, one which would be "a
taste sensation unlike any ever offered before."
With all the attractions and the national publicity, the Chiron Cup races were
very well attended. Cars, campers, pickups and trailers of both the horse and
human kind loaded the parking lot and surrounding streets to capacity. Long
queues of people waiting at each of the seven entrances for the festivities to
begin were common. Today had been no different.
To make sure they got a good seat, Dickie Peal and Ralph Levitt had arrived at
the southwest gate an hour before it was scheduled to open. Seating in the
grandstand was at a premium and the pair of ranch hands wanted to get the best
spots possible. While they were waiting they talked about the campaign of
vandalism against human cattle ranching and what was being done, or to their way
of thinking, not being done about it.
Since the initial occurrence at Shea's Butcher Shop and despite the efforts of
the sheriff's department the harassment had continued. Several shops had been
defaced with blood-red "Stop the Murder" graffiti. Roofing nails were scattered
in parking lots. Fences at ranches were torn down and mailboxes smashed.
Repeated incidents of sugar in petrol tanks had led to Peter Barton's supply
store placing two reorders for locking caps. The latest attack, a serious
dustbin fire behind Crenshaw's, had moved the situation from one of
mosquito-like annoyance to one demanding action.
Assigned to crowd control duties at the races, deputies Wally Zehr and Stan
Triplett, were also engaged in heated conversation over the same subject. "Mutt,
I don't find this stuff fucking amusing anymore," the taller of the two lawmen
told his partner. "This shit is going to stop before somebody gets hurt."
"OK, I'm with you on that but how? We've stepped up patrols but we can't be
everywhere at once unless you want to deputize everyone in the county and
somehow I don't think the sheriff's going to buy that one. Can you see Dickie
Peal running around with a badge, let alone a gun? That'd be a bigger threat to
public safety than anything that's happened so far."
Spitting a stream of umber tobacco juice onto the ground in disgust, Zehr
explained "Don't need 'em. You and I can do this ourselves."
"Wally, at the risk of being repetitive and repetitious let me once again pose
my original question of how? How are you and I going to pull off this miracle
of law enforcement, I'd say singlehandedly but that wouldn't be quite right
since there are two of us, dual-handedly maybe?"
"We're going after Annelise Dracon, that's how. We both know that bitch is
behind all of this. It started once she hit town. It won't end until she's
caught."
Sighing heavily, Triplett stared directly at his partner. "Look, I agree with
you it probably is her. Hell, Ev McAuliffe knows her as well as anyone and he
thinks she's behind it. But thinking it, even knowing it, isn't the same as
proving it."
A second brown stream followed the first. "Only way to prove it is to catch her.
Only way to catch her is to watch her. That's what you and I are going to do,
watch her. Nothing illegal. We're not going to pull a black-bag job and toss
her house. We're not going to plant a bug on her. Just going to keep a friendly
eye on her; make sure she's safe and all right 'cause ya know those letters of
hers have stirred up a real shit storm in town. No telling who might have a
hard-on for her. It's our job to make sure she's safe. Serve and protect
that's us."
Running his hand across the bottom of his face, Mutt queried his partner,
"Remember that scene in Bringing Up Baby where Katherine Hepburn is throwing the
rocks at the window and Cary Grant says 'I know I should run but somehow I just
can't move.' Just think of me as Cary Grant. Aw hell, I'm just as tired of this
shit as you are. I guess somebody has to keep a closer eye on the lady. If she
thinks we're stalking her she can always go to the Judge for a writ of
prevention."
Unaware a target had just been pinned to her back, Anneliese sat in her kitchen,
her left hand glistening, a tube of burn ointment lying half-crumpled on the
white wood table. The lid of the dustbin had dropped down at the worst possible
time, just after the bottle full of petrol had shattered inside, trapping her
hand in the expanding flames for several seconds. While it was happening,
Anneliese felt more fear than she did pain.
Not a fear of dying, she knew the time left her was limited, soon she would be
caught and, once caught, her demise would be assured. She wasn't afraid of how
she would die; she had resigned herself to her death being humiliating and
painful, one intended to serve as a warning to others. Her fear was of dying
before she had completed her life's mission, before she could redeem the
sacrifices Aunt Vi had made, before she could keep her final promise to
Sebastian.
Although her injuries weren't serious, mostly some redness and swelling with
only a couple of small second degree burns and a bruise where the lid had
landed, she knew she couldn't be seen until they healed. Too bad since she had
something very special planned for the races. Still it probably wasn't a bad
idea to lie low for a while and let others aid the struggle. Some one or ones
had rallied to the cause because she hadn't put sugar in anybody's petrol tank
and she sure hadn't gone riding around tearing down fences. For now she was
content to see what her mysterious allies came up with while she recuperated.
As an owner, even a temporary one, Joey didn't have to wait in queue for the
gates to open. The morning found him in the squire's parlour sharing a lavish
breakfast with the other owners, selected buyers, high rollers and the managers
of the stables involved in the day's competitions. Despite his success as a
human cattle rancher, he felt awkward as the newest member of this society, a
dabbler among professionals and so he tried to stay on the fringes of the crowd,
quietly circling the edges of the room with his attention fixated on his plate
as though he was waiting for the peppered bacon to tell him who it had been in
its former incarnation.
His reticent behaviour was noticed by Edmund Dirks. The lad is behaving like a
skittish colt afraid of its own shadow. We will have to put that right and
bloody quickly too. Stopping on the way to pick up a flute of sparkling wine
for his young charge, nothing like a little Dutch courage to stiffen the
backbone and loosen the tension he always felt, Dirks sauntered across to
literally take Joey in hand.
