Chapter 40 Another Story of Mrs. Cassandra Clark

If there's any trick to getting a job you hate... says Mrs. Clark, it's to get a job you hate even more. After you find a big test that scares you more, those little disturbances become a breeze.This is another reason to have a demon on hand.That would really make all the brats more... bearable.This is yet another extension of Mrs. Clark's theory to Mr. Whittier's. We like drama, we like conflict, we need a devil, or we create one. None of these things are bad.Just what humans do.Fish must swim and birds must fly. After her daughter went missing for the second time, Mrs. Clark dipped a cotton mop in a bucket of mineral oil and filled the gaps between every tile in the bathroom, which took the better part of an hour.

She wiped each blade of the shutter with a rag. All these menial tasks are made bearable by comparison with the possible phone calls.The police may call to say they have found a body.Or, worse, they found Cassandra alive. That robot girl who sits all day, draws the screeching jay outside her window, or watches that goddamn goldfish swim around in the fishbowl. The... stranger with missing toes and fingers. Unbeknownst to Mrs. Clark, the police did find Cassandra.A Cub Scout out of the woods, saying nothing, keeping one secret, is what he has discovered.He went into the woods and followed a stream up into a valley.Climbing over the rocks, there is a pool of water behind, and the full water flows down and forms a pool. The Cub is looking for a hole big enough for trout.Green moss covered the surroundings of the rocks, and trees stood tall with intertwined branches. Under the shade, Cassandna Clark lay on her side, with her hands clasped under her pale and thin face, as if she was asleep.Cassandina was lying naked on the bed of thick and soft moss, and the branches and leaves of a hawthorn tree hung around like a curtain.

The Cub told an adult about it, and that person called the sheriff.Before it was dark, the team of criminal police walked to the valley along the stream, and when it was dark, they all went home, and a group of people did not talk about what they saw when they went to work that day. None of them called Mrs. Clark.She waited at home, flipping every mattress in the house and scrubbing the second-story windows.Wipe off the dust on the upper edge of the baseboard skirting.Every job is boring most of the time, but not yet compared to waiting.She cleaned the fireplace and kept the phone always close at hand so she could answer it when it rang.

It would go missing for the second time, and no one would tie a yellow ribbon around anything, or go door-to-door, or light candles, or call from a psychic. Even when Mrs. Clark was doing all kinds of cleaning work, even the people from the TV station didn't come. Cassandra spent another night in the valley, on the other side of the stream, on a rocky hillside, quite a distance from any woodland trail for the loggers.There were no footprints on the path, and her bare feet looked clean, as if they should be carried. By this time, it was too late to infer the time of death based on the degree of her stiffness after death.Her arms could bend, so she had been dead for more than two days, and the post-mortem rigors had occurred and resolved.

The first detectives hung a microphone on a curtain of hawthorn trees.Just like they would listen to the grave of a newly buried victim.Because the murderer will definitely come back.The murderer must speak, until the story is clear. Other stories will drain your energy. Tell it to the only audience the murderer risks, the people he kills. Cassandra lay on her bed of moss with the microphone hanging above her, hooked up to a cassette recorder and a transmitter to the headset of a detective hiding in the rocks across the ravine.He was far enough away that he could beat mosquitoes without revealing his possessions.The earphones are worn on the ears, the person is sitting on the ground, and there are ants crawling beside him.He listens carefully all the time.

In his headphones, birds chirped and the wind blew. You can never imagine how many murderers come back to say goodbye.Something had been shared between him and the dead man, and the murderer would come and sit at the grave and talk about the past. Everyone needs an audience. In the cop's earphones, black flies were buzzing, coming here to lay their eggs on the sides of Cassandra's moist eyelids, inside her slightly parted blue lips, flies laying eggs in her nostrils and anus. Mrs. Clarke had gone to great lengths at home to dislodge the refrigerator against the kitchen wall so she could vacuum the back.

On that bed of moss, Cassandina's blood was deposited on the lowest side of her body, so that what you could see: her breasts, hands, and face, seemed to have been smeared white.Her eyes were open, sucked dry by the bugs.Her blond hair, her hair was yellow and thick falling from the back of her head, but it was as dull as hair that had been cut and left dead on the barber shop floor. Her cells were digesting themselves, still trying to keep going.As a result of desperately looking for food, the enzymes inside gnawed through the cell walls, and the yellow in each cell began to leak out.Cassandra's skin began to loosen and wrinkle over the underlying muscles, making the skin on her hands look like loose cotton gloves.

