NetNews Usenet Archive 1993 #3/NN_1993_3.iso/spool/alt/evil/3446

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Subject: STORY: Such Sweet Justice 3 (LONG and TASTELESS)
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Date: 24 Jan 93 06:58:58 GMT
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 This is my entry for the '93 alt.tasteless story contest.

 Contents, in rough order of appearance: Sick humour (throughout), Sex,
Customer abuse, Malicious property damage, Animal abuse, unauthorized Medical
experiments, bad Programming techniques, Torture, Vivisection, Cannibalism,
Animal killing, implied Baby abuse, combinations of the above, and lots of
uncalled-for depraved lunacy.

 If this sort of thing isn't you; Fuck off.

 Please eat your favourite Pizza, Beer, Chips, Meat pies; whatever - BEFORE
reading further.

 Email to [e-mail] is transferred to my account.



 Such sweet Justice III - The Third Helping        by C.Manson
 ----------------------

 Hooray! Andrea and I have been going out for 2 years as of yesterday. And
would you believe we've never had an argument yet? That surely must indicate
how well we're suited. We were made for each other!

 To celebrate the occasion we went out to watch a contemplative movie all
about peaceful urban everyday life. "Freddys dead: The Final nightmare". We
were howling our heads off in laughter all the way through, and not just at
the content. A good percentage of the people in the cinema wore those shitty
3-D 'glasses' all the way through, despite being forewarned many times that
only the last ten minutes were in 3-D.
 Why go and watch "Braindead"? Work for the public and you'll see it every
day. No doubt we'll see these same low-IQ types as customers in the store
sometime. They're not uncommon; people so dense they'll stand there and
repeatedly ignore you when you ask if you can help them, so you finally tell
them if they want anything to sing out; only to have them immediately walk
off in a huff because "That stupid female walked away". Alternatively, they
might demand "the one underneath" and go berzerk when you try to pick up the
top item, so you have to explain that in order to get the one underneath you
first have to move the one on top.

 Before the video shop closed for the night we got out a couple of romantic
comedies to cuddle up to each other on the rug in front of the fire and
watch. Yashu Ahweh's "Yahweh the Incestuous" went on first. God it was funny;
I especially liked it when he burnt off his Sisters hair. Next was the
English-subtitled Finnish movie "Nekromantics". Andrea liked the woman having
a bath while the slaughtered Cat dripped its blood into the water. She says
it's healthy for the skin, plus she hates Cats fullstop so thats not a
problem.
 I could tell she was liking it when she started fondling my cock through my
jeans. Before long she was sitting on my face and rubbing my nose in her
fanny for additional thrills. Andrea is all woman. She's strong, beautiful,
romantic, subtle. A real flower child.

 What a night; movies, alcohol, and sex. Mmmmm... I fell asleep cuddling up
to her, nestling in her warmth.

 "Wakey, wakey, Glen", was the next thing I heard.
 No.
 She shook me.
 Look, can't you get the hint? I want some more sleep.
 She grabbed me by the feet, dragged me down the bed and tipped me onto the
floor.
 I curled up into a ball with the sheets I'd dragged with me.
 A cupful of FREEZING water landed on my neck.
 Brrr....
 Up I finally get.

 Oh shit. Back to work at the bloody Supermarket.
 Yeah, you get it, Ignorant, arrogant Customers and Managers keep on doing
their thing, and we're expected to simultaneously agree with it, obey it, and
let it wash off our backs.
 A week after our fun with Kerry, the powers that be decided upon a new
course of action. Each time a Customer complains about some facet of our
service, the complaint is pinned to the wall to make us feel guilty for
existing.
 The typical customer complaint goes something like: "I came here to buy such
and such, and all your staff were busy serving other customers. Despite
seeing me wait for an entire half a second, none of them stopped what they
were doing or ignored other people to serve me ahead of everyone else."
 Granted, this is slightly exaggerated, but if you've ever worked for the
public you'll know how blind and downright stupid they can be. Even the
current advertising caters for this level of mentality. You don't have to
look far to find one advertisement after another featuring the product,
surrounded by smiling plastic Disneyland figures or snobby highly paid
grinning little shits, desperately trying to convince people the product is
"fresh". Even the wrappings, for gods sakes, are declared at great length to
be "Fresh". But if this isn't good enough for the snooty, "Fresher", or
better yet, "Supafresh" is appearing on the shelves.

 The typical Customer complaint can be broken down into 3-4 parts:
 1) The Grizzle. The Customer whines about some horrible and usually quite
trivial aspect of the service, often resulting from their mistreatment of
staff.
 2) The result. They describe in exaggerated detail their frustration.
 3) The opinion. An ignorant statement justified by the above 'facts'.
 4) The recommendation for action. Usually a demand for the dismissal of a
worker who did their damndest to satisfy this fucking Customer.

 Truly has it been said, there are more insane people outside psychiatric
institudes than will ever be incarcerated.
 Possibly the worst are the few who go so far as to gain a staff members
confidence, then complain the moment they say something not quite in line
with store policy. Heres a true example:
 Customer to staff member who was abused by previous customer: "It's not very
nice when people do that, is it?"
 Staff member: "No, it gets to you when your work is insulted all day long."
 Customer: "I'm paying good money!" she shrieks, nostrils flaring in anger.
Thats right, forget that we do good work, too. Without another word, she
stamps off in a huff after glancing at your name badge.
 One complaint coming up thats virtually guaranteed to have you out of a job.

