Worms

Worms
By: Jim Kelley
“You know, if you don’t cook pork well enough you can get fucking worms!” Little chunks of barbecued meat pelted my arm as Burt spoke, sending shivers up my spine. I watched his jaws work the thick shredded pork sandwich—flexing, contracting, lips smacking together with each bite. Burt had leaned against the passenger window of the cruiser and slept most of the morning—just like every morning—and I drove. We were assigned the lower south, patrolling the soccer mom and elderly-laden end of town—the gravy job. Burt had awoke at precisely the moment I turned the Crown Vic on to Sawmill Road, his internal clock appeared well attuned to lunchtime. “That a fact?” I sipped casually from my cup of Joe and hoped Burt didn’t see me watching him. I barely heard his words, my mind was on him and the way he filled out his uniform. There wasn’t another officer in Precinct 12 with Burt’s cut. “Yes’ sir, that’s a fact. My Aunt Barb told me once that Uncle Bob got so tanked up on Gold Schlager that he ate a whole pack of raw pork chops!” Burt paused and glared at me. He wanted my attention—to know I understood the weight of his story. “Yeah, that’s right, a fucking package of pork chops! Had to be at least two, maybe three pounds of pig in it; fucking Bob is crazy some times.” He took another bite from his sandwich. I watched a big chunk of pink meat slip from his greasy lips and land on his tie. It slowly slithered down until it came to rest on his bulging gut. Damn, he is fine! “That much can’t be good!” “Fuck no,” more pork rained on me as he spoke, “even cooked, that much pork will fuck your shitter up.” I felt saliva building up in my mouth. My tongue floated in the drool like a twisting eel. “What happened to him?” I didn’t really give a shit what happened to Bob, only watching Burt bounce his double chin mattered. “Worms,” Burt leaned in close. I could smell a tangy, sour scent radiating from him reminding me of a boy’s high school locker-room. No colognes or deodorants despoiled his aroma—it was all Burt. “Worms?” I half laughed as I took another sip. I pray he doesn’t see the hunger for him in my eyes, that would ruin any shot I have. “Damn right. Aunt Barb said, the following week, she found little white squiggly things in the seat of his underwear. And the week after that, she saw one of the nasty fuckers dangling from his ass cheeks at least two-foot long.” “Bullshit,” I said. “No, she swears by it!” “Fuck me…” The images of ass worms doused my appetite in one fell swoop and sunk into my mind like an anchor. I was going to be stuck thinking about Burt’s uncle all day—more precisely, Uncle Bob’s ass. *** The rest of the shift passed like the Pittsburgh Steelers offense—slow, boring, and uneventful. Cleveland had its share of crime, but lately, Burt and I had been lucky and not seen much action. I’d drove in what amounted to circles, thinking about Burt, Burt’s ass, Burt’s uncle, and ass worms. I wish he hadn’t told me that story! Burt leaned against the passenger window again, a soft smirk on his lips and his eyes shut. “So how’s married life, John? She put a stop to the sex yet?” He grunted a short laugh. “Not at all, Tina is a very physical girl.” “You know who I bet likes to fuck?” “Who’s that?” “Wanda Trout,” Burt sighed as his smirk grew to a sly grin. “You think?” My mind conjured images of Wanda Trout, her hourglass figure, her athletic legs, her come fuck me low cut blouse. My stomach threatened to vomit. I had to get the image of the skinny bitch out of my head. Burt nodded, stretched, and then looked at his watch. “Shit, another three hours of this bullshit, fucking slave drivers!” I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. Burt stretching eased my revulsion from thinking of Wanda, replacing it with carnal salacity. I wanted him. I had to have him. I have done this sort of thing before, six times to be exact. Typically, I’d find a homeless man or a runaway—once, I tried a homeless woman, but she hadn’t been for me. I needed a male or nothing at all—take him to my special place outside of the city, and then— I forced myself