Authors: Lee Pletzers
He felt good,
but how?
He asked himself.
What was happening?
He collected his nephew and sat him in a high chair at the kitchen table while he searched the cabinets for more of the baby’s food. He pulled the infant oatmeal box from the cupboard, opened the refrigerator, and retrieved a large bottle of formula. He mixed the two together in a bowl. He took a spoonful of the cereal and paused. He waited for the feeling then he took another spoonful in his mouth. He continued eating without any ill effects. He was able to eat the entire bowl without getting sick. He felt reborn after consuming the mushy concoction. He was happy to have eaten but was still hesitant to share with anyone the embarrassing way it came about. Before going home Jake hid a can of formula and a box of the oatmeal his back pack and took it home.
The following morning he sat down at the kitchen table and filled the bowl with the powdered oatmeal and mixed the formula together. He was anxious for his first mouthful. He scooped up a hearty spoonful and placed it in his mouth. He wasn’t excited by the bland flavor of his meal but he enjoyed the feeling of eating again. But the bliss of his meal was short-lived as moments later the familiar pain in his abdomen returned. He tried to ignore it
,
hoping that it would go away. He felt the spasm just before he heaved all over the table.
His mother responded to the sounds of his retching by rushing into the room. She looked at the splattered remains of his attempt at breakfast. She asked him what he was thinking. Stating that he knew better than to eat solid foods, Jake grew angry, not because of his mother’s comments, but from the disappointment that he had not overcome his affliction as he had thought. The thought that he still couldn’t eat fed his anger and he stormed away from the table to get cleaned up for school.
While walking to school Jake delved into thought about how he had been able to eat the night before and not this morning. Thinking aloud, he asked himself,
“What do I have to do to be able to eat a normal meal again? I guess I have to get a baby to throw up in my mouth every time I want to eat?”
The bright light bulb in his head lit up brightly with a far-fetched but that sounded oddly also made perfect sense. The only difference between the two scenarios was the vomit factor, but how could he put this hypothesis’s to the test? He had thought about returning to his nephew’s house for another round of feed-the-baby-and-toss-him-into-the-air-until-he-vomits, but he didn’t have the heart to do that to the baby. Then he thought about what would be the simplest way to make someone throw up. He could wait till someone was ill. No that would take too long to wait for a friend to become ill and hover over their toilet waiting to collect what they spewed. He could invite a friend over to eat something that was perhaps spoiled from the refrigerator. No, that didn’t seem reasonable. Then it came to him—
alcohol
! Alcohol always makes people do stupid things. He could encourage his friends to imbibe beyond their capacity and wait for them to hurl. Perfect.
Jake invited his friend Greg over the next night his parents went away. Jake offered Greg a drink. Greg accepted and was happily surprised when Jake carried a case of beer out of the kitchen. With abandon common to teens, Greg drank can after can of beer, continuing even as his speech slurred. Always the accommodating host, Jake went to get a large soup pot from the kitchen. He instructed Greg that if he was going to be sick that he should use the pot instead of the bathroom. Well, minutes later Greg was violently vomiting into the stainless steel pot. Greg stopped puking when his stomach was empty and the pot was half full. Jake took the pot into the kitchen. Jake returned to a sleeping Greg on the couch. When he was certain that Greg was comatose for the night Jake returned to the kitchen. He stared down into the pot of frothy soup. He peeked out the doorway to see if Greg had moved. He hadn’t. When Jake was satisfied that Greg would not wake up, he returned to the pot to test his theory.
Jake lifted the rim of the pot to his lips and drank. The sour stench was horrid. He continued to drink the warm vile, thick, slimy, syrupy, sour cocktail. He put the pot down expecting his body to revolt against this offering and just as with the baby’s vomit, it didn’t. He went to the pantry and grabbed a package of chocolate cupcakes—something he had craved ever since he became ill. He ate the two in single bites and then waited nervously for his body to reject them. But they didn’t! He went back to the pantry and continued to eat and sample everything that he’d been craving for months.
Then he went back for seconds…
And thirds…
Until he was full. He was full! He couldn’t believe that he was experiencing being satisfied by food again. He was so happy and proud of his solution!
He found his own cure when all those doctors failed him and had predicted a short life attached to an intravenous bag. He cleaned up the pot and the wrappers from his feeding frenzy and settled down in the chair in the living room next to where Greg lay passed out. He thought about what had happened with his nephew and now again tonight. If he were going to survive with his affliction he needed to continue to consume the regurgitation of others. He needed to devise a guise that would allow him to do this, and this is how the parties came to be. He was never going to return to the mercy of just surviving on fluids again. He was going to be damned if he did or dead if he didn’t. He chose the drinking of the vile fluid instead of the slow wasting death of the intravenous bag.
In the months that followed he devised a more pleasant way to make the liquid deposits from his party guests more palatable for consumption. He began to create menus for his guests that would alter their contribution so as to increase their appetites and his cravings. Many nights his friends would arrive to a table full of delectable chocolate treats—chocolate cakes, pies,
éclairs
, and puddings. In return Jake would reap the benefits of the menu served. After the party he sat down to his feast with a mug full of the frothy chocolaty flavored vomit. He would change the menu every week to satisfy his cravings. One week he only served fruit and enjoyed a fruity “vomit smoothie” with his meal. Other times he went the ethnic route.