 The fun part came when I noticed about half the Customers wrote their names,
addresses and even phone numbers on these whining letters of Complaint.
Promptly I noted down all the Addresses and Names I could find, and got the
Phone numbers from the book where necessary.
 Oh Lord, the fun Andrea and I had that evening!

- Customer complaint#1

 This Lady wanted some Pate at the Delicatessen, and was foaming at the mouth
because all the staff were busy. 'Now I know not to come here to buy Pate'
she finished off with.

 Awwwww..

 Dial number.
 "Hello?"
 "Is this Mrs (name)?"
 "Yes."
 "Hello, I'm (Managers name), from (stores name) Supermarket. I'm ringing to
apologise for the trouble you had yesterday. I can sympathise with your
feelings, you were quite justified to bring this to our attention."
 "Why, thank you, thats very nice of you", she says, pleased that her
prattling has gotten the sympathy it didn't deserve. After all, the Customer
is always right, aren't they?
 "Tell you what, can I give you a piece of advice to make sure you never
receive such service again?"
 "Certainly."
 "In future, why don't you shop at (ANOTHER Supermarkets name) instead?"

 Silence.
 He/She/It is churning this information through their minimal brain capacity.
Eventually they might even realise what it means.

 "Better still, why don't you join Weightwatchers and work off that spare
tyre you carry around? It can't be doing much good for your Heart, you know.
All that Blubber bouncing around as you walk, everyone talks about it behind
your back each time you come in. Have you had your blood pressure and
cholesterol levels checked lately?"

- Customer complaint#2

 "The staff were inattentive and looked totally unconcerned when the product
I wanted turned out to be out of stock. One useless person after another
couldn't find it, and I'm certain they were lying and had some out the back,
but couldn't be bothered doing anything about it."
 Andrea handled this one. As I did, she agreed with each written whine and
bitch the Customer wrote down.
 Thats when she brought out the Sandpaper and started scraping it on the
receiver at random intervals.
 "Oh dear, my phones going funny again", the Customer states.
 "Ah, I know what that is, have you got a Screwdriver and a pair of pliers
handy? I'll guide you through fixing it so you'll never have it again."
 "Can you really?  Oh, thats so kind of you, I've had it for years.. wait
there will you?
 Not a problem.
 "I'm back, what do I have to do?"
 "It'll take less than a minute. To start with, unscrew the cover of the gray
junction box next to the wall."
 "I've done that, and theres lots of wires in there."
 "Thats normal. Now, cut the Red wire... you're doing well... now cut the
Green wire...".

 (Click!) Beep beep beep beep.... Beep beep beep beep....

- Customer complaint#3

 "I wanted to buy a hot pie, and after a minute of waiting figured this had
gone on long enough, I wasn't getting noticed. So I resorted to slapping the
glass with my hand to get their attention, but all I got was a surly look and
they deliberately ignored me to serve the other customers who were waiting.
 Thanks to your ignorant staff, you've lost another customer."

 My turn!
 Ring.. Ring.. (Click) "Hello?"
 "Hello, this is Telecoms. Do you by any chance have one or more extensions
on your phone?"
 Long silence.
 "Ummm, no, we don't."
 "Well, theres a minor fault on your telephone thats going to rapidly get
worse over the next few days until your phone doesent work any more."
 "I see. How long will it be until you can have a look at it?"
 "Thats the problem, Sir, you see theres so much work going on at the moment
it'll take two or three days at least to get around to you."
 "Thats not very efficient. What happened to the great service you're always
prattling on about?" Between the lines he's saying 'Why don't you fix the
problem NOW? Stuff everyone else!'
 "Well we're sorry sir, but there is an alternative, I can guide you right
now through the repair, it'll take only thirty seconds if you can find a
screwdriver and pliers."
 Pure outrage is growing at the other end. He's thinking 'Why should I have
to do anything at all?' Good, let it fester. He grudgingly goes away and
returns a minute later.
 We direct him to unscrew the cover as before, and put his finger on both of
those nice BIG black wires coming from the wall.
 Instantly I hang up and hit the redial button.

 BLAM!

 He received a 90 volt shock as the phone rang. He picks it up, furiously
demanding an explanation.
 "Oh, that was the Computer sending a signal to try and repair the problem.
The readings show it worked. Could you put your finger back please to test
it, there won't be a jolt this time as it'll only be a test signal."
 Hang up. Redial.

 THWACK!

 Now he's pissed off.
 I explain that it's just a high speed pulse from the Telecom computer and
it's perfectly normal, but the lie is starting to wear thin. Ok, lets put his
hand in it good and proper.
 "If you're worried about it, cover your fingers in Vinegar before you put
them back on. Vinegar is a perfect insulator."
 Hang up. Redial.

 BOOM!!!

 The current undoubtedly conducted better than ever, and in all likelihood
the jolt threw him against the wall.
 This time when he picks up the phone, Andrea and I are in fits of laughter.
 "Doctor, the Electric shock treatment didn't work too well", Andrea said.
 His screams of outrage became even louder at this point, if such is
possible.

 I love playing games with Customers, they're so gullible.

 But dear oh dear, they will keep on trying. Can't they ever learn?
 The day after our phone phun a good friend of mine in the Bakery was fired
for throwing something at a Customer.
 Now, my friend wasn't renouned for doing these sorts of things so I really
couldn't really figure it out. I rang him at his home during my Lunch break,
catching him in the middle of burning his work uniforms rather than hand them
in when he picked up his final pay.
 It transpired that this is how it happened: He was handing the customers
Buns over the counter when she was distracted by her Husband. She turned
aside just as he let go, and the plastic bag fell to the floor. He apologised
to no avail; her Husband grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her away and
they walked off without a word. Both swore vehemontly that he had thrown it
at them.