"Mitchell, I'd like you to meet Joseph Geryon," said Dirks addressing himself to
a tall man whose finely chiselled face was set off with a short-cropped black
beard. "This is the first time out for Joseph. He has a pair of horses running
in the fledgling races. Joseph, this is Mitchell MacHale, he runs the Diamond Z
Stables. Mitchell is both a dear friend and a fierce competitor of mine, which
will make beating him this year all the more enjoyable. "
The bearded man's eyes twinkled as the introductions were made. "Glad to make
your acquaintance, Joseph. Sorry to hear you're hooked up with this old pirate
though," he said sticking out a right hand whose index finger stopped short at
the second knuckle. "It's always sad when a man as distinguished as Edmund
slips away into a fantasy world. I guess the ravages of old age are finally
catching up. Well, it had to happen sometime but knowing he's delusional makes
me a little ashamed of wagering with him again this year. Not too ashamed to
take my winnings mind but still just a little guilty of taking advantage of an
old friend's troubles."
"I would hate to put temptation in your way Mitchell given your weak nature in
that regard but should we double our wager this year, two weeks instead of one?"
"Done and done, Edmund. I can feel those tropical breezes now. I'll be sure
and send you back a postcard."
"And I'll be sure and give Tansy your love."
As they walked away Edmund explained there was a standing bet between the two
stable managers. Whoever scored the highest average of points per entry in the
Cup race was sent on a week's holiday to Tahiti at the other's expense. Tansy
was the proprietor of the resort the winner stayed at.
Methodically, Edmund worked the room with Joey at his side, acquainting him with
all and sundry. At every stop Edmund included Joey in a brief conversation,
helping to assuage the young man's nervousness. "Yes, Mrs. Applewhite, I do
think the track will be rather fast today and I could not agree with you more
that any mudders will come a cropper. By the way do you know . . . William,
I want you to meet someone. ... Hello James, how is your wife? I think you
may have already met . . . Mrs. Satran, you are looking especially elegant
this morning. Might I have the pleasure of introducing Joseph. . . "
Toward the end of their perambulations, a short, stout, hard built individual
stepped into their path, blocking their progress. His skin was grey as though
it had been ever so slightly soiled with a clay which wouldn't wash out. A
leonine head was framed by a fading black mane of tousled hair. Dark brown eyes
set in deep sockets had the quickness of a hawk and showed as much warmth. Here
and there on his face small patches of bristly whiskers interspersed with lines
of raw skin attested to a shaky hand holding a razor.
His attire, a single-breasted taupe linen jacket with dark brown pants, was
appropriate to the occasion but slightly shiny as though the clothes had been
ironed once too often. Thin stray threads showed on the edges of his yellow
tie, held crookedly in place by a topaz tiepin. A light patina of dust coated
the outside counters of his scuffed cordovan shoes.
"Hullo, Eddie. I knew you wouldn't leave without at least passing a minute or
two of the time with me. Are you going to introduce me to your friend here,"
the stranger asked in a voice that grated on the ears like a hinge in need of
oiling.
"Of course, this is Joseph Geryon. Joseph, this is Travis Gordon." Joey could
hear a tinge of disquiet colour Dirk's rich diction. Gordon held out a square
and stubby hand, nails cut unevenly and knuckles topped with wiry thick hairs.
Forewarned by the tone of Dirk's response, Joey made certain to press the web of
flesh between his thumb and index finger as far back into Gordon's hand as it
would go. The manoeuvre foiled Gordon's attempt to grind Joey's hand into
paste.
After a few seconds of fruitless effort, Gordon broke off the handshake.
"Pleased to meet you Joe. I don't want to be rude, us having just met and all,
but I wonder if Trav could have a few moments alone with his old pal Eddie
here." Without waiting for an answer Gordon placed his hand in the small of
Dirk's back and began to steer him toward the corner.
The pair retreated, Gordon talking with his mouth close to Dirk's ear; Dirk
reacting by nodding or shaking his head. Joey saw Dirks reach into his back
pocket, take out his wallet, count out several bills and hand them to the
shorter man who promptly stuck them in his front pocket. As Joey and Edmund
left the owner's parlour to descend to trackside, his curiosity got the better
of him.
"Edmund, this is probably none of my business but are you in any sort of
trouble? I mean is Gordon, does he have, is there something . . . " A mirthless
laugh escaped the stable manger's lips. "Joseph, are you trying to ask if
Gordon is blackmailing me? Or if perhaps he holds an old gambling debt of mine
and I need to pay it off before someone breaks my legs? I assure you it is
nothing of the sort. The truth is far more prosaic and much more boring
although in its own way just as distressing. However, today is not the day for
that melancholy tale to be told. Today is a day for excitement, entertainment,
suspense and, if all goes well, celebration."
The brassy roar of bugles grabbed the attention of the crowd as the advance
guard of the Grand Promenade appeared in the arched wooden gateway, the gold and
silver piping on their smoky purple uniforms contesting with the polished
metallic surface of their instruments for the sun's blessing. The first deep
crash of the kettle drums was countered by the sharp crack of feet hitting the
broad rose-red paving stones in unison as the band marched forward, playing
until they reached the joining of the pathway to the track.
There the musicians split into two branches, each arm of the Grenadier Legion
Drum and Bugle Corps facing the other across opposing sides of the pathway. Once
arrayed, the band fell silent, instruments at the ready. The hushed crowd
stirred with anticipation. A high, piercing whistle split the air and the Grand
Promenade was under way.
Grouped into their five divisions, the seventy-eight entries in the Chiron Cup
competitions pranced past the Corps to take the only unhurried circuit of the
track they would be allowed that day. The track was awash in a riot of colours
running the gamut from garish to muted, depending on the owner's taste. Nor did
any entry wear the same style of tack, that too being dependent on the owner's
inclinations.
