Free Masters of Horror by Lee Pletzers Page A

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.
     
     
     
     
     
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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.
     
    “ You fuck like you play—pissed,” the nubile blonde informed him as she squirmed back into a silk thong so thin the bassist could have flossed with it. During their time in bed her smiles of pleasure had faded in inverse proportion to her tolerance for pain. “I’m just glad you’re not into Pete Townshend or you might have broken me against the goddamned headboard.”
     
    The girl got that part right. Zacherly felt pissed enough to do much worse than providing some groupie a shitty fuck. The band had fallen on hard times since its lead guitarist chewed the muzzle of his .38. Almost as disastrous were the media’s talking heads who asserted that the surviving BaddAss members had lost it the night Raymond ‘Kinky’ Wisznewski offed himself. One MTV asswipe claimed Zacherly Cooper was fooling himself if he expected there might be a second act in his future.
     
    On the warm April evening that was Kinky’s last, some clever cop covering the crime scene remarked that the effect of Wisznewski’s shattered brains on the wall of his hotel suite