Her skin was covered with countless protrusions, a small scar, each protrusion was wriggling, rubbing against the skin and muscles.Each protrusion was the larva of a black fly eating the thin layer of fat that lay beneath her skin.The entire surface of her body, whether it was her hands or her legs, became lumps of wriggling lumps. In the detective's earphones, the buzzing of the flies became the sound of the larvae biting under the skin. At home, Mrs. Clark sat a stone's throw from the phone, arranging Christmas decorations in the smelly attic, throwing some away, repacking, and labeling each box.

The germs were breathing in Cassandra's lungs, the germs were in her stomach, mouth, and nose, and they kept multiplying, with no white blood cells to stop them.They gobbled up the subcutaneous fat and the yellow protein leaking from the cells she had damaged.Their numbers exploded, causing her pale belly to swell to the point where her shoulders were arched back and her legs were spread apart.Cassandina's stomach was bulging tightly, the gas inside made her feel like she was pregnant, and countless bacteria were eating and multiplying. Her tongue was swollen, pulling the jaws apart and protruding from between lips swollen like a bicycle tire.Bacteria had burrowed through the roof of her mouth and into her skull, where her soft, delicious brains were waiting.

Mrs. Clark carried the telephone from room to room in the house, scrubbed the walls, and cleaned every ceiling light bulb of the dead flies that were clinging to it. Another day later, Cassandra's brain turned into little red and brown froth that came out of her ears and nostrils.Those bubbles would come out of her sunken eye sockets too. Microphones pick up these sounds.Picture the popcorn popping in the microwave, imagine sliding into the hot water of a bubble bath.All the bubbles burst one by one, like heavy rain falling on the concrete floor.Hail hit the roof of the car.It was the sound of maggots, now as thick as a grain of rice.There was a tearing sound coming from the microphone, the sound of skin splitting and Cassandra's stomach flattening.