Brightly dyed ostrich feathers doubling as faux-manes were popular as were long
"tails" made of real hair. Most of the tack was constructed of leather
ornamented by metal or glass studding although some nylon and canvas was also
used. The amount of torso covered varied. A large number of human equine were
nearly nude while at least two were covered from their ankles up to the crown of
their heads. Some entries wore full head masks, others only thin strapping.
Footwear ranged from nonexistent to thigh-high flat-soled boots. The only firm
rule regarding tack was the breasts of all fillies and mares entered in the
races be bared to public view.
From the owner's box at the edge of the track Joey marvelled at the sheer
variety of flesh on parade. As a human cattle rancher, nudity was nothing new to
Joey. His livestock were denied even the smallest scrap of clothing, save when
his cows menstruated and even then they were given only enough of a strap to
hold the pad in place. The naked state of his animals, and their constant
availability for the pleasure of their keepers and others, helped to reenforce
their conditioning and served as a constant reminder they were no longer
citizens but merely future fare for the dinner table. But watching these human
horses parade, with the knowledge many were only temporarily livestock who would
rejoin the community after the races, excited Joey in a very different fashion
than watching his cattle romp did.
"Joseph, stop gawking and take a closer look at the number three and eight
horses in the fledgling division," Edmund gently chided as he passed over a pair
of black-pebbled binoculars. "Mr. Vass tells me he believes these are your main
competition for the Cup and I would agree."
Pressing the eyepieces to his face, Joey followed the directions from the
manager of Kyner Stables. The number three horse was a lanky, well-sculpted
brunette of medium height. Her hair was tied into a single ponytail at the top
of her head which then flowed down her back in a wide cascade until it reached
the middle of her buttocks. Her tack was simple, consisting of a three-inch
wide neck collar and four one-inch wide belts all in white leather with silver
studs and connected by two-inch vertical strap in the front. The top belt
accentuated her hard, conical tits, presenting them to the public as through
they were a set of matched pears, stem thrust forward and ripe for plucking.
The young filly wore a white cotton G-string under the lower two belts and her
knees were protected by a pair of thin oval coverings, themselves decorated with
a circle of smaller studs with a larger, pointed stud in the middle of the pad.
Her racing ensemble was topped off with a austere fawn-coloured leather bridle
with double straps and a smooth grey rubber bit. She was unshod.
The number eight horse was a contrast in almost every way. Although a good
two-inches shorter, she seemed to loom over the number three horse by virtue of
a raspberry-hued plume almost two-foot in height. Her body was thick without the
definition of the number three horse. Her tack was made of two broad nylon
bands arrayed in an x-shaped pattern which started to cross just above the upper
curve of her pendulous breasts, the same breasts which slapped against her with
every stride she took.
Her lower torso was covered by what in other circumstances would have been the
bottom half of a high cut bathing suit with a small excision of the fabric
around the navel. High nylon boots, rolled into a cuff at the top and dyed the
same vivid cinnabar as the reminder of her tack, reached to the upper-third of
her ample thighs.
Where the number three horse was relatively unfettered, the eight horse was
attached to her sulky by three sets of chains, one each from her wrist cuffs
which merged with the handles of the sulky, the third from a ring set above her
navel tying into the crossbar between the handles.
"The number three horse is Eugenia Ammons, the property of Julien Gormick.
She's nineteen. Julien has had her in training for the last six months with an
eye towards selling her in a claiming race if she does well today. Since we are
always in the market for new stock, Julien let Beven watch her work out on two
occasions," Dirks declaimed. "She is swift, likes to be the front runner. Her
speed will make her difficult, but not impossible, to beat in the sprint races.
The key would be to get a horse in front of her or at least close.
"From what he has seen Beven doesn't think she's much good coming from back in
the pack as a closer. He also says if she is pushed near the end of the race
she loses stride and can become roughgaited. Her stamina over the long haul is
questionable. The distance circuits will very probably hurt her chances,
particularly if she's spent herself in the sprints."
"Edmund, I can understand why Beven thinks Eugenia is competition," asked Joey
turning away from the track to address his racing mentor. Joey had learned to
pay careful attention to Dirk's pronouncements. "She looks in very good shape.
But why the number eight horse? If she were cattle, I'd be giving serious
consideration to tagging her for the smoker."
"That's Decima Reis. And I agree my boy she hardly has the look of a winner. But
she is the chalk in this race even though she does not want to be here."
Joey took another, longer look at Decima. Aside from her back being marked with
thin red and brown stripes, a sure sign she was no stranger to the whip, Joey
saw nothing that would lead him to believe she was the favourite for the Cup.
"All right Edmund, I bow to your expertise. What is it about this horse I'm not
seeing?"
Dirks chuckled. "It is not what you are not seeing Joseph. It is what you do not
know. Miss Reis is a three-time cross-country champion for her grange.
Underneath that dangling epidermis she is as strong as the summer sun in York
and as stubborn as the tide. She certainly will not win all the races, she may
not even win any of the races she is entered in. But in almost every race, she
will be in the money. She has to be if she does not want to become a permanent
conversion."
The manager paused to straighten his derby. "Decima is in very serious trouble.
She was apprehended embezzling from her employer. She has no money to pay back
her theft as all of her ill-gotten gains were used to finance her education
after she lost her scholarship. The happenstance of her case being heard before
that liberal pillar of jurisprudence Seeyle rather than the Judge, saved her
from a more immediate and severe punishment. Instead she was offered out on a
temporary contract. The prize money for winning the Cup for the fledgling
division, coupled with the side bets that have been made on her, will amount to
enough to reimburse her employer and buy back her contract. If she loses the Cup
she becomes livestock on a permanent basis and the compensation for her
conversion will go to her ex-employer."