 Feeling kind of annoyed at this, I trudged back towards my area of work, not
really looking where I was going. Thats how come I tripped over this electric
cable sitting there in the middle of nowhere.
 I kicked the sodding thing out of the way, then froze in my tracks. Electric
cable. Electricity. Electricity can do damage as well as run things.
 Before you could say "fuck you", I'd snipped the cable where it met some
expensive looking piece of equipment, a high powered vacuum cleaner I think,
making a massive blue flash as I did so. Maybe I should have switched it off
first? But never mind, I'm sure they can afford to repair it.
 Next, I cleaned the end of the cable to expose the wires, unscrewed the
cover of a phone jackpoint and wired it in.
 Then came the FUN part. I picked up the phone and rang the up-herself phone
secretary, Helen. Now, this woman likes listening into peoples private
conversations and reporting anything interesting to the manager; all the
better to grease him up for a promotion. You know the kind of person.
 "Hello, Helen? I'm afraid the phone system is about to go on the blink", I
said in a disguised voice.
 "Yes, thats correct, it's working fine at the moment..... No, the battery
backup won't make any difference.... No, it can't wait till later... Yes, it
has to be done now.... Yes, it's going to last a very long time, possibly all
day.... No, I don't give a SHIT in a heap of CAMEL DUNG about the FUCKING
customers, and if you had to work with them, neither would you.... Why do you
want to know who I am??.... Oh, get stuffed, Bitch. Go kiss the boss' arse.
Your system is going on the blink right about --- NOW."
 I dropped the phone and switched on the current. Brilliant blue and yellow
flashes and flames shot from the phone jack and arced between the wires.
Smoke, fire and light filled the corridor. Finally the wire exploded from the
wall.
 One thoroughly rooted internal phone system.

 Now, lets see what other handy bits and pieces there are in this place...
The Cooler!!! Why didn't I think about that before? I grabbed a box of frozen
number nine Chickens and trudged upstairs to the storage room with them.
Nobody looked twice at my "package", as any old boxes get used when need be.
 I pulled the grille from an air conditioning vent and rolled the chickens
into it one by one. They dropped out of sight and clattered down to a bend in
the air pipe.
 Mmmm... the air is nice and warm in there. No prizes for guessing whats
going to happen when those Chickens defrost and the packets swell then burst.
 Ta de dah... I strode down to the staff carpark and put 6 inch nails in
front and behind all four tyres of the bakery dept head's car. Four flatties
coming up; but first he'll have to break into his own car coz I poured
superglue into the locks, shoved slivers of wood in after it then broke them
off flush with the metal.

 Very shortly, management started to pay attention to these goings on. A few
days later hidden cameras were installed. Funny that. The theft of staff cars
doesn't matter. The theft of customers cars doesn't matter. But, boy oh boy,
touch a managers car and watch what happens.
 Two cameras promptly disappeared. I always wanted security cameras covering
the doors of our flat.
 By now, a strong odor of decay was coming from the air conditioning...

 Isn't life fun when you exact a little payback?

 You're probably wondering how dear old Kerry is after our little jokes on
him. We were sorely tempted to ring his place of work to find how he was, but
he beat us to it by dropping into the Supermarket.
 Kerry Oates is now the proud owner of this faint scar on both sides of his
jaw, and one hand was still bandaged when Andrea saw him. As far she she can
tell he pulled one hand off a knife blade to use the phone, cutting some
nerves and/or blood vessels in the process.
 Andrea gave him her big, dreamy, romantic semi-smile. All that arrogance,
the self-inflation, the revulsion of having to speak to a mere supermarket
worker; all of that was gone.
 He was obviously missing something. S-C-R-O-A-T is our guess. Andrea found
his testicles supremely edible, a nice change from our usual fare of
preserved, cancerous, gonads. He shouldn't complain, really. Instant
vasectomy and permanent hair-loss prevention.
 He still wears an expensive suit, so his Company didn't fall for the trick
we pulled. But at the very least, being confronted with *HIS* B&D magazines,
covered with *HIS* fingerprints, must have caused the guy some embarrassment.
Sexually, NZ is very backward and indulgence in this sort of thing isn't
accepted.
 Yes, you're right. Neither is Cannibalism. But then, it's very nature tends
to destroy the evidence.

 Somewhere around now it's time to reminisce some more about our school days.
 No, don't turn away, it's not going to be the usual boring "We did this, we
got such and such marks in such and such subjects."
 Nope.
 Lets start off with Andreas lunchtimes.
 The clouds of memory form and fade, and we're back in her fourth form.
 The scene focuses on an innocent looking 14 year old girl working in the
science lab all alone during her lunchtime (before she was banned from such
things). She's hunched over her latest subject, deep in thought. Absolute
concentration is visible in her smooth creamy delicate features. On a
dissection board is a cute fluffy dog, which she's DEEP inside, working
delicately. On the way to school it had nipped her on the leg; in a flash she
jumped on it, tipped her violin out of it's case and stuffed the little dog
inside.
 Oh, it was chloroformed before she started work.

