The Senior Girls Bayonet Drill Team: and Other Stories by Joe R. Lansdale

Author:Joe R. Lansdale [Lansdale, Joe R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Subterranean Press 2023

CHOPAPALOOZA

She discovered that it was easier than she thought to drag the men to the riverbank and into a muddy pit carved by water, pull off their clothes, and take her axe to their flesh and bone, chopping and chopping, so happy that once or twice, she burst into song.

Retrieving the full gas can and shovel she had placed in the trunk before luring her prey with a promise of romance renewed, obedience accepted, hand jobs and blow jobs, oral and anal, and traditional too, she brings them to where the butchered bodies lie.

She pours the gas onto the chopped flesh and bones of the men, on their clothes, then gathers dry wood, scoops the gassy, bloody remains onto the pile with the shovel, and with her husband’s lighter, sets it all afire.

Flames jump so high and hot they crinkle the tips of her hair. An eyelash is toasted. The skin on the hand that holds the lighter is lightly kissed by fire.

Tossing the shovel and the gas can, even the lighter, out into the river where the current moves, she enjoys the splash, as if it is the burst of energy that created the universe. The cotton blanket she folds carefully and places on the blaze.

Flame wraps around the cotton, blood-soaked blanket, and caresses it rapidly to ash. Wood in the fire crackles. Bones in the fire burst. Flesh sizzles. Blood boils. She does a dance with her hatchet in her hand. Dances three circles around the fire. She sings again. Her voice is deep. When she stops to breathe, from where she stands, she can see the Sabine River bridge.

All the while that she has chopped the men, built the fire, danced and sang, cars have been whizzing by. No one has noticed. Or perhaps she has been seen, but no one understands what they see. Most likely, eyes were on concrete or the horizon.

My lady, she says to herself, your escape route and conveyance await. Away, my lady.

Finally, reluctantly deciding to let it go, she tosses the hatchet into the slow-rolling, brown water.

She leaves with a spring in her step and the odd feeling of having had an orgasm, made by chops instead of thrusts.

Moments later, the Scoutmaster and his troop arrive like a khaki cyclone, crashing through brush and dodging between trees, on out to the edge of the river.

The Scouts run along the riverbank and point at the smoke and yell, and one, with a droopy face, his sweat-damp hair cut close under his field cap, looks at the remains of the fire, says, “Look, bones! People bones!”

The Scoutmaster strolls to the smoking pit full of burnt wood and bones and curling black smoke, and looks. Pursing his lips, hands on hips, face puffed with satisfaction, he says, “Son. Don’t make foolish pronouncements. Don’t you know a cook fire when you see it? Meat has been cooked here. Animal meat. Not human meat. Hog, I believe, from the state and size of those bones. But human bones? Not at all.

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