His face showing his perplexity Joey asked, "If all that's true Edmund, and I
know better than to doubt you, why doesn't she want to race? Seems like an easy
way out of all her troubles to me."
"Miss Reis is obdurate to a fault," Dirks replied, shaking his head sadly at the
foibles of human nature. "She believes her current circumstances are caused by
the actions of others, not her own. The incident that led to her scholarship
being cancelled was a result of her coach's shortcoming. She was forced to steal
by the inadequacy of the remuneration paid to her by her employer. She even
scorned the misplaced compassion which gave her this opportunity as unjustified
punishment for the sins of others. As you can see from her markings, it took
more than one chastisement to get her ready for today. Still even though she may
still blame someone else for her misfortune, she now understands winning the Cup
is her only way out and she is determined to prevail. We, of course, would
prefer to thwart her ambitions and see she pays the proper penalty for her
transgressions."
"So what are the odds of seeing justice triumph today," inquired Joey, his
uncertainty and concern almost tangible.
"Mr. Geryon," said Dirks, the twinkle of his eyes belying the solemn tone of his
voice, "I would most heartily advise you not to pursue a career as a
professional card player. I am afraid your face shows more emotion than a
Zurbaran painting. Our odds are good, I would say eight to five. Your number
five horse, Terri, has done far better under Mr. Vass's tutelage than we had a
right to expect, given the short amount of time he was able to work with her.
Our strategy is a simple one not unlike that of Miss Reis but hopefully more
successful."
Of the seven races Joey's horse was entered in, her best chance to finish first
was in the mid-distance races. These were run to a distance of two furlongs. To
take home the Cup for her division, his equine would need to win at least one of
these races. Then, depending on what her competitors did, a combination of
placing and showing in three other races could "bestow fortune's smile upon us."
Although he spoke of the upcoming races with a calm and measured tones, Joey
could sense an edge of excitement creeping into his mentor's voice.
Before Joey could ask his next question, the crowd around him exploded into a
buzz.
Pulling not a sulky but a small wooden cart, the final participant in the Grand
Promenade had reached the track. Standing upright in the cart was a driver
swathed entirely in black silks. Even his eyes were hidden by a dark visor
built into his hood. In place of the regular riding crop his black-gloved hand
held a sjambok cane, a vicious instrument capable of flaying the flesh from a
back with a single hard stroke.
Older than the other entries and of medium height the mare's slumping body was
softly rounded with a small pot belly. She wore only the skimpiest of black
leather tack, exposing most of her body to public view. Mousy brown air was
pulled back off of her head and secured with black bands into a shoulder length
mane. Her brindle consisted of neck, forehead and chin straps connected to each
other by an "O" ring lying centred on each cheek.
Attached directly to the "O" ring was her bridle, the metal bit pulled as far
back into her mouth as it would go. This cruelty forced her upper lip down to
cover her top teeth while her lower lip was forced below the gum line of her
bottom teeth leaving them exposed. The result was a pained grimace like the
sharp slash of a jack 'o lantern smile.
Around her neck was a choker made of black silk about two inches in width. This
neck band had a fabric loop at one end and a metal circle at the other. The
metal ring had been threaded through the fabric loop to create a slipnoose which
could be tightened by pulling on the circle. For now the ring lay slack against
her shoulder.
Her chest straps, arrayed in the normal "X" shape crossed in the centre of the
valley between her cupcake-sized breasts before ending in a broad belt at navel
level. Each nipple had been newly pierced, through the binoculars Joey could
still see small droplets of carmine blood oozing from the edges of the holes,
and three-inch rings thrust through the openings. Three tiny silver bells hung
from the lower curve of each link.
A "V" strap descended from the navel belt, crossing a second board belt located
just above the start of her public hairs becoming a single strap running between
her buttocks and back up to the public belt. The tightness of the tack forced
her reddened flesh to bulge slightly over the leather bindings.
Her wrist bands were manacled to the handles of the cart. Reins made of metal
chain were joined not to the brindle but first to the wrists then to a pair of
"O" rings positioned between the upper and lower body belts and finally into the
hands of the driver.
Midway up the grandstand, Marty Brune turned towards Peter Barton, spilling a
quarter of the beer he held in his hand in the process. "Damn ole' Moondog was
right. There's a black hood in this year's races."
Looking down in resignation, Barton watched as small rivulets of amber fluid
flowed across the concrete to dampen his program. Having spotted the proprietor
of the Stockyard as he entered the grandstand, Peter had gone over to thank him
for the donation last month of the Gygers' meat to the local food bank. The
last thing he had expected or wanted for that matter was to sit with the man.
He had felt ambushed when Marty had extended his invitation and trapped when
even the explanation he had his step-daughter Patty in tow didn't allow him to
beg off, not that he had wanted to bring Patty in the first place; that had been
Marcia's idea, a little step-father and step-daughter outing.
Although Brune's slaughterhouse made frequent donations to the food bank, there
was still something slightly unsavory about the man that made Barton want to
keep his distance. But, as the saying goes, "there is no such thing as a free
lunch," even when that lunch was intended for others and so Barton resigned
himself to spending a potion of the day in Brune's company, intent upon making
his escape as soon as possible.
"Mr. Brune, who is Moondog and what's a black hood," asked Barton's
step-daughter, entranced by the activity below her.
"Well, sweetheart, Moondog is a person who knows a lot about horse racing,"
explained Brune his eyes travelling up and down Patty's thin body, "sort of like
a teacher. And if somebody wants to know which horse might win in a race, well
they ask Moondog. Of course, just like your teacher Moondog's got to eat and so
we all pay him for his answers."