 But first, a little theory for those who haven't taken introductory
Physiology. (67.201 at Auckland University's science dept)
 The first and most important thing you must know is that the Human body, and
all other mammallian bodies, are best described as organised chaos. In short,
a real MESS.
 They all evolved as a series of trial and error experiments by nature, not
all successful. Just look at the Appendix for example. It's worse than
useless, it can become inflamed at any time. The simple fact is, all animals
are in the same predicamant; they're the result of a series of tradeoffs
which are carrying on today, the most successful of which will survive.
 If you had to shape a body in such a way as to attain maximum efficiency,
you'd have the Brain near the Lungs and Heart, obviously in order to reduce
the work necessary to supply this vital organ. It uses a whopping 70% of the
blood supply, so doesn't it seem logical to have it lower down to reduce the
work needed to supply it? The end result will be a fitter, healthier
organism. There are other basic flaws and absurdities in the human design,
but this will do for now.
 She'd practised the procedure on lots of little cute warm lab mice before
this day. None lived to tell the tale, so she replaced them in the freezer to
be dissected later that year by the other students. They and the results of
her other experiments probably confused the hell out of the poor third
formers.

 So thats what Andrea was up to. She'd been working at a feverish pace over a
half hour period. So far she'd opened up the chest and head of said dog,
removed a lung (Not really needed with the upcoming radical improvement in
body design), and was feverishly trying to split the spinal cord out of the
backbone, open the skull, cut the optic nerves; all whilst trying hard not to
harm the blood supply to the brain or the brain itself in any way.
 Finally everything was ready for the big move. Carefully, so carefully,
Andrea lifted the Brain out of the head. The glistening gray matter and white
stringy spinal cord came out with it, along with the major arteries and
veins. Luckily, the anatomy of small harmless furry mammals is much simpler
otherwise she might not have had time to finish what she'd started.
 She moved the Brain to the chest area, which was why she'd excavated room by
removing a lung. Then she inserted a balloon into the skull cavity to prevent
it dying from fluid loss, as she didn't want to HURT the little fleabag.
 Just in time she finished stitching everything back up. The Lunch break
ended and she had to finish the last of her sandwiches while cleaning up.
 Still slightly unconscious, the dog was left where she'd found it when she
walked home.
 After a wait to allow it to heal the next steps were IQ testing and speech
training, but no animal ever bothered Andrea twice. Either they learned from
the experience or they connected cause and effect - in other words, the
operation was a success.

 I mean, it's so simple and logical it just has to work. This is one of the
few real tickets to a higher consciousness. Unlike the Scientologists
theories theres no reason why this wouldn't work. The moot point for us is
whether they'd realise the seat of their consciousness had been moved. Would
they notice they were 'thinking' from the center of their chest?

 As you know, I'd been doing my fair share of animal experimentation around
the same time. One of my more interesting ones involved a Cat I'd grabbed
whilst piddling on our back doorstep.
 The gym teacher at school was making a few dollars on the side selling
anabolic steroids to "nerdy" kids, and this experiment required some.
 For the last few months I'd been grinding them up and feeding them to the
Cat in order to strengthen it up. Accompanying exercise came in the form of a
treadwheel it ran inside for a minimum of half an hour a day; usually longer,
to generate power for the house. (The only thing Cats are good for) If it
slowed down, it automatically received a shock from a capacitor.
 The day of the big test came. While Mum and Dad watched, I put the Cat into
the wheel. It immediately began racing, knowing what happened if it slowed
down.
 6 kilometers per hour. Okay, lets get the ball rolling. I applied several
sharp shocks to it's behind. 9....10... 11 clicked past on the counter. I put
some hot, cooked turkey wings in front of it's nose and turned on a fan.
12... 13... 14... It's legs began to really move. I delivered a buzz from an
Electric cattle prod. Wow! 20 kilometers per hour. Now the clincher. I
ignited the spray from a can of fly spray and played it over it's tail for a
moment. Ohmygodlookatthatcounter... with a final orgasm of acceleration it
hit 45 kilometers per hour.
 A new feline speed record!
 "What speed are you trying to get it up to?", Dad asked.
 "142 kilometers per hour."
 "Why that speed?"
 "Thats Eighty-eight miles per hour", was Mothers reply.
 "You've been watching too many of those movies", was Dads reply. "Carry on."

 Back to the present.


 One nice sunny day, the checkout girl working next to Andrea met a 'problem'
customer. In fact, he was in all probability an Oakley escapee. I'd better
explain.
 She was serving him, when without the slightest reason he suddenly went
berzerk, calling her a "Fucking Bitch".
 The nearest manager, a Fat, Obnoxious, up-himself arsehole called Alfred
Wyatt, dropped everything to dash over and demanded that she apologise to
him. The theory was that the customer was always right; therefore she'd done
something hideously wrong and deserving of this outburst.
 So she apologised, and the 'customer' walked off with a great smile on his
face.
 Dismissal for her, nothing for him.
 Feeling kind of happy about himself, Alfred came back and turned towards
Andrea. He suggested she clean up under her checkout. He stood there while
she bent down, trying to look up her dress.
 "Don't forget the rest over here", he reminded her, and remained standing
there as she turned towards him, getting a good perve down her blouse.
 "Hey Alfred, are you doing anything tonight?" she asked.
 "No, why?"
 "I was just thinking, maybe you and I could..."
 "Yeah, sure" he says, and invited her to pick him up after work.
 Later, I approached her during my Lunchbreak. Alfred was sitting next to
her, making deep and meaningful conversation about himself.
 "Glen... go away", she sternly warned me when I came up to her, and I
overheard her whispering that "Glen is a bloody nerd" as I moved away.

