March Madness Flash Fiction: MUNCHIES by Kris Silva
TODAY’S BREW: A dude named Joe traded me some French Vanilla
Kris is one of the kindest, most thoughtful and endearing folks on the planet. You can’t have her but you can follow her on Twitter https://twitter.com/gravewriter71 and check out her blog http://t.co/45eg4lKWKM.
Kris Silva’s only published work thus far was a fantasy in “Playgirl” during her college years, although her erotica repertoire has expanded to saucy Muppet tales. She is also a freelance fiction editor, having harangued and cheered authors Sue London and Andy Click through various published works (and she’d be very happy if you grabbed one to read, right now). Currently she’s working on her own comic horror novel, entitled WENDIGOGO, involving cannibalism and cannabis in fairly equal measure. A chronic misanthrope, she prefers online interactions to awkward conversations in person, though an offering of Lindt may smooth the way. Her Twitter friends and extended hippie family funded her move last fall from Arizona to Wisconsin, where she’s found the best six-foot-tall frog EVER. They enjoy riffing movies and long walks in graveyards.
This story is a play date with the protagonist of WENDIGOGO. Bring your own snacks.
by Kris Silva
Morty awoke gagging. He made it halfway across the room before throwing up. Fuck. How much did I drink last night? The empty bottle and spent limes littering the coffee table told the story. His friend Ryan had stopped by with cheap tequila and a broken heart.
Wind howled outside. No blare of Faux News from his elderly neighbor next door, for once. Small favors, I guess. Seeing the remains of the hot wings they’d ordered, Morty’s stomach rolled. Goddamn I feel like shit on a Ritz.
He drifted off in the shower. Disturbing images played: deep snow, someone shrieking, blood gushing…
Morty startled at the kettle’s shriek. He poured a mugful of chai and searched for clean clothing. Yesterday’s shirt was drenched in barbeque sauce. He paused before the mirror, something amiss. It took a few minutes before he saw it; then he chuckled.
Guess I have had a few holiday treats. His normally scrawny frame had filled out. This shirt used to hang off him; now he saw a belly curve. No wonder, considering all the family he’d endured of late. With all the interpersonal stress, he’d been lighting up more, and for every bout of the munchies there’d been sweets available. His metabolism was fast as a ferret’s, though. No harm in a couple extra pounds in this weather.
Tea eased the nausea. After a cup, his head felt clearer. He might even be able to eat. His eyes drifted to the gaming console. Yeah. Relax, kill some monsters, have a toke… The mess on the carpet halted that. Fuck. Better clean that up before you step in it. Frosty Flakies would have to wait. He could ignore the dirty dishes, the laundry piles…but he drew the line at vomit on the rug. And Steve wasn’t here anymore to clean up. His roommate simply vanished weeks ago. Jackass still owes me for utilities.
He used a rag to sop the mess. Gahh. Looks like it wasn’t even digested… He plucked a bone from the rug; it hit the bottom of the mop bucket with a solid thunk. Fat stuck to the carpet. He breathed through his mouth; the driblets of…what is that, skin?…smelled horrible. He kept dabbing until only dark spots remained. Hopefully it’ll fade. Not like they’ve ever replaced the carpets in this dump.
He emptied the bucket into the trash, feeling dizzy. Could he reach the dumpster without freezing? Just toss it outside; I feel like sh– That’s an awful lot of bones, he thought. I never eat that many wings. Are wingbones that thick?
That’s not a chicken bone.
What the fuck.
Gristle glistened over the round, smooth, large bone. Morty touched his throat. It’d felt as though he’d vomited a baseball. Looks like a skull, can’t be, chicken skulls aren’t even… Looks like a kneecap.
He stared. Slowly he registered the variety of…things…in the trash. Bones he couldn’t possibly have eaten. Something dark and wetly matted.
Morty swallowed. Get a grip. You’ll eat anything with a bad enough case of the munchies. He nodded, exhaled, knotted the bag. Screw the dumpster. Just set it outside. Snow blew in when he opened the door. Whiteness buried all: shrubs, sidewalk, and steps undiscernable. But under the porch roof, pink stained the drifts. A hawk must’ve snagged that wild rabbit Morty had seen around. He wouldn’t dwell on that. He hated thinking of the suffering of small creatures.
Gradually his stomach settled, and he rolled a joint while defeating goblins. His world collapsed into the blanket wrapped around him, tea within reach, the action on the screen.
Morty jerked awake at loud knocking. He didn’t remember drifting off. “Hey man, open up! It’s fuckin’ cold out here!”
Ryan. Crap. Morty really wasn’t up to entertaining. Crossing the room, he stepped in a wet spot. Wet and cold. He suddenly remembered the bucketful of shining-wet bones and…stuff. Pink snow by his door. He hesitated, uneasy.
More knocking. “Morty, I know you’re home. I saw you.”
Morty yanked open the door. “What did you see?”
Morty blinked. It was just Ryan. Harmless, chubby Ryan. “Fine, come in. But no goddamn tequila.”
Ryan chuckled uncertainly. “Hell, no! Thanks for last night, though.”
“Yeah.” Fresh flurries covered the pink stains. Morty locked the door. “Hey, man…what fucking sauce was on those wings? I was sick as hell this morning.”
“Just spicy barbeque.” Ryan plopped onto the sofa. “Too much takillya, maybe?”
“I guess. Not really feeling social today, man.”
“It’s cool. We could just watch a movie.”
Morty shuddered. “Nothing gory, okay?”
Ryan studied him. “Yeah…you look kinda ill. Hey, I’m sorry. You sat up all night, listening to me go on and on about Cheryl…”
“It’s all good.”
“Seriously, man. You’re a great friend. Look…how about we just hang out? No heavy shit. No tequila!”
Morty sighed. “No more tequila, ever.”
“I hear ya. I’ll make some coffee.”
Stubs filled the ashtray; Morty didn’t recall smoking them. When Ryan went to the kitchen, Morty escaped to the bathroom. He had to adjust his sweats on his skinny hips as he returned to the living room.
“How about Clue?” Ryan suggested.
“Sure. What did we watch last night?”
“The snow monster. Hunting people…” Gristle and guts. The heat of the kill. Pink snow.
Ryan smiled, puzzled. “We didn’t watch anything, dude. Just shot the shit awhile.”
“Right…” Morty lit up. The haze was comforting. Ryan watched the movie. Morty smoked, avoiding thought. Peace spread from his lungs to his tingling fingertips. His stomach growled.
Ryan’s belly quivered in mirth, liquid, full of heat. Morty felt a cold draft; he needed warmth in his guts, dribbling hot down his chin. Never really noticed how chubby he is; practically a walking pork roast. Gravy built-in.
Morty wiped his mouth. Ryan stopped laughing. “You don’t look okay. Want me to grab something from the fridge?” He shifted uneasily. “Uh, whatever you need, man.”
“Thanks,” said Morty. “I’m really getting the munchies.”