The carnivorous beetle came, and the mouse and the magpie.Birds sang loudly in the forest, each with a string of musical notes as bright as colored lights.A woodpecker tilts its head to listen for a worm hiding in a tree, then pecks a hole. The skin sank and covered the bones.Cassandra's entrails flowed out and seeped into the ground, leaving only the shadowy skin, her skeleton submerged in a mire of her own making. In the detective's earphones, he heard rats eating beetles.There are snakes to devour writhing mice, all wishing to be the end of the food chain. Mrs. Clark was at home sorting the papers in the desk drawer in her daughter's room.The letters on pink stationery, the old birthday cards from before, and, in pencil, Cassandina's handwriting copied on the inside of a lined loose-leaf notebook with the torn line on one side hole.It says: Writer's Workshop: Throwing Life Away for Three Months... She flushed her daughter's goldfish alive down the toilet, and Mrs. Clark put on her winter coat. That night, a woman’s voice rang out from the police’s earphones and said, “Is that the place you went to? Is this writer’s training camp the place where they tortured you?” It was Mrs. Clark's voice, saying, "I'm sorry, but you shouldn't have come back. You've been a different person since you came back," and she said, "I loved you a lot more when you were gone... " This evening Mrs. Clark, in the blue velvet hall, telling her story to the rest of us, said, "I gave her sleeping pills." She sat in the middle of the great blue staircase, and said: "As soon as I saw the microphone hanging there, I ran away." In the valley that night.She had already heard the voice of the criminal police walking in the bushes, coming to arrest her. She never went back to that clean house, all the work she hated, all done. Mrs. Clark had nothing but her winter coat and purse.She called the number Cassandra had written down herself.She saw Mr. Whittier, she saw the rest of us. Her eyes went from our bandaged hands and feet to our short, messy haircuts to our sunken cheeks.Mrs. Clarke said, "I'm not her . . . anything at all. I never loved Whittier." "I just want to know what happened to my daughter," Mrs Clarke said. In fact, it was Mr. Whittier who killed the girl she gave birth to. "I just want to know why," she said. When we found the matchmaker, he was alone in an Italian Renaissance lounge.On most days, after turning on the light, he would stand in front of the long black wooden table, unzip it, and hold the meat cleaver in his hand, showing serious hesitation: to cut or not to cut. "Uh-cough." Their family voice. Prove that your worst fears just disappeared one day.No matter how scary something may seem, it may not be there tomorrow. Matchmakers are no longer asking the rest of us to swing knives.Why should we help him become the focus of the future?No, if he wanted to cut that knife that much--let him do it himself. On that table, each leg was carved into balls of various sizes, all topped together or strung together in a straight line.Those balls that touch the ground or tabletop are the size of an apple.The ball in the middle of each table leg is as big as a watermelon.All four table legs were the same greasy black.The table, long and narrow as a coffin, seemed carved from a single block of black wax, long and flat, and so dirty that it reflected nothing. The matchmaker stands there as usual, that's good knife.His head drooped so that his chin rested on his chest.He stared at his dick protruding from the unzippered trousers like a cat at a mouse hole. Ever since the bus dropped us into the alley, this Italian Renaissance-style lounge has been covered with old green silk wallpaper.This is already an unknown how long ago.The green silk looked wet and slippery.The skirting boards under the back of every carved chair and the sides of the brackets holding the candle-shaped light bulbs on every green wall were lacquered in gold. On the walls there were many recesses, small open cabinets or alcoves of green silk, in which stood nude statues, with muscles and breasts so large that they looked fat.The statues were taller than most, standing on pedestals painted a dull green that you'd think were malachite. , some holding spears and shields, some with big white plaster buttocks, standing with their feet together, the lower part of their backs arched, whether it is muscles or buttocks, anyway, it is full of muscles above the knees Dirty handprints, or traces left by using fingernails to whiten them, but they are only within the reach of ordinary people.Only to the waist of the statue. We went from the promenade of the Chinese palace to the stairs, from big red to big green, and today the matchmaker took out his dick again. The atheist priest gasped and coughed, put his hand on his chest, and said, "They are coming, someone... I can hear them coming into the alley, just outside." The gossip detective said from behind his camera: "If you're going to cut your dick, do it now." The matchmaker held a knife in one hand and said, "What?" Poor matchmaker, his dick looked as big as a statue compared to his protruding eyes, big nose, and sunken cheeks.He was the last of us to be left intact.Dirty body stuck to the inside of his shirt, his skin so taut that the veins in his thin hands looked like cracks.There are also worm-like blue veins under the forehead cortex, and the tendons on the neck are twitching and throbbing. "Someone's out there," the Lost Link said.His mouth was hidden behind a fat nose, above his shaggy, scrotum-like chin."They're picking locks with drills and we're going to be famous," he said. Alas, all of us - only the matchmaker had no scars to show and did nothing but eat. On the tabletop around his gray glans, the wood is full of criss-cross knife marks, and each knife has a new angle during practice.The chopped wood was splattered with our blood, and chopped sawdust and splinters bounced to the ground. Our ears, toes and fingers feed the cat.Cora Reynolds fed Miss America, and Miss America and her fetus fed us.A complete food chain. Everyone is scrambling to be the end of the food chain. Do the camera behind the camera. Slandering the Count, he raised one hand and waved the three bloody fingers that were left, the nails had been pulled out and disappeared, and he said: "Give me the knife quickly," he said: "I have time to go back again." suffer more." The Killer Chef slumped into a golden court chair, kicked off his shoes, grabbed the front of the sock, stretched it out, longer and longer, and finally pulled it off by his feet.He looked at his toes and said, "Me first. I have too many toes left." The poor matchmaker stood there with his belly gilded against the edge of the black wooden table, his dick stretched out, and he said, "Don't rush me." Sweat broke out from the pores of his forehead, and he said, "You guys Everyone has a chance to suffer, and now it's my turn." "Give it, then," said Chef Killer, snapping his remaining fingers, "or give me back the knife. It's my knife..." He stood there, holding out his hand. The Earl of Slander walked