Flash Fiction Friday: Jupiter Meat
by R. A. Harris
The hanging purple meat looked like gloopy Jupiters sliding towards the floor. The iridescent veins twisting through the flesh were thick with congealed blood. Arnold’s thick hands gripped the chunk of flesh by the flanks and expertly worked their way down, squeezing the slab dry.
“Like getting blood from a stone,” he said, as the blood oozed out like toothpaste. An easy smile spread across his blood smeared face. He wiped his hands clean on his apron, though the state of it probably meant his hands were grubbier for having done so.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that was a lame joke. I didn’t have the heart to tell him everything about him was lame. He was set on his way by now. There was no point in trying to reroute him. His was a life of simple bliss, butcher meat until he drops dead. Not I. I had plans.
The sun was just easing into bed when she walked in, her broad shoulders tucking it in for the night. Her heels gave her a good few inches on me. She was completely naked apart from an Egyptian style mask that covered her face apart from her mouth. Her eyes were two scarab beetles nestled in a golden tomb. She smoked a cigarette. Smoke curled away from her like ether. Her nipples stared straight at me, gunning for my reptilian brain.
“Ma’am,” I managed after many false starts.
She silenced me with a single finger, as white and smooth as a cloud, against my lips. Her other hand slid a folded note onto the counter. A quick flick of her eyes told me the note was for me. She kept her finger against my dry lips as I unfolded the paper and read the message.
I darted my eyes back and forth between her and the note, as if trying to read some hidden words strung out between her brain and the paper. Was this a joke?
Her areolas became red and white segments and began to rotate. I gasped as her nipples metamorphosed into miniature chunks of purple meat.
My finger rose like an artillery cannon and pointed at her chest. “M, m, ma’am,” I fired, “Your breasts are mutating.”
She raised herself even higher, probably onto her tiptoes, and let out a cackle, only it was wet like a donkey braying.
I felt my eyes getting sucked into her chest. The meat of her nipples like two Jupiters, slowly rotating in the centre of a gravity pool, and I was a helpless asteroid set to crash onto her planet. Space imploded around me as I collapsed into her chest. Her heartbeat coalesced with mine, the amplitude building so much pressure that it burst blood vessels in my head.
I felt warm, like I’d been swallowed into a womb. Arnold had wrapped his strong fists around my torso, and began squeezing me like a tube. Congealed blood, thick waxy gravy, sloshed forth from my mouth, spreading inside the woman like a galaxy slowly unfurling.
I should have known this was they way it was going to go. Her nebulous smile. The cigarette stub clinging to her lower lip, even as the cherry softened and blackened and died, peeling away like sunburnt skin. Her dappled skin and hair streaked like rainfall on a window at night. And Arnold, content to wring the blood from the purple meat for as long as he should live. Not I. I had plans.
In an effort not to detour from my plans, I kicked. I kicked like a mule. I kicked like a mule and felt Arnold’s jaw separate from the rest of his skull. His tongue lashed out, striking between my toes like a trained slut. It tickled, and I kicked again, this time cracking some of his ribs in my throes. I kicked a third time, this time my foot split his skin and displaced some of his organs. I could feel his liver between my toes, like his tongue but thicker. I pulled my foot out, and heaved against the woman to dislodge my head. It came out with a gallon of gore and the sound of a vacuum being broken, fluid rushing to fill the void.
She stood for a moment, finger pressed against my face, smoke peeling away from her like vapor, before she fell. As she fell her finger slid across my mouth, smearing blood and viscera across my cheek.
I allowed myself to fall to a seated position, my back against the counter, and shut my eyes. Strange dreams threatened to melt my mind. An apocalypse brought on by a single braying woman. But even as the Sun seared the ground and the seas boiled and the atmosphere evaporated, I knew what it was I was supposed to do.
I carved up the purple meat, varicose tubes full of detritus and clumps of plasma. My strong hands gripped each flank and squeezed like the world depended on it.
R. A. Harris still lives in England, a merry land made up inside his head. He writes bizarre fiction and some of it gets published. Go here: www.leakylibido.wordpress.com to see some of his famous flash work. You can find his book, All Art is Junk, on Amazon.com.