Jake was able to continue the pattern for about three months when something in his body changed. Food digestion that would normally require one or two mugs of regurgitation was now taking eight to ten full mugs. He consumed increasing quantities of vomit and less food during a feeding, resulting in taking in fewer usable nutrients as each week passed! Jake continued the daily intravenous sessions but without real food he felt himself withering away. He wasn’t sure how to increase the potency in the stomach acids which he was stealing from the vomit. He continued to throw the weekly parties, only to get less and less satisfaction from his feedings. His illness reached a new high when after the last party his feast he lasted only three mouthfuls before he vomited. Attempting to soothe his stomach he drank another mug full. He consumed nearly twelve helpings of the puke before he rendered himself too full to eat anything else. He went to bed that evening hungry for the first time. He didn’t know what to do. He attended school during the week hoping in some strange way that his condition might reverse, allowing him to resume the vomit shakes to digest his food. He waited anxiously for the weekend to arrive.
The party-goers came puked and left. Jake was anxious to attempt to eat something. When he thought the house was empty he headed to the patio to feed from the barrel but he was distracted by the sound of snoring. He turned and found Jodi, a girl he knew from science class, asleep on the couch. He liked her and thought she was both funny and attractive. She had told him that her parents were getting a divorce and she was going through a rough time. She had started to attend his parties to drown her sorrows in alcohol. The ache in his belly reminded him that it was time to eat. It also reminded him of his problem of getting less and less satisfaction from the contents of the barrel. He convinced himself that drinking directly from someone without their stomach contents being diluted in the “community” barrel could provide a chance to eat normally again. He went to the basement and gathered rope and duct tape. He gently tied the girl’s hands and feet to the couch. Then moved quickly and placed the tape over her mouth to keep her silent during his meal. She awoke as Jake applied the tape to her lips. Her eyes widened as she found herself bound and gagged as well. In an attempt to scream,
She was only able to muster out a low-pitched moan. She struggled at her bindings only to have Jake tighten them accordingly as he noticed her movements loosen their grip.
Jake went into the kitchen and brought back a filet knife. He looked down at Jodi and slowly cut her blouse from her waist to the bottom of her bra. Her bare belly was now exposed to him.
He knelt at her side, took the knife and dragged the blade gently across the skin of her belly. A small trickle of blood oozed from the wound.
Jodi continued her muffled pleas as tears streamed down her cheeks. He cut two more slits in the skin as to form a flap. He wanted to be careful as not to cut to deep so as not to damage the stomach and its contents within. Jodi remained conscious until Jake began cutting and peeling away the muscle tissue that covered her stomach. He lifted the last layer of flesh, exposing her stomach to him, and the loss of blood anesthetized Jodi as she bled out. Jake knew his time was growing short as she expired.
His mouth watered at the anticipation of devouring the life-giving liquid beneath his hand as he unearthed it from its prison of flesh. He squealed in delight as the contents of her stomach moved around under the pressure of his touch. He took the knife and placed a small puncture on the surface of the stomach. Air escaped from the hole, and a spurt of fluid sprayed upward. He couldn’t wait any longer. He leaned over his victim and enlarged the incision with the knife. He was amazed at how easy the lining of the stomach cut. The contents began to flow faster than he expected. He reached down in an attempt to keep the fluids from escaping too quickly. He pressed his mouth down to the opening and slurped its contents. He felt invigorated then, carnivorous, tearing at the flesh. Without hesitation he buried his face into the liquid-filled pillow of the stomach beneath. He submerged his entire face into the warm fluid. He drank as if he never eaten before. Unexpectedly he was surprised to feel the surface of his skin begin to burn. He never thought about the effects of the stomach acids coming in contact with his skin. He quickly ignored the thought and was more concerned with the walls of the stomach collapsing and the remaining contents spilling, wasted, onto the floor. The liquid continued to burn his face and eyes as he ate. The stomach fluids and other chewy contents quickly satisfied his hunger. His skin continued to burn as the acids digested his face as he ate. He lifted his face from his feast and inhaled deeply.
What a feeling!
He thought. He felt great. He looked down at the human buffet before him. His vision began to blur and deteriorate as the burning fluid dripped down his head into his eyes. Ignoring this, he plunged his head down a second time feasting on his victim.
As he finished the liquid contents he came across the remnants of his victim’s last meal at the bottom of her stomach. He chewed the soft gooey morsels as he sucked them into his mouth.
When all was gone he heard the voice of someone calling Jodi’s name from outside. A moment later the girl’s father walked through the front door with the view of Jake kneeling at the side of the human buffet that once was his daughter.
After the trial Jake was found to be clinically insane. His addiction to eating or drinking from his victims didn’t bode well with the jury. They sentenced him life in the New Jersey State Mental Institution. His blind, skeletal frame lay day-in and day-out strapped to his bunk, sustained by nutrition catheters taped to his arms.
Is there anyone more prone to substance abuse than rock ‘n rollers? Possibly, but perhaps it’s just not as widely publicized. Keith Richards once remarked that “musicians don’t necessarily get started on drugs because they’re all plentiful and fun—or that they seem entitled to them. A lot of times it’s because you’re in Des Moines one night and you have to be in Chicago the next, all pumped and ready to go.”
Or, as Ken Goldman writes, there might be another reason.
Smokin’
By Ken Goldman
Grinding his axe in the heaviest balls-out band on the charts had not significantly altered bassist Zacherly Cooper’s pursuit of the young BaddAss groupies, although the thrill of the hunt had long since disappeared. There was no question that he would be bumping bones with the young girls following every concert during the BaddAss KickkAss Tour 2K1; there remained only the uncertainty of how much aggravation this latest cooz pot would cause when time came to toss her butt out of his hotel room.