 Instantly I understood; we were having a party tonight, and HE was the main
course. Of course he knows it; the problem is, what we have in mind isn't
quite the same as what he does.
 Then a revolting thought hit me. All that Lard... no way was I going to eat
him! And the MESS... we won't get the flab out of the oven for WEEKS. So the
first opportunity I got, I confronted her about her poor choice of dinner.
 "Trust me, Glen. I've got it all worked out", she replied.
 "But..."
 She leaned forward to give me a big hug and a kiss to silence me.
 "No 'buts', just trust me. Everythings going to work out fine."
 Oh well, I knew better than to try to get the information out of her. She
likes her little surprises. Part of the female mystique, I guess. But she's
never been wrong yet, so I resigned myself to waiting till she showed me what
she had in mind for Alfred.

 When she finished up, Andrea took him home to our flat while I waited a
discreet ten minutes before following. Five was all she'd need, but she
wanted to make sure.
 She smiled at him when the door closed behind them.
 Immediately the old hormones took over and he was all over her. His hand
went straight to her breasts and he started undoing her top. She giggled and
went to the sofa to get comfortable. Finally he got her top undone and was
fondling her big breasts.
 "Try this stuff, it'll freak you out", she said as she handed him a little
bottle filled with a faintly yellow liquid.
 He looked at it disdainfully.
 "What do I do with it?" he asked.
 "You smell it. It's called 'rush'. It's a hormone spray. You'll like it."
 He tried it, and took some nice deep breaths.
 "What does it do? It smells like some kind of.... solvent."
 "Take a deeper sniff. Take it all in", she suggested.
 He did.

 "It's Chloroform" she said, holding up the little bottle again for him to
see as he slowly regained consciousness, hours later.
 He was tied to the same wooden table David had exited this Earth on.
 I was arranging the tools and equipment we were going to need. Knives.
Syringe loaded with home made anaesthetic. Microscope. Voltage/frequency kit
and fine connectors. Andreas trusty rusty dissection kit. My fully loaded
toolbox.
 While waiting, she'd got me to help set up some kind of cooker in the
garage, a roast on a spit job, but it's design was unfamiliar. It was a
partly enclosed, gas powered thing that fired into some kind of bowl in the
base. Probably to evenly distribute the heat as it rose, I thought. But she
still wouldn't elaborate.
 "You can't buy these on the market", was all she said.

 She also wanted a Chainsaw, and sent me out to Hirepool to get one.

 While I'm out getting the saw, I may as well share with you what we've
learned about keeping dissectees alive as I promised last time.
 Good dissections take hours, but live dissections are an artform. To do a
good job, you have to keep as much blood within the body as possible. As soon
as the amount of blood within the body drops below a point, your volunteer
will kick the bucket. No matter how hard you try, you'll sever blood vessels
accidentally or as a matter of necessity to get somewhere. Some of the more
blood intensive organs are a real nuisance in this respect. As it turned out,
we have lots of thin plastic tubing in the garage. If we'd spliced a decent
length onto the major bleeders with cellotape to keep it out of the way,
David would've lived long enough for Andrea to dissect his head as she'd
wanted.

 Additionally, when you donate Blood plasma to the Factor 8 program, the
blood service use a solution of Salt and Sodium citrate of pH 7.4 to keep the
pressure, salinity and pH optimal. Citrate is necessary to keep blood pH up
because your volunteer will kick the bucket if it varies by more than .4. We
settled for 7.6 because Alfred was going to go into shock, which generates
acid and lowers pH.
 This can only work so long, however. It doesn't replace lost red blood
cells. If you replace lost blood this way, you'll watch the patient turn
paler and paler and finally die of oxygen starvation. Very dissatisfying.
Pure oxygen will delay this but the result is the same.

 No, the logical alternative is to pump any leaked blood back into the body
together with a little citrate solution. Who cares about Septicaemia when
he'll only live a few hours?

 We were going to play the game of LIFE with Alfred.
 I used to try a similar debugging 'technique' on the Computer when after
hours of trying, I couldn't debug a program. I'd save the file first, then
start the game.
 To get the ball rolling, delete the offending line(s). Invariably this
causes more faulty lines. Delete them. More 'faulty' lines created. On and on
it goes until either you've a working program that does something completely
new, or more likely, no program at all.

 Applied to a live person, Andrea (always the constructive one) calls it
"researching the biologically minimal organism". The aim is to remove as much
as possible without your patient carking it.
 If an organ bleeds, remove it, then splice the loose blood vessels together
with plastic tubing and cellotape. Don't mix veins and arteries. Arteries
visibly pulse with power, and spray you in the face when you cut them. Veins
merely dribble. Think 'pressure', and you can't go far wrong.

 Wheeee.... I bounded up the driveway in the Car, the delicate instrument of
doom bouncing up and down in the seat next to me, just rarin' to go.
 Andrea was similarly bubbling with enthusiasm. While I'd been away, she'd
been soothing Alfred with nice words and the occasional punch to his jaw.
 First up was the drill. Since the drill bit might overheat in the next few
minutes, I had mixed up a special lubricant to dribble down the bit. A
mixture of Ammonia and Brine.
 Let the games begin!
 She'd already set up the drill stand over his kneecap, and was just waiting
for my return.
 Don't forget your safety glasses. Remember, safety is paramount when working
with electrical stuff.
 I started the drill. It's whining filled the room. Alfred looked confused.

 "Glen", Andrea said.
 The drill started coming down.
 "GLEN!", she repeated, louder, placing her hand on my shoulder.
 I stopped, disappointed at her interruption.
 "What??"
 "That drill has eight power settings, depending on how hard you press the
trigger."
 I clicked.
 "Ah, I see..."
 "What's she on about?" Alfred asked.
 "Oh, nothing. This might sting a little, okay?" I replied.
 Andrea almost dropped to the floor in laughter.