Lifting her lanky horse-like face, Patty looked up at Brune to ask "and what's a
black hood?" He thought for a second before he answered. Hell, Pete figured she
was old enough to bring her here. I'm not going to candycoat life for her.
Besides, there was a rumour going around about her already being slated for
conversion once she gets a little more meat on her bones. Wonder if Pete'd
consider a feeder contract on her until then.
"Let me help you stand up on my lap honey, so you can see better and Uncle Marty
will tell you all about it," he promised, his hands running up Patty's skinny
thighs to cup a youthful buttock in each hand as she wriggled her way skyward.
Back bowed, Crowbait slowly made her way onto the track, her body quivering as
she strained to pull her burden forward. Once she had been sleek and graceful,
more powerful than jealousy and swifter than the Niagara current, a steed fit
for Apollo's chariot. But these abilities had proven to be evanescent, subject
to the slow leak of time. Her sinewy body had gradually softened, rounding like
a pat of butter left out to warm. Injuries took longer to heal. Finish lines
seemed further away, her eyes filling more and more often with the dust of
passing horses. Her first owner sold her to a second who, in turn, sold her to a
third, the quality of the races she competed in declining with each succeeding
owner. Finally, her glory days well past, she had been sold for service as a
brood mare.
Even here entropy made itself felt, her aging structure rejecting two embryos.
After the second miscarriage she was sold to her fifth and final owner who had
intended to use her as a companion animal for his stable of racers. Profit, in
the form of the purse available for black hood entries, had changed those
intentions.
Of all the conversions, human equines retained the greatest amount of their
previous awareness. Docility and submissiveness were key characteristics for
human cattle, whose only purpose was to be slaughtered; the more bovine in
nature an animal was the better. Any remnants of sapience were, if not entirely
burnt out by the process, buried far below numerous layers of conditioning.
Human horses were another matter.
With these conversions, certain characteristics from their human existence
needed to be maintained. Cattle were bred or conditioned to be dumb, dull and
obedient. Obedience was also a primary characteristic of human horses but,
unlike cattle, a moderately high level of intelligence was desirable. Human
horses needed, within limits, to be smart, spirited and competitive. To meet
these parameters required different conversion techniques, ones which left
tattered remnants of the old human psyche closer to the surface.
Those remnants now sent bubbles of fear and apprehension through Crowbait. She
sensed something was different, wrong about this outing. In all the races she'd
run she'd never worn this style of trace before, so restricting and heavy. And
she'd always pulled a sulky with the driver sitting, not a cart with the driver
standing up. Near panic the aging horse stopped, only to be driven forward by
the sharp sting of the sjambok ripping a thin strip of skin from her back, red
blood welling up from the torn flesh to mark its point of contact.
Brune felt the young girl's ass cheeks flex under his fingers as she watched the
horse jump ahead. "You know all about cows don't you Patty," asked Brune, "and
what happens to them don't you," feeling a small tremor run through the
prepubescent body as she nodded her head yes.
"My baby sitter Valerie became a cow and Peter took me to see her at the barn.
He even cooked me some of her hamburgers after she was butchered." With a twist
of his head and a raised eyebrow, Brune shifted his gaze to the implement dealer
who just shrugged.
"Patty," explained Brune returning his attention to the young girl, "when a
horse gets too old, so old it doesn't win any races and it costs too much to
feed it and keep it in a stable, it gets put down. You know what I mean when I
say 'put down' don't you sweetie?"
"It means killed."
"That's right, it means killed. Now sometimes, if the horse is young enough, we
eat parts of it, just like we do a cow. But if a horse is old like that one out
there, well, nobody wants to eat meat that tough and stringy and so nobody would
buy that horse to eat. And she's too old to win any more races. But her owner
can still make money off her one more time by entering her in a race as a 'black
hood.' You're getting a little heavy girl, just sit down on my lap here, will
ya?"
After he had Patty situated sideways on his lap, her butt pressed firmly against
the top of his thighs, her legs dangling down to bounce against his right outer
calf, Brune wrapped his left arm loosely around her lower ribs while using his
right hand to raise her face toward his. Brushing her shiny long brown hair
back toward her shoulders, he continued his explanation, all the while paying
close attention to the young girl's expressions.
"When a horse is entered as a 'black hood' it means, unless the horse wins the
race and believe me they make sure there's no chance of that, they sure don't
want a bunch of disappointed spectators, she's gonna be killed. They don't take
her back into the stables to do it; they do it right out in public where
everyone can watch. You can tell how there going to do it by what she's
wearing. If she was wearing a red neck collar, they'd cut her head off either
with an axe or a guillotine. Silver chains on her wrist and ankles means she'd
be drawn and quartered." The slaughterhouse owner paused to gauge Patty's
response, a mixture of intense interest, excitement and just a suggestion of
fear.
"A silver cap would mean the electric chair. Boy, I watched a horse fry on one
a couple of years ago. He had smoke coming from every part of his body. A blue
vest and she's gonna drown, orange and she's roasted alive."
Patty swallowed the saliva that had built up at the back of the mouth, her
throat undulating as the fluid slid down to her stomach. "She's not wearing any
of those, Mr. Brune. All I can see is a black collar around her neck. What's
that mean?"
Once again the uberbutcher carefully measured the young girl's reaction,
watching her slim salmon tongue tip unconsciously circle the rim of her mouth
leaving a glistening shine in its wake. Her eyes seemed feverish, her legs
rhythmically squeezing then relaxing.
"That black collar means she's going to do the air mambo. Now dumpling, if it's
OK with Pete and if you want to see her dangle from the rope's end, I'll be glad
to buy an extra ticket and take you with me. Whadda ya say Pete, mind if I take
your step-daughter along with me to the party? Might be a good experience for
her."