to stop thinking about what I’d done in my special place. It distracted me even more than Burt’s chunky arms and shapely belly. I wonder what it would take to get Burt to go to the special place. Stop it! Tina’s voice rang like heavy thunder in my head. God, if she ever suspected… Forcing those thoughts from my head, I turned the cruiser onto Bell Ave. Maybe if I drive by the special place, my mind will clear. You’re going to take him there! What you don’t know won’t hurt you, Tina. The thought hit me hard. It wouldn’t hurt Tina, especially since she was never going to know. Tina could never know. “I want to show you something, Burt.” Without opening his eyes, Burt shrugged his indifference. * “What the fuck is this place?” Burt stood in the center of the shack, turning slow circles. Occasionally, he’d stop and finger a pair of handcuffs or a hacksaw I had hanging on the wall. I closed the door behind me. The iron pipe felt comforting and familiar in my hand, like an old friend. I raised it above my head as I started toward Burt. I had to make it quick if I wanted to be home in time for dinner. “What is all this shit, John? Looks like a fucking murder scene with all the dried blood everywhere.” “Not murder,” I grunted, swinging the pipe with all I had. “SLAUGHTER!” The fat fuck was quicker than I had given him credit for, probably because he was a cop, after all. He whirled, causing me to miss the back of his head. I heard a dull pop as the pipe sunk into his collarbone. Burt’s agonizing scream grew to a fervent pitch as his great bulk sunk to the dirt floor and tried to scramble away from me. “Shit,” I advanced on him again. “Don’t make me shoot you, Burt!” “What the fuck are you doing? Goddamn, I think you broke my shoulder! What the fuck is the matter with you?” He was too busy writhing in pain to notice I meant to whack him again. “Shush now, long pigs don’t talk!” “What?” Burt’s eyes widened almost comically when he saw me looming over him, pipe raised for the killing stroke. “No, John—" The second swing connected with Burt’s skull, though not square on top where I’d intended. He’d leaned over mid-swing and the pipe struck him just below his left ear. I heard another satisfying crack, and hoped that would be the last sound I heard from Officer Burt Fraley. “You dead, pig?” I poked his ribs with the toe of my boot. Burt only twitched and oozed gore and shattered teeth from his mouth like spaghetti sauce. He might not have been dead yet, but when I cut his head off, I’d be sure. I had to work fast. Burt’s family would be wondering why he hadn’t returned home in a few hours, and I still had to figure out what to do with his car back at the station. Not to mention, the time I’d spend quartering him out. Moving his fat ass onto the table had proved time consuming enough. I’d never tried a well-fed morsel like Burt before, and wasn’t prepared for his three-hundred pounds of man-meat. I looked at my watch, two hours until my shift was over, another twenty-five or so to get back to the station. I had time, but not time to waste. I decided not to be greedy and just carved a thigh—I’d have plenty of time to process the long pig tomorrow. Besides, maybe a night’s sleep would help me forget about Uncle Bob’s big worm. * “You’re late,” Tina had a kiss on her lips for me as I came through the front door. She took one of the grocery bags I carried and turned toward the kitchen. “You’ve been back to the meat market? I was so hoping you’d pick up some more of that special pork you get!” If it hadn’t been for the bags in her hands, I think Tina would’ve danced in circles, clapping her hands like a loon. She loved the special pork. “I know. I couldn’t stand the thought of not having any of your famous pork chops, so I made a special trip.” “That’s sweet of you to say, baby. Now, go get ready for dinner. It won’t take me long to fry some of these bad boys up!” She smiled at me before disappearing behind the kitchen wall. “Tina!” I cried out as I recalled Burt’s story. “Make sure you cook them until they’re done all the way through. Did you know eating raw pork can give you worms?”