 I was more careful this time. The slowly turning drill touched the kneecap.
 It was interesting to observe the look on his face change as it bit into the
skin. His ginormous posterior started heaving, slapping up and down onto the
table. Through the skin and muscle. Blood and Gristle started upwelling from
the hole as his screams grew louder. Then came the Bone. I pressed harder and
felt the drill start to grind it's way through the tender kneecap, and was
rewarded by the sight of white splinters of bone, globules of red bone marrow
and dark red arterial blood pouring from the hole.
 Alfreds screams were echoing around the room by this point. Still not
satisfied, I removed the drill from the press while still only halfway
through the kneecap, and ground it round and round, trying to hit as many
nerves as possible. One tremendously loud, nonstop scream left Alfreds lips,
then he went silent.

 Bugger it.

 Oh well. The foreplay over, we untied him and tipped him onto his side,
before Andrea jabbed the syringe high up in his back to give him a spinal
block, before tying him back down again.
 Andrea didn't so much want physical pain this time, she wanted mental pain.

 Meanwhile, we still had to wait for him to wake up, so it was time for some
alcohol.
 Not wanting to miss out on some of the fun like last time, I prepared half a
dozen Rum and Cokes for Andrea and put them in a tray loaded with Ice to
ensure they remained cool. Two dozen cans of Lion Red beer joined them.
 By the time he started coming around, we were both well on our way to
becoming severely pissed.
 Andrea noticed the movement, staggered around to my side and reached under
the table. She took hold of the saw, then turned towards Alfred.

 "Life is like a Chainsaw. The longer you're in it, the more it cuts you up",
she stated as she lifted the saw into their sights.

 "A HEDGETRIMMER???" she exclaimed, the shock instantly sobering her up.
 "I plainly remember asking you for a Chainsaw, not a Hedgetrimmer!"
 "Look, they were out of Chainsaws, so I figured this would have to do!"
 Andrea shrugged her shoulders, and touched the blade to see how sharp it
was. It wasn't. The spikes were blunt as anything.
 Good.

 She pulled the starting handle, and it burst into life.
 Alfred started screaming again as she revved it up and lowered it towards
his bulging stomach to slice a neat line from his Nuts to the base of the
Ribcage, and another across the stomach.
 His Nuts. Oh, why not? She drove the trimmer into his balls, and watched
satisfied as they were torn out and flung across the room. His penis promptly
joined them. The bleeding from the stump of his penis was phenomenal! This
simply wouldn't do, so she tied a piece of string around the base then
twisted it tight with a pencil till it stopped bleeding.

 By now, Alfred was calming down. Why wasn't he feeling any pain? Was this
some kind of joke?
 She answered his unspoken question.
 "You didn't think we wanted to hurt you with this, did you?" she said,
patting the Hedgetrimmer.
 "That comes next."
 I delicately opened her dissection kit for her. The Blades were even rustier
than when I saw them last. I *SUPPOSE* this means we'll have to clean them
sometime.

 Andrea grabbed a scalpel and jumped straight into Alfred. First on the LONG
list was the colon. It looked normal, no obvious cancer. No matter... Out it
came to start the ball rolling. Alfred started going out of his mind when he
saw meter after meter of gray-purple flesh removed.

 Oh dear. Andrea had nicked the stomach, and it had started bleeding.
 Out it came!

 Expertly for one so drunk, she connected the bleeders with plastic tubing
and cellotape. Despite our best efforts, some blood loss was inevitable. To
curb this, one of the thin plastic tubes had a third tube connected to it,
through which we regularly forced loose blood back into circulation with a
syringe. Clip the tube, remove the plunger, fill the syringe, replace the
plunger, remove the clip and press the blood back into the body. Take care
not to force air into the body, as that can cause circulatory failure.

 Out came the kidneys, bladder, spleen, Liver and the rest, in whatever order
we felt like.
 By now there was a real jungle of plastic tubing, and occasionally we were
juggling them for lack of hands. Then I had a brainwave. Alfred was still
conscious, though completely and absolutely stark raving mad by this point.
 "Could you hold onto this for a minute", I asked him, putting the pulsing
plastic tube into his hand. Convulsively he took hold of it. Incidentally,
thats the first useful thing I'd ever seen him do.

 And now the first objective was in sight. The Spine. She couldn't do much to
the upper chest area because any interference means premature death. Thats
another thing we learned last time.
 Chloroform was required for this part, and Alfred departed consciousness for
the last time when I placed a few drops into his nostrils.
 Boltcutters in hand, Andrea reached into the void where his stomach had
been, and clamped them onto the spine where two bones met. She applied
pressure and it snapped cleanly. Alfreds body jumped as the cord was broken.
She waited till the fluid drained out then removed the lower bone to reveal a
length of cord. Cords, actually. At first glance there were at least half a
dozen little white strings.
 Out came the microscope and electrical kit. She put them into his stomach
and let them rest on the back muscle, then with difficulty worked a spinal
nerve under the eyepiece to study it. Not easy considering how drunk she was,
but she managed alright. At higher power, she discerned quite a few nerve
endings in what had appeared to be one.
 Why does the human body place all the nerves in one vulnerable spot?
Granted, they're armoured to an extent, but I know how Andrea thinks. I sense
ideas about new surgical bodily improvements taking shape. The backbone can
heal, but not the nerves within. Why not run them though the middle of the
body and in slightly differant locations to reduce the damage potential?
 The rest of the severed nerves were the same, so it was time to move onto
the second phase. Electrical stimulation of the nerve endings. Good thing the
blood supply to the lower body is fully intact... She dipped each nerve in
turn into salt solution and applied various voltages and frequencies to see
which worked best. Anything above a point did. A tickle here... and a leg
jumped. Increased voltage caused the knee to strain the restraints.
 "Down boy, down!", Andrea said, and smashed the knee back down with a
hammer.
 A tickle of power to another nerve, and the gaping hole in his stomach
entirely closed on Andreas hand as the muscle was stimulated. It reminded me
of the T-1000 repairing itself. She laughed her head off, then released the
current to free herself.