With the grace of the animal she had become, Joey's entry surged forward her
feet pounding the track in a rapid, rhythmic stride. This was her second short
race of the day and she was determined to cross the finish line ahead of her
competitors. The last race she had been so close, just three strides away from
the lead horse and running step for step with the horse next to her. Then she'd
gone just a little wide in the turn and that damned red horse with the raspberry
mane had pulled ahead of her. She'd learned her lesson and this time she
wouldn't disappoint her master.
She could smell the stink of the white horse next to her, hear the heavy
breathing of her foe in red just behind her. Her body felt consumed with fire,
her tack digging angrily into her flesh as she pulled the weight of her sulky
and driver onward. A flick of the whip stung her left buttock like an angry
yellowjacket bringing a muffled yelp from between her lips. The turn was just up
ahead. She felt the electricity of another sting along with a tug on her left
rein.
Damn it, thought Cort Szeman as his right wrist followed through with the second
whip stroke, get over. Don't go wide on me again. Move to the left, move, move.
Cut off the trailing horse damn you.
The human horse responded as she had been trained. Reflex taking the place of
conscious thought, she obeyed her driver's unspoken commands and moved to the
left. Now it was the other driver's turn to curse as the number eight horse went
wide to the right, her raspberry plume waving in the air, dropping back a stride
and a half in the process. This was now a two horse race.
Thundering out of the turn the horse from Kyner Stables found herself in
lockstep with the whiteclad filly. Stride for stride they approached the finish
line in tandem, neither horse giving an inch in their battle, each matching the
other's exertions. She felt the surface of the track crunch beneath her feet,
her soles burning with every contact; her throat was raw with the effort of
respiration; her chest constricted as though her tack was made of shrinking iron
bands.
Sounds receded, she could no longer hear the shouts of the crowd, only her
hoarse and tortured breathing echoed in her ears. Her vision narrowed as if she
were entering a tunnel whose edges were blackest night made solid. The throngs
in the grandstand no longer existed, the horse next to her no longer mattered,
even her driver had become insubstantial. In her new universe, only the finish
line remained.
Not so for the number three horse. Throughout the race, she could see another
horse just hovering at the outer edge of her vision, never ahead but never far
behind. This horse was always there like a gnat buzzing next to her ear, one
which refused to go away no matter how hard or how fast she ran. Irritated, the
19-year old filly twisted her head ever so slightly to the right to get a look
at this phantasm, this apparition who had haunted her every step in this race
and, in so doing, broke stride.
Joey's equine slowed her pace after crossing the finish line, her legs lifting
less and less high with each step. A sense of repose settled over her body,
overriding the pain. Her face was wet with salty water, a mixture of sweat and
tears. She could hear her own gasping sobs force their way around the bit as she
trotted towards the winner's circle. The traditional garland of mums and mallows
placed around her neck was as welcome as a warm cloak on a cold winter's night.
Equally as welcome were the gentle caresses and kind murmurings from her driver
and her trainer as, together with the young groom, they walked her back to the
barn to allow her to rest before the next race.
When Terri crossed the finish line Joey jumped to his feet as though he had been
propelled by a spring, his program flying from his hand to land several rows
behind him. He turned exclaiming "Edmund, she won. My horse won. My horse
beat both Eugenia and Decima. She beat all of the nine other entries and in a
short race too. Can you believe it Edmund? She won. Nothing's going to stop us
now. The Cup is as good as ours. I just wish Billy was here to see all of
this."
Amusement and a sense of nostalgia brought a smile to the stable manager's face
as he watched Joey's antics. Was I like that when I won my first race, an
unleashed terrier ready to chase any squirrel in the neighbourhood back up the
tree, full of excitement, drinking in every experience like a fine Bordeaux?
For a brief moment the older man felt a bittersweet homesickness, not for a
place but a time, missing those young days when the future seemed to float
before him like a softly glowing firefly just beyond the edge of his reach, when
he was sure fame and fortune were waiting just around the next corner and that
each moment was certain to be better than the one before it.
But he'd learned, learned life was a journey without a map, learned real
adulthood arrived not with triumphs but with loss. He knew now life was a series
of interconnected accidents whose only real value was in how you used it. So
Edmund Dirks had determined to bring to his life the same principle he did his
wagering, raking in his winnings with a smile, leaving his losses on the table
with a rueful grin.
With a small shake of the head, Dirks returned to the present and addressed his
young charge. "Joseph, while I do hate to be the 'old fogey' putting the damper
on youthful exuberance, I would advise you it is premature to begin building a
shelf to put the Cup on. The number three horse won the first race which gives
her three points and was the show horse in the second race which adds 1 point to
her total. The number six horse, which is to say your horse, won this race. This
gives her three points towards the Cup. She was the show horse in the first
race. That is one additional point on her tally sheet. The number eight horse
placed in both the first and the second race earning two points for each finish.
I believe you can do the math as well as I can and my calculus shows a three-way
tie for the Cup."
Unfazed the young cattle rancher continued "Sure, for right now. But we haven't
gotten to my horse's strengths yet. You said her best chance of a win was in the
mid-distance races and those haven't been run yet Edmund."
"Yes Joseph I did. And, at the time, I meant it. In all honesty, I might add.
But you must remember we did not expect her to win one of the short races. The
concern now is whether or not she spent too much to win that last sprint. How
much energy and stamina is left in your horse? Will it be enough to see her
through the next five races or will she falter or fade? Remember my boy there is
a tremendous difference between training and actually racing. Your horse has
never been tested at the track and while she has acquitted herself nobly so far,
her greatest challenges lay ahead.
"Now, I think your horse has materially improved the chances of you winning the
Chiron Cup in the fledgling division. But it is by no means a 'sure thing' as
you put it. My advice to you is to go and get something to eat. Be back here in
one hour. Then we will go together and get a status report on your horse from
Bevan and Cort."