By: Jim Kelley

     “You know, if you don’t cook pork well enough you can get fucking worms!” Little chunks of barbecued meat pelted my arm as Burt spoke, sending shivers up my spine. I watched his jaws work the thick shredded pork sandwich—flexing, contracting, lips smacking together with each bite.

    Burt had leaned against the passenger window of the cruiser and slept most of the morning—just like every morning—and I drove. We were assigned the lower south, patrolling the soccer mom and elderly-laden end of town—the gravy job. Burt had awoke at precisely the moment I turned the Crown Vic on to Sawmill Road, his internal clock appeared well attuned to lunchtime.

    “That a fact?” I sipped casually from my cup of Joe and hoped Burt didn’t see me watching him. I barely heard his words, my mind was on him and the way he filled out his uniform. There wasn’t another officer in Precinct 12 with Burt’s cut.

    “Yes’ sir, that’s a fact. My Aunt Barb told me once that Uncle Bob got so tanked up on Gold Schlager that he ate a whole pack of raw pork chops!” Burt paused and glared at me. He wanted my attention—to know I understood the weight of his story. “Yeah, that’s right, a fucking package of pork chops! Had to be at least two, maybe three pounds of pig in it; fucking Bob is crazy some times.” He took another bite from his sandwich.

    I watched a big chunk of pink meat slip from his greasy lips and land on his tie. It slowly slithered down until it came to rest on his bulging gut. Damn, he is fine!

    “That much can’t be good!”

    “Fuck no,” more pork rained on me as he spoke, “even cooked, that much pork will fuck your shitter up.”

    I felt saliva building up in my mouth. My tongue floated in the drool like a twisting eel.

“What happened to him?” I didn’t really give a shit what happened to Bob, only watching Burt bounce his double chin mattered.

    “Worms,” Burt leaned in close. I could smell a tangy, sour scent radiating from him reminding me of a boy’s high school locker-room. No colognes or deodorants despoiled his aroma—it was all Burt.

    “Worms?” I half laughed as I took another sip.

    I pray he doesn’t see the hunger for him in my eyes, that would ruin any shot I have.

    “Damn right. Aunt Barb said, the following week, she found little white squiggly things in the seat of his underwear. And the week after that, she saw one of the nasty fuckers dangling from his ass cheeks at least two-foot long.”

    “Bullshit,” I said.

    “No, she swears by it!”

    “Fuck me…” The images of ass worms doused my appetite in one fell swoop and sunk into my mind like an anchor. I was going to be stuck thinking about Burt’s uncle all day—more precisely, Uncle Bob’s ass.

***

    The rest of the shift passed like the Pittsburgh Steelers offense—slow, boring, and uneventful. Cleveland had its share of crime, but lately, Burt and I had been lucky and not seen much action. I’d drove in what amounted to circles, thinking about Burt, Burt’s ass, Burt’s uncle, and ass worms. I wish he hadn’t told me that story!

    Burt leaned against the passenger window again, a soft smirk on his lips and his eyes shut.

    “So how’s married life, John? She put a stop to the sex yet?” He grunted a short laugh.

     “Not at all, Tina is a very physical girl.”

    “You know who I bet likes to fuck?”

    “Who’s that?”

    “Wanda Trout,” Burt sighed as his smirk grew to a sly grin.

    “You think?” My mind conjured images of Wanda Trout, her hourglass figure, her athletic legs, her come fuck me low cut blouse. My stomach threatened to vomit. I had to get the image of the skinny bitch out of my head.

    Burt nodded, stretched, and then looked at his watch. “Shit, another three hours of this bullshit, fucking slave drivers!”

    I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. Burt stretching eased my revulsion from thinking of Wanda, replacing it with carnal salacity.
I wanted him.
    I had to have him.

     I have done this sort of thing before, six times to be exact. Typically, I’d find a homeless man or a runaway—once, I tried a homeless woman, but she hadn’t been for me. I needed a male or nothing at all—take him to my special place outside of the city, and then—

    I forced myself to stop thinking about what I’d done in my special place. It distracted me even more than Burt’s chunky arms and shapely belly. I wonder what it would take to get Burt to go to the special place.

     Stop it! Tina’s voice rang like heavy thunder in my head. God, if she ever suspected…

    Forcing those thoughts from my head, I turned the cruiser onto Bell Ave. Maybe if I drive by the special place, my mind will clear.
     You’re going to take him there!
     What you don’t know won’t hurt you, Tina.
    The thought hit me hard. It wouldn’t hurt Tina, especially since she was never going to know.
    Tina could never know.