 Andrea spotted a nice piece of meat hanging off a rib, ripped it off and
stuffed it into her mouth. Intrigued, I copied her example, only to spit it
out in a state of shock.
 Jesus fucking Christ! Properly cooked Pork is the finest of meats, but raw
pork is unbelievable! It has a dry retching flavour that has to be
experienced to be believed. Now I understand why the Hebrews forbade it. If
you were fleeing across the Desert from a furious Pharoah, and were reduced
to eating it lest the cooking fire reveal your exact location, you'd ban it
too.
 Later, I compared other raw meats to the cooked ones, and found that Chicken
is almost palatable, no doubt thanks to KFC's secret herbs and spices. Raw
Bacon is also not too bad. Steak is getting rather gross, though nowhere near
as bad as Pork.

 Eventually Andrea figured she wasn't going to get anywhere with electrical
stimulation. How to differentiate the nerves, and which nerve fibre did
which? It's not like they're signposted and cataloged or anything. Another
argument in favor of spreading them through the middle of the body.

 And now, the Head. After all the months and years of abuse, we were going to
see what makes a manager tick.
 Out came the drill again. She inserted a flathead drillbit and strained for
several minutes on each of 3 holes around the top of the head. Now, head
wounds bleed like nobodys business, so I repeatedly pumped in citrate/salt
solution rather than the present bleeding, which contained lubricant and bone
fragments. When she needed a breather, I took over with a hacksaw to finish
it off. Finally she flipped off the top of the skull to reveal his lovely
gray brain.
 Now this was interesting. Andrea stooped close, and after several minutes
silent scrutiny pointed out harder-looking bits on the wall of an artery. So
it was true, Managers do have problems. This one was heading for a stroke.
Good thing we got to him in time.
 Out came the spoon, and Andrea started lifting brain matter to check
underneath. Limbs and muscles jerked and convulsed as she explored his brain,
obviously cutting many nerves while doing so. Perhaps she'd have been more
patient if she was sober, but what the hell. Straight in. She pulled back the
frontal lobe to reveal the gray-white optic nerves and the back of the
eyeballs. She ignored them and headed for the base of the brain. Ahh, I
understood now. The base is where the really vital stuff is.

 WHAT??

 His heart had slowed to a crawl. Obviously she had found something
important. Andrea withdrew and it speeded up again. A few more attempts
showed she wasn't going to get anywhere this way, but she wasn't in the mood
to stop now.

 I knew what was next, and sure enough in went the spoon again. Hard.
Instantly the field was awash with blood. She jammed it in harder, and was
rewarded by spurts of arterial blood squirting onto the roof to make pretty
patterns there. Some dripped back down onto me. In a minor fit she brought
out the Soup ladle, shoved it in and wrenched it around and around inside his
skull to loosen the brain, and in one final heave reached in with both hands
and wrenched the entire brain out.

 The bleeding stopped. So did Alfred.

 While Andrea examined the Brain in more detail on the bench, I set to work
removing the limbs for her to prepare later in whatever way she had in mind.
 Then I started on the Lawn as it was looking decidedly poor. The last time
it looked like this, a neighbour knocked on the door and pointed out to us
what needed doing.

 (Sniff... Sniff) Halfway through the Lawn, I noticed a strange odor. The
rank smell of something burning tickled my nostrils as I worked the mower
around the house.
 An odd sound unexpectedly penetrated my ears. Screaming? Had Andrea
re-animated Alfred? Unlikely. Good idea though; creating a more intelligent
manager by removing his brain. Problem is, appearances ARE important in our
line of work.
 I stopped the mower to listen, just in time to hear the loud cry; "I haven't
smelled that since Auschwitz!"

 Huh? Whozat? What're you talking about?
 The elderly neighbour from across the road was pointing in the general
direction of our house.
 I turning to see what he was on about, and spotted a cloud of dark low
hanging smoke escaping from the garage.

 There are rare occasions when Andrea goes over the top, and this was one of
them.
 On investigating, I found her fine-tuning the temperature as smoke continued
pouring from the cooker.

 "What the HELL is that thing doing?" I gasped in astonishment.

 "This 'thing', as you call it, is designed so that when Lard melts, it
collects and burns in the basin here", she replied.
 I looked closer, and saw she was right. Fat was pouring off the leg she'd
skinned and was roasting on the spit. The low gas flame was igniting the
collected fat to provide additional heat. The heavy hydrocarbons and acids
were burning as badly as you might expect, but it was working.
 My god, Andrea was right! So, even the hideously Obese have uses.

 But this was still rather inefficient. A second fire higher up would consume
the loose Carbon from the first, to take care of the smoke problem and
drastically increase efficiency. Also, with a little planning, restricting
the oxygen supply would cause partial burning and reduction of long chain
hydrocarbons. Enough, maybe, that we might be able to extract volatile
fractions capable of sustaining an internal combustion engine.
 Food for thought.

 The Lawn done, I washed up and helped prepare the other limbs for cooking
and preservation.
 Then there was the remainder of the body to take care of. I wanted to put
the guts back, but Andrea had other plans. She got me to grease an aluminium
bowl, chop the viscera into little pieces inside it, add water and strangely
enough some iron weights, then put it into our freezer. This didn't
accomplish the requirement of getting it off our property, but Andrea said to
"wait and see".
 Not for long, I hope.