Her tack removed, Terri was flat on her back on an elevated table. Kim Dun, the
young groom who helped walk her back to her stall, was rubbing her skin with
ointment while Gin, the stable's physical therapist was using ultrasound to
drive the ointment well into her muscles. A biofeedback machine attached to
Terri's head had put her into a light torpor which would aid in her recovery.
Across the small stall Cort Szeman and Bevan Voss were deep in discussions over
their charge. Both agreed she had performed much better than expected, showing
not only the heart and desire of a champion in the last race but also the
ability to learn from her mistakes.
"I'll tell you Bevan," said the bronzed driver pausing to wipe the sweat and
dirt from his face with a blue-checked handkerchief, "I had an anxious moment
when we got to that turn. Figured for sure she was going to go wide on me again.
But she stuck to the course and made the other horse go wide. I wish she wasn't
a fledgling entry because I think we've got the makings of a damn fine horse
here."
"Hold that thought for a second will you Cort?" asked Voss pointing to the table
where the groom was massaging Terri. "I need to take care of something." Seeing
what Voss had noticed Szeman smiled and nodded his acquiesce.
Two short steps put the trainer directly behind the young stable hand who was
oblivious to his presence. Dun had reached the inside of Terri's thighs and,
fascinated by the small, black mole to the left of her clit, had stopped his
massaging to stare at her pussy. "They call that a cunt, Mr. Dun. Or a pussy or
in highbrow circles a vagina. Every female has one, even your mom did. From the
way you're staring, a man might think this was the first one you've ever seen,
at least outside of photos in stroke magazines. Would that be right, Mr. Dun?"
His skin flushing as though hot liquid has been poured over his head and
shoulders, the embarrassed groom didn't know what to do. As he tried to stammer
out a reply, Voss held out a hand to stop him, the mermaid tattoo on his arm
doing an underwater hula as he did so. "My apologies, Mr. Dun, that's not the
kind of question one man should ask another, at least under these circumstances.
Please continue with your work, but we will talk about this later. Right now we
need to get this horse ready for the next race."
Sheepishly, his head lowered to avoid eye contact with anyone in the room, the
discomfited groom began to slather ointment on the horse's legs, an exercise
which placed more of the balm on the table than the thighs. A sharp tap on his
shoulder interrupted his efforts. "One more thing Mr. Dun" said Voss in a kinder
voice than he had previously used, "it's ok to look. You do need to know where
you're putting the ointment. It's ok to touch. You need to do that to put the
ointment on. Just keep it professional. This is a horse under your care, not a
playmate for you to party with." Dun nodded his understanding. "Good. Come and
see me after the final race and we'll chat," said the trainer lightly slapping
the boy on the shoulder as he returned to his interrupted conversation.
Chewing the second bite of his steak in a contemplative manner, Joey puzzled
over the intriguing amalgam of scents and flavours emanating from the meat.
Underneath the familiar tang of charred human flesh he could swear he caught
just a whiff of the odour of freshly baked bread. And the taste, the taste was
really was unlike any meat he had ever eaten before. Piquant without being
bitter, it danced on his taste buds filling his mouth with a rich and zesty
sensation that demanded to be savoured before swallowing.
Picking out his steak at the counter, Joey had marvelled at the leanness of the
meat. The array of roasts, chops, steaks and other cuts in the case exhibited
no trace of fat whatsoever. At first Joey thought someone had done an almost
perfect job of trimming but closer examination showed the meat was devoid of any
marbelling whatsoever. Even the best of butchers couldn't trim away the
intramuscular fat, at least not without leaving some trace of the knife work.
Somehow Ernst Grayh had found a way to remove all the fat from his meat. But
even the absence of fat couldn't account for this wondrous flavour. Could it be
spices? Was Grayh using a special marinade? And how would Linda Sue taste if
she was soaked in this mystery juice?
One unexpected consequence of Linda Sue's becoming a human equine was a change
in how Joey regarded her. Sure, he had often fantasised about the auburn haired
beauty turning on a spit, her skin darkening to match the coloration of her
hair. The thought of his girlfriend being served on a pale yellow platter with
an apple in her mouth, hot steam rising from the cracks in her skin while her
succulent juices dripped slowly down to gather as an au jus sauce underneath was
mouthwatering but it had always been just a daydream, a flight of his
imagination.
For Linda Sue, as with anyone, the possibility of becoming food was always there
but Joey had no real intentions of turning his lover into a two-legged roast.
At least that's what he had always told himself. Now he wasn't so sure.
An invisible line had been crossed in his relationship with Linda Sue, one that
she had been edging up to for sometime. First she had dipped herself in the
defoliating tank, just as though she had been a cow. Then, for awhile, she had
taken to wearing what hair she did have on the top of her head in a bun very
similar to the trademark hairdo worn by all the cows on the farm.
The use of the sample Perro roasting spit from the restaurant supply tent at the
Cannibal Fair had become a semi-regular feature of their sex play. Linda Sue
had advanced to the point where should could take all 12 inches of it in either
her pussy or her ass without the slightest problem. In fact she often begged for
more, screaming out loud to be spitted as orgasm after orgasm rocked her body.
No doubt about it, inside Linda Sue the human was a cow crying to get out.
That's why he had insisted to Terri that Linda Sue go to the stables as well, to
give Linda Sue the opportunity to live the life of an animal, to let her put
aside her infatuation of ending up on his dinner table, to show her she was
meant for better things than lunch and left-overs.
It hadn't worked out that way. Joey now saw Linda Sue had great potential as an
animal and not as a horse but as a prized heifer, one which would yield a
spectacular array of meats capable of feeding a family of six for two months.
