Eviscerated

Prologue

Les Thompson left the liquor store with his arms laden with whisky bottles, so many in fact, that he struggled to carry them all without dropping any of his load. The attendant shook his head in disgust at the way he cloaked himself around his purchases as though it was something so precious that it had to be protected at all costs. However, to Les, it was precious, it was his life support. His only form of sustenance. His only companion, it was faithful. Seeing as no one else would put up with him or any of his bullshit. Les was known around the seedy neighbourhood as just the local drunk, and the only reason his rent was ever paid was so that he had somewhere safe to stash his booze. It meant no one could steal it from him while he slept. Otherwise, he’d have been quite happy to live out on the streets with the rest of the lowlifes. If there were any other alternatives, his entire social security cheque would be spent on some extra sauce.

Les had been dry for two days, but only because he’d gotten greedy and had drunk down the last drops just before his payday. The DT’s (Delirium Tremens) had already set in, and he was suffering badly from the dry horrors. He was becoming jittery with paranoia, always watching over his shoulder, constantly worried that someone would rob him of his precious juice. So, he scurried home as fast as his weary legs could carry him, desperate to make a start on his next drunken binge.

He was certain he could feel someone’s eyes upon him, watching the entrance closely, as he fumbled with his keys. Throwing the door open, he hurried inside his dingy one room apartment that reeked of both his own body odour and stale hooch. His hands shook with anxiety as he ached to crack open the first seal and fill his dehydrated throat with the liquor he so desperately craved.

Slamming the door shut behind himself, he locked it with his nimble fingers and took a quick look around at his cluttered surroundings. Then, with a shaking hand, he opened the first bottle and raised it to his quivering puckered lips, he gulped into it as though there was no tomorrow.

Little did he know, but he was irrefutably right. There would be no tomorrow, at least not for Les Thompson anyway.

Chapter 1

He threw himself into the worn out sunken leather lounge chair that served equally as his bed, dining chair and sometimes when he really tied one on, even his bathroom, and it carried the disgusting stench to prove it. He’d pulled that old brown seat in off the streets a few years earlier after it was discarded by a neighbour that had finally managed to fight their way out of the condemned suburb. The area held the reputation of a poverty stricken, run down hood, full of drug runners and hookers. That chair was the only piece of furniture Les had ever acquired in the entire time he’d resided there, and he was proud to have become its new owner. An old cardboard box served as a dining table, not that it was ever used for eating at. Les rarely ate anything other than beans, spam or something equally unpalatable, which he would devour straight from the can.

The afternoon had drawn into evening, and Les laid passed out in his chair from his binge earlier that day. A cat screeched from somewhere out on the street just meters from his front door. The neighbour’s trash cans were tipped over in the wake of the scavenger, the clang and clatter sound of the toppling trash cans echoed between the run-down dwellings on either side of the dark wet road, and the wobbly lid rolled silently down the empty footpath.

Les’ pale blue eyes flashed open at the ruckus. He muttered to himself as he staggered to the door to investigate. Almost certain it was just the kids from two doors down, out to try and steal his stash again, just like they had in the past, and old Les was having none of it.

It was cold outside, and the brisk damp air reminded him that his bladder was full and he desperately needed to relieve himself. With the same disrespect for his neighbours as they had for him, Les decided that it was much better out than in. Outside his home that is. He stumbled down the few short steps onto the footpath then rested one hand against the wall to balance himself while he fumbled to undo his zip. With his cock in his hand, he proceeded to piss against the front of the building. He swayed on his feet and was almost falling back to sleep with his dick still in his hand. His stupor was startled by the sensation of everything moving in front of him. Even the wall felt like it had shifted under his palm. He took a clumsy step backwards and challenged the damn thing to a fight, only to wave a dismissive hand in the general direction of his shadow before simply fighting his way back to his own front door.

His attention caught only by the long drawn out sound of a crow croaking behind him, followed by a strong gust of wind that rushed up behind him and flew into his home. It was strong enough that it almost caused him to lose his already unsteady footing. Once safely back inside his filthy hovel, he reached for his bottle and drank down the last swallow before the dry horrors had a chance to take hold of him again. He threw the empty bottle into the corner and promptly opened another. He drank until his eyes closed and he fell back to sleep.

Moments later his eyes re-opened then widened with terror, to the sound of the walls creaking around him. The wall suddenly came to life in front of him, and a humanlike figure stretched out from the ageing paint until it was finally expelled from its grip. Les tried to shout out for help, but his voice was cut short when his oxygen supply was stolen from him, and his chest was torn open. Blood sprayed in every direction as Les’ nightmares became his ultimate reality.

A pungent smell crept from the drunkard’s home. No one complained, and no one called the authorities. Nobody wanted the cops in the neighbourhood at the best of times, so there was no point in calling them at the worst. Besides, at least the old racist, over-opinionated bastard was quiet for a change.

Two weeks had passed when the attendant from the liquor store noticed that his regular customer hadn’t been in to get his usual supply. He asked a few of his other regulars that came from the same area but was told that none of them had seen him in ages. But no one cared, they were glad for the peace and quiet from the old wino. All of them were sick to death of his drunken ramblings, the paranoia, and the verbal abuse that was hurled at them if they walked too close to his front door. However, the mention of an odour that seeped from his home prompted the assistant to call the police.

The police exited the tiny apartment heaving and gagging. Even the coroner struggled to keep the contents of his stomach down after entering the dwelling. Les was found, all alone. Silently rotting away, his body was slowly being consumed by rats, maggots and several other species of necrophagy. A strange green slime that reeked of something indescribable was also discovered covering the limited walls and furnishings of the apartment’s interior.

Without any obvious leads and not much of Les Thompson’s body remaining to carry out an autopsy. His death was ruled some sort of bizarre ‘cult killing,’ and the suspects were more than likely amongst his own peers. But no one knew anything about any crazy rituals, and even if they did, they certainly weren’t forthcoming with any information. Nobody knew anything about the drunk either, how could they have? Les had never made himself very popular with any of them, nor them with him. His entire life amounted to him crawling into a bottle, and never crawling out again, except when it was empty and time to move from an empty one to a full one.

The only thing the authorities could be sure of was that the victim had been torn open at the torso while he was still alive, then completely disembowelled. Following that, his organs appeared to have been gnawed or chewed out from their host. The unanswered question was - by what? It was impossible to tell, due to the bodies decomposition it could not be determined. The saliva found on the wounds was untraceable, in fact, the coroner couldn’t even decipher if it came from man or beast.

A single bite by an unidentified source was taken from the heart, liver and kidney. Then all three organs were discarded as if the perpetrator had changed his mind or disliked the taste of his culinary desires.

Upon further examination, it was discovered that if old Les Thompson hadn’t met his demise that night, he would have perished within a matter of weeks anyway. All of his vital organs were riddled with disease, brought about by long-term abuse of cigarettes and alcohol. His death had been lurking imminently close, regardless of how he actually died. And although his death was considered