 We took the body to the supermarket just before closing time, snuck into the
rear entrance and jammed it into the Cardboard crusher.
 You can guess the rest. In a fit of mirth, we closed the door and pulled the
handle down. Alfreds body began to give way as tonnes of pressure were
brought to bear. The head split open and the brains oozed out, as the ribs
burst out the sides. Finally a crushing, crunching sound echoed through the
room as he was flattened to a few inches height. Blood and ooze started
dripping onto the floor...

 We were planning the finer points of tonights dinner, such as whether White
or Red wine went best with Homo sapien burgers, when this Dobermann walking
along the footpath decided to cross the road without looking first.
 Our cars brakes and tyres were good, and I stopped well before the stupid
mutt, which turned and looked at us as if to say "I should think so, too".
And sat there looking stupid and useless.
 Andrea started fuming with rage. As I said before, NO animal crosses her
twice. Or once, for that matter.
 The dog bared it's teeth at us and growled.

 Oh, really??  Okay...

 I revved the motor.
 The dog stood it's ground and snarled again, louder this time.
 I raced the motor again.
 The Dog charged.
 I let go the clutch and stomped on the gas, leaving rubber and smoke in our
wake.
 The dog approached. We approached. Neither budged from our collision course.
 The dog changed it's mind as I moved into second gear, and it started to
swerve off the road.
 Too late.

 <KDUNK>

 As soon as I felt the first thump under the wheels, I floored the brake
pedal. The resulting sliding sensation and squishing noise told all. It was
hardly necessary to look behind us to see the trail of mince, but we couldn't
help but reverse to closely inspect the carnage. Beautiful, just beautiful.
 "Look away for a minute, Glen."
 I did so, and heard a rustling noise and a plastic packet being opened, then
Andrea wound her window down and promptly back up again.
 "Okay, drive on. Lets go get some Tea. I'm starving."
 So was I.

 I glanced in the mirror for one last look at the former Dog, and saw Andreas
parting present. She'd deposited her freshly used tampon on it. The local
Moggies were ALREADY pouncing on the fishy odor and devouring the meat on
offer. Cat eat Dog. A rare turnup for the books. What would the World do
without us?
 An amusing thought struck me. Later that evening, some kid was going to walk
up to his parents and go "Hey, Mummy! Look at this thing-on-a-string the Cat
dragged in!"

 The next morning, poor old Bob found the remains of Alfred. Twice in a few
months. It just wasn't his day.
 Police by the truckload tromped into the store to round up people for
questioning. They picked the brains of staff, managers, customers,
neighbours.
 Quickly they found they were investigating a rather unpopular person. Where
to start? Tales of sexual harassment poured forth from the ladies and stories
of abuse from the men. When my turn to be questioned came, I got a glance at
the list of suspects. The investigation was barely hours old, yet the list of
suspects was pages long. I could sense the frustration in the officers'
attitudes. They sensed this was going to be a long, hopeless investigation.
 Andrea had made a good choice. Alfred was so unpopular he'd simply left
himself wide open.
 When her turn came around, she suggested he committed suicide in the
crusher.

 She's a sad case, that girl. Thats why I want to marry her.

 The presence of the Police meant several things. We couldn't get up to much
mischief; but neither could the managers. And we took full advantage of the
officers hovering around, observing, to tell them to get off our backs.
 Then one manager realised that our contracts were coming due to be
reconsidered. Immediately they perked up and began counting the days until
then, telling us to "just wait till your new contract comes in!"
 The full force of the employment contracts legislation was in, and it was
certain we'd lose overtime for starters.

 Andrea thought about this awhile, then broke out in smiles.
 "Don't worry about the contract, Glen. We'll be just fine. I've got it ALL
worked out."

 Oh god, where've I heard that before?

 In any case, we had a MAJOR cleanup to finish in order to remove every atom
of evidence, in case the Police make a random call.

 *******

 Meanwhile, we had another distraction.

 Andrea had missed her period, and she hadn't been under any kind of stress,
so it looks increasingly like she's pregnant. We've booked a test in a few
days to confirm it before deciding upon the next move.
 Just in case, I've started listening to the advice of friends who've already
gotten Scrogs, and was even invited to change my first nappy. Everyone else
in the house thought it was hilarious; why, I don't know. Doesn't everyone
wear a gas-mask to keep out the odor?
 And then came the more serious problems. Feeding, for starters. Babies are
wierd in that respect. They like one thing one day, don't the next, and
quickly master a swatting manoeuvre attempting to floor the proferred
spoonful if they decide they don't like what you offer.
 Realistically, what goes in one end looks the same as what comes out the
other, so it seems sensible to add a little sugar, protein, carbohydrate or
whatever and feed it right back.
 Babysitting. Keeping them amused and quiet is a challenge. Women have it
easy. It's quite acceptable for women to publicly bare a breast for feeding,
so I can't see why it isn't acceptable for a man to bare his Penis as a
Pacifier. Just show it the dummy, and just before it chomps down move the
baby to your penis. Maybe it's banned coz bites hurt too much? I dunno. Ask
your social worker.
 I guess I'll have it down to a fine art if/when Baby comes around.


 Time for my tea.

 See you again soon... Glen and Andrea.



 ANOTHER MONTH ENDS
 All targets met
 All systems working
 All Customers satisfied
 All Staff friendly and enthusiastic
 All Pigs fed and ready to fly.

      - unknown