The point of demarcation had come the night he had visited the stables to watch
Linda Sue being bred.
Standing on the observation platform at the edge of the ring, Joey watched as
Linda Sue dropped onto her hands and knees, a thick bit in her mouth, long
traces lying across her back. A groom, one who Joey didn't recognize,
approached Linda Sue from behind, his rampant prick jutting out from the fly of
his breeches. Without any more lubrication than was dripping from the head of
his prick the groom thrust himself into her swaying roughly back and forth,
tugging on the traces to keep her tight against him. Her initial cries of pain,
recognizable even around the hard rubber cylinder in her mouth, had quickly
turned to howls of pleasure.
Watching the groom in action, Joey's cock was so hard it hurt. He thought it
was impossible to get any stiffer. He had been wrong. After the groom had
pleasured himself, a parade of stallions took his place, each brutishly mounting
Linda Sue in turn. The last stallion to couple with Linda Sue had leaned across
her back to bite the nape of her neck. His yellowed teeth broke the skin and
brought small bubbles of blood to its surface, blood his long serpentine tongue
quickly scooped up into his mouth.
In a culture where humans could become home cooking in the blink of an eye,
sexual mores were quite relaxed. Youngsters were encouraged to experiment with
sex in a variety of flavours. Monogamy, at least before marriage and quite often
after, was considered to be a quaint notion while multiple partners, pairings
and positions were the norm.
As with any society there were standards but these had more to do with issues of
etiquette and manners than moral judgments. As an example, orgies beyond a
certain age or outside selected special occasions were seen, not as perversion,
but simply a sign of ill-breeding. Pregnancies both in and out of wedlock were
encouraged with little attention paid to whom the progenitors might be. After
the great disaster everyone knew an ample food supply should always be
maintained.
Like anyone his age, Joey had seen his girlfriends have sex with other people.
It could be arousing, it could be depressing, it could even be boring. He knew
Linda Sue shared her favours freely. He'd seen her do so himself on many
occasions, sometimes as an active participant, sometimes as a spectator on the
sidelines. But whatever emotions those previous voyeuristic experiences had
stirred in him none affected him the way this encounter had. Because on each of
those previous occasions it had been Linda Sue he had observed. Not so this
time.
Her reactions to these repeated matings in the show ring were not those of an
aroused young woman but those of a wild and feral beast. All visible traces of
humanity had vanished to be replaced by the raw primitive instinct of an animal.
This wasn't the girl her grew up with down there making love, the one he had
always thought of as his future wife, it was just another head of livestock
rutting, indistinguishable from hundreds of other he had seen and later had
slaughtered.
Her temporary fledgling status, the guarantee against permanent conversion in
her contract were now no more than meaningless words on a piece of paper to the
young cattle rancher. In Joey's mind Linda Sue could no longer return to the
starting point and become fully human again. Her unspoken wish to become a cow
might soon be granted.
The scraping sound of a chair being pulled out refocused Joey's attention away
from his musings. A short, shout man had taken the seat across from Joey. His
face was round and florid with shiny plump cheeks and a double chin dropping
onto a bull neck. He wore a jaunty green felt alpine hat, with a single brown
and red feather at the back. His blonde hair, at least the portion Joey could
see was cut short. Lederhosen over a white ruffled shirt decorated with
colourful embroidery completed the costume, giving the not totally inaccurate
impression the visitor was a well-off German burger.
"Hello, Mr. Grayh," said Joey politely as he wiped his hand on a napkin before
extending it across the table.
In return, a fat but firm handclasp greeted Joey "Hello, Joey," responded the
proprietor of Procrustes' Carvery. "Mitz' said she saw you go through the line.
How do you like your lunch," he asked nodding at Joey's plate.
"Your ads were right," Joey admitted. "I've never had anything like this
before. It's great. I don't suppose you'd care to share your secret with me
would you?"
A canny grin like an August moon spread over the oval countenance. "Oddly
enough Joey I'd like nothing better. What you're eating right now is called
'verhungern fleisch' or in English 'starved flesh.' My cousin in Germany was
part of the consortium which holds the patent on the process to produce this.
They're already producing verhungern fleisch in Germany and Poland. They've got
locations lined up in Czechoslovakia, the Ukraine and Latvia. However, being
family, he arranged for me to get the first license in this country to make this
delicacy. Until I can find a supplier I can trust though, I have to import my
meat from Germany."
"That's got to be expensive."
"You have no idea how expensive. You can't freeze verhungern fleisch. If you
do it loses most of its taste so I'm having it brought over on refrigerated
carriers. In the short term I'm actually losing money on every meal I serve.
In the long-term this is a loss-leader to establish the domestic market. I'd
like to contract with your dad and you to have the Geryon Farm become my first
supplier. Interested?"
The young human cattle rancher didn't hesitate for a second. Ever since his dad
had made him a partner in the farm he'd been on the lookout for ways to expand
the operation and the profits. Now it seemed one had practically dropped into
his lap. "Very interested, sir."
Grayh's grin grew even larger. "That's what I wanted to hear. I tell you what,
we're both going to be pretty busy for awhile. Why don't you and your father
join us for dinner at the Carvery, say two weeks from this Wednesday around
7:30?"
"I thought you were closed on Wednesday?"
"We usually are but we'll open up for this meeting. Check with your dad and
give us a call."
His craving both satiated by the verhungern fleisch he had consumed and
sharpened by visions of a trussed up Linda Sue live roasting in a glass-fronted
oven, her eyes staring into his as she slowly moved from existence to
subsistence, the young human cattle rancher walked briskly back to the owner's
boxes. As he made the journey he couldn't help thinking of what his dad would
say when he brought two prizes back to the farm, the Chiron Cup and a new
business opportunity.