to the table and stretched out the tape recorder he was holding.That little mesh mic was ready to overwhelm what had been recorded with that knife-down sound."A bit manly," said the earl of slander. He said, "This is your last chance. Be a man and chop that dick off." Lost Link's shirt was open, and all he had on his chest was a black cat and ribs like stairs.He said, "When that door opens, it will be too late for any of us." He said, "So hurry up." The matchmaker looked at his own image reflected in the huge blade, advanced the knife to the godless priest, and said, "Help me?" The godless priest took the knife, held the handle with both hands, and waved it twice in the air. The matchmaker sighed, took two deep breaths, and pressed his belly against the edge of the table. "Don't tell me when to do it, just do it," said the matchmaker. The atheist priest said, "Remember." He said, "I'm only doing this to help you." The matchmaker closed his eyes, clasped his hands behind his head, and crossed his fingers. And then...then...it's...uh-cough.The knife cut into the black wood of the table.The table jumped and made a buzzing sound, something flew out and fell from the other side.The thing was pink, and it was pushed forward by a hot spurt of blood, steaming blood came out from the crotch of the unzipped pants, and the matchmaker stretched his hand towards the missing thing, trying to grab it. live.Then his knees softened. His hands gripped the edge of the table, but his fingers slipped.His jaw hit the table and his teeth clashed hard.Afterwards, both the matchmaker and his dick went under the table, both gray lumps of flesh. Our poor matchmaker is now just a small character we can weave into a story.Our new puppet.His family story of death camps and oral sex is now our story. The Lost Link ducked under the table.He stood up, and in the palm of his open hand was the gray severed cock, mostly shriveled skin that changed size and shape when erect, only the generally pink flesh at the knifed end... … "Meat!" said the lost link.He sniffed, once, twice.His nose twitched, the nostrils flaring, almost touching the flesh.He shrugged and said, "Everything we make out of that microwave smells like popcorn..." Even the Lost Link knew that eating a dead man's dick would get him extra exposure on every nightly TV talk show.Just describe what it's like.He would then be the face of ads for products like barbecue sauce and ketchup.Then he can come up with "very recipes" written by himself.Scary talk show on the radio.Then, he had endless daytime competition game shows for the rest of his life. A victim, one who has lost a toe or a finger to testify to their suffering, gets the nod that he is miserable. Miss Sneezy stretched out her hands, held up her palms, and blocked her, "You can't." Our audience is all the naked statues standing in niches of silk. "Watch," the Lost Link said, and with his head held up, mouth open to the green ceiling, he stretched his arms straight up and let the hunk of flesh fall onto his tongue, passing Teeth, swallowed whole. He swallowed again and his eyes popped out.He swallowed again, and his entire furry face swelled and flushed.His eyes were closed, trembling under his monobrow, his hands were on his throat, and tears rolled down his burning cheeks.The Lost Link grabbed his own throat, unable to breathe, and rushed forward like Frankenstein, and then another, and then another, and walked around the room.His panicked red face opened his mouth in a yawn, and his werewolf teeth and lips spoke, but there was no sound.He knelt on the blood-stained green carpet, his hands clenched into fists.He knelt there, pounding his stomach with both hands.All his efforts - shouting, hitting, calling for help - fell silent. After saying "Look!" in Lost Segment, Count Slander's cassette recorder didn't record anything new. The lost link kneeling on the ground fell to one side.He fell to the ground and lay there, soundless, with his eyes still closed and his fists still buried in his stomach. Killer Chef looked at Earl Slander, Earl Slander looked at Miss Sneezy, she sniffed and said, "Those who came to save us, they might save his life..." The godless priest shook his head. Downstairs now, no one is drilling the door lock in the alley at all.No one to search and rescue.Nobody came to our rescue at all, and we're talking about it because people are tired of the matchmaker holding that knife all the time. Now, we have two less people to share money.There are only eleven of us left. The Baroness Frostbite came up the stairs, her skirts bunched together, and she staggered with her hands held high.Opening her pink, scarred mouth to smile, she saw the matchmaker lying on the ground, most of his clothes blackened with blood.Lying next to him was the Lost Link, his eyes closed in a shaggy gray face, frozen shut after death. The shiny mouth of the Chilblain Baroness opened, panting, "Which one of you bastards killed the matchmaker?" None of us killed him, we told her, it was him.After all this time, he chopped off his dick. And the poor missing link, who choked to death trying to swallow that severed cock in one gulp. Missing Link - The last link in the food chain.Well, that's if you don't count the maggots and bacteria that Mrs. Clark said ate her daughter. We're already figuring out what this scene will look like on the air.We're already thinking about saying the word "second" on a TV show.But this scene is far better than most so-called "true stories", and only we see it.A real-life rehearsal for a scene in which a movie star eats another star's cut-off dick and chokes to death. You, choked to death with a dick stuck in your throat.This is the show that will win an Oscar. Only we may have seen the Baroness Chilblain. Only our version would say that Mrs. Clark chopped off the dick and forced the missing link to swallow it whole.As long as everyone agrees on who is to blame, the truth is all too easy to come by. "Don't get too excited," said the Baroness Chilblains. "We need a new villain." The demon is dead - we need a new one. The Baroness Chilblain walked to the black wooden table with a rustle, and pulled out the knife that had been cut into it with both hands.He said someone had killed Mrs. Clarke. "Whoever that person is," said the Baroness with Chilblain, "it can't be very hungry now." The murderer ate most of her left leg.The rest of her is still backstage in her locked dressing room, stabbed to death in the stomach. The Killer Chef shook his fist at the Earl of Slander and said, "You stupid, greedy bastard." The Earl of Slander said: "Wait a minute," he said: "Listen..." We fell silent, and you could hear his stomach rumbling.The Earl of Slander is kicking and screaming in the belly of Miss America's boiled fetus.It can't be him. But Mrs. Clark, our vicious, whip-wielding witch, is dead.What she had left was nothing but leftovers. The next thing we have to do is choose a new demon. After we have had dinner. It was during dinner that Miss Sneezy blew her nose, washed and coughed and said she really, really wanted to tell us a story...