WARNING!!! - the story that follows is NOT to be read by those who are at all squeamish.
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No, I don't expect you to understand. I don't write this down for any one to find it one day and come to an understanding. I fear that our sickness is something more fully rotten within our souls than our bodies. And to know that there are others, others who have been doing this for far longer than I... well, that guilt consumes me.
We are predators or the worst kind, scavengers and violators. Roderick and I have been doing it for almost two years now, since the beginning of the war. America is so thrown into terror of this "Great War" right now, they haven't the time to bother with the likes of us, with tracking our petty work. There are whispers of great atrocities coming from this World War, but they can be nothing compared against what I've witnessed, nay: what I've participated in.
I remember when Roderick first broached the subject with me. I was disgusted beyond belief, and indeed, as he fully explained did I retch. But he must have seen something in me, realized something in me that I knew not about myself. I agreed to go with him on that first night to aid and I've gone with him ever since.
It is, after all, a two man job.
We've traveled all about the state of Ohio now and some into Pennsylvania. I highly doubt they're tracking us, or even have any clue what we are up to. We've learned to be very careful, very respectful. Respect. That's the very essence of it. No one would understand except for those others that delve into the world that we have immersed ourselves in. No one would see the love, the addiction, the art of it.
Roderick learned all he knows, all he's taught me, from his uncle; his mother's estranged brother. This man had a name for what we are, what we do, but I despise it. Roderick uses it every now and again, and I chastise him for it. I find the term despicable.
Tonight we went out again. Tonight we found our sweetness, our nectar of gods. It was Roderick's turn to catch, mine to bring forth. It was a small town, little more than a farming community. We had been scanning all the local newspapers, and found just the perfect place. Just the perfect lover.
It was a Wednesday, well... technically a Thursday night. We slipped into the cemetery at around 1am and begun digging. I had always believed that caskets were buried six feet, but that had proven a myth. A scant three feet, and for two grown and strong men, it took only an hour to dig. Dig and dig, dig our way to hell.
She had been beautiful. Died at seventeen from an asthmatic attack, her own lungs her enemy. Women are always buried in dresses, always making it so much easier. She had been dead for two weeks and three days. Absolutely perfect. "Ripe", Roderick had said. Her skin had gone to that gray tone, her cheeks sunken in and lips curling back. Her eyes had started to dry out, the lids lying ever-so flat. Hair, the color of wheat, would soon fall out and what visible beauty remained would be lost to the earth.
Two weeks. That's the important time to get to them. 'Always remember that,' Roderick's uncle had told him. 'Before that, everything is still too solid and after that, you run the risk of splitting open the shell.'
We moved the girl to grass beside her grave almost reverently. We love her, this girl, and what she's going to give to us. Roderick lifted and adjusted the skirting of her dress, removing her undergarments with care. He spread her legs and examined her sex. After a few moments of staring at it with admiration, he gave me the nod of approval.
Roderick positioned himself as I reached into the bag. From it, I pulled the instrument, our tool that marks our mission. It is a piece of wood, two feet long and eight inches wide. The bottom has a three inch deep bevel to it and the top is flat to accommodate my hands. Across that top, in the center of the wood, there is a single word carved.
It says "Lovers."
I placed the wooden tool at the bottom of her rib cage. Looking down to Roderick, I saw the need, the desire in his eyes. That great hunger. He was lying flat on his stomach between the girl legs, and he nodded to me and he opened his mouth. Opened it to catch. Opened to catch, as it is his turn as I force it to come.
I pressed down on the wood and rolled in precise, practiced motion. I could feel the pressure, hear the squelching noise of liquifying organs as they shifted. Precise, practiced motion. The girl's sex split open, wide and raw, her inner secrets spilling out in a gushing manner. Like a fountain of mother's soup, it almost came, right into the awaiting mouth of Roderick. And he ate as he moaned in ecstasy, grinding his erection into the soft ground.
Barnabus McCallum, Roderick's uncle, had told us that this practice has been inacted for centuries in secret, that it still is through out the world. He said he fears that one day, modern man's science will drive our kind deeper. But for now, we worship the blessed decay and make feast of it. We are surely damned, but our bellies and our souls are full.
The uncle; he called us a phrase. And, I must admit, as I sit here writing this I feel I agree with the connotations that the term implies. I suppose I feel more ghoulish about our actions than my partner, more soon to allow the shame to creep in. The truth is, we are what we eat, what we do, what we act upon...
... and I am a Mung Poacher.
rating: 4
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