    “I want to show you something, Burt.”
    Without opening his eyes, Burt shrugged his indifference.

***

    “What the fuck is this place?” Burt stood in the center of the shack, turning slow circles. Occasionally, he’d stop and finger a pair of handcuffs or a hacksaw I had hanging on the wall.

    I closed the door behind me. The iron pipe felt comforting and familiar in my hand, like an old friend. I raised it above my head as I started toward Burt. I had to make it quick if I wanted to be home in time for dinner.

    “What is all this shit, John? Looks like a fucking murder scene with all the dried blood everywhere.”

    “Not murder,” I grunted, swinging the pipe with all I had. “SLAUGHTER!”

    The fat fuck was quicker than I had given him credit for, probably because he was a cop, after all. He whirled, causing me to miss the back of his head. I heard a dull pop as the pipe sunk into his collarbone. Burt’s agonizing scream grew to a fervent pitch as his great bulk sunk to the dirt floor and tried to scramble away from me.

    “Shit,” I advanced on him again. “Don’t make me shoot you, Burt!”

    “What the fuck are you doing? Goddamn, I think you broke my shoulder! What the fuck is the matter with you?” He was too busy writhing in pain to notice I meant to whack him again.

    “Shush now, long pigs don’t talk!”

    “What?” Burt’s eyes widened almost comically when he saw me looming over him, pipe raised for the killing stroke. “No, John—"

    The second swing connected with Burt’s skull, though not square on top where I’d intended. He’d leaned over mid-swing and the pipe struck him just below his left ear. I heard another satisfying crack, and hoped that would be the last sound I heard from Officer Burt Fraley.

    “You dead, pig?” I poked his ribs with the toe of my boot.

    Burt only twitched and oozed gore and shattered teeth from his mouth like spaghetti sauce. He might not have been dead yet, but when I cut his head off, I’d be sure.

    I had to work fast. Burt’s family would be wondering why he hadn’t returned home in a few hours, and I still had to figure out what to do with his car back at the station. Not to mention, the time I’d spend quartering him out.

Moving his fat ass onto the table had proved time consuming enough. I’d never tried a well-fed morsel like Burt before, and wasn’t prepared for his three-hundred pounds of man-meat.

    I looked at my watch, two hours until my shift was over, another twenty-five or so to get back to the station. I had time, but not time to waste.

    I decided not to be greedy and just carved a thigh—I’d have plenty of time to process the long pig tomorrow. Besides, maybe a night’s sleep would help me forget about Uncle Bob’s big worm.

***

     “You’re late,” Tina had a kiss on her lips for me as I came through the front door. She took one of the grocery bags I carried and turned toward the kitchen. “You’ve been back to the meat market? I was so hoping you’d pick up some more of that special pork you get!”

    If it hadn’t been for the bags in her hands, I think Tina would’ve danced in circles, clapping her hands like a loon. She loved the special pork.

    “I know. I couldn’t stand the thought of not having any of your famous pork chops, so I made a special trip.”

    “That’s sweet of you to say, baby. Now, go get ready for dinner. It won’t take me long to fry some of these bad boys up!” She smiled at me before disappearing behind the kitchen wall.

    “Tina!” I cried out as I recalled Burt’s story. “Make sure you cook them until they’re done all the way through. Did you know eating raw pork can give you worms?”

Jim Kelley is a full-time carpenter in the great state of Ohio, where he co-owns a small exterior deck & siding company. He’s a former semi-pro football player for the Columbus Sharks, Swarm, and Phantoms, and is happily married. Jim shares his house with his wife, six cats, and a hyper rot/beagle mix dog.

His short story, titled Sex and Rot in the Afterlife, will appear in the first issue of The Ashen Eye. Other stories can be found at +The Horror Library+, The World of Myth, and various anthologies. Jim also writes book reviews for The World of Myth ezine under the name Kelly James. Jim is also nearly completed his first novel, The Bone Puzzle.

Worms was originally published at The Horror Library.

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