Warmed People Pudding

Warmed People Pudding

Nester ran his fingernail up and down the cast iron bars of his cage, finding provisional distraction from fear in listening to the light, metallic resonance. He lazily examined his nails, they were gnarled and globs of dirt had caked under them. Nester didn’t feel compelled to inspect the rest of his body. It was thin, rugged, and he wouldn’t have been able to scrutinize much of his maltreatment in the dim light emanating from under the door anyways. He puffed another helpless sigh and stretched out on the dirt floor of his confinement. His listless eyes plodded through the darkness and scanned the vicinity, just as he had looked over the same space innumerable times before. Nester laid his cheek flat against the dirt and eyed the ribbon of light that served as a constant reminder of existence other than his own. The light flickered with sudden movement, Nester did not stir, but his heart began to race. There was a minute click and the heavy metal door slid open to reveal a flood of light. In its blinding maw stood a handsome man in his early thirties, his unshaven face perfectly framed a beaming smile.

“Ahhh. Nester. You’ve been maturing for quite some time haven’t you?”

Nester sat up, then shielded his eyes with a bare arm. He didn’t look pleased to see the man at the door.

“My sincerest apologies for making you wait so long for dinner, but I had no idea that little Hilda would prove so … long lasting.”

Nester’s lips curled around his rotting teeth, “You killed my daughter.” He snarled.

“Now now, there will be plenty of time for cursing remarks as I tear out your eyes to create a magnificent meringue—ooh! Or perhaps when I grate your gal bladder into a fine powder for my sirloin!”

The man eye’s grew wider and wider as he marked off each cannibalistic recipe in his head, but a disturbing swell of excitement surged through him as he decided upon the perfect recipe.

“Of course! It is only fitting that you, as the last surviving member of your family, become part of the most exquisite dish in my arsenal: Warmed People Pudding!”

Despite the horrifying presence of the man in the doorway, Nester could not stop himself from blurting out “How about you eat my dick?”

“A very bold statement, Mr. Weinermayer. You’ll come to see that most crude humor is a lot less entertaining when exercised in actuality.”

Suddenly Nester wished that he had used another body part in his taunt, but soon found comic solace in the old adage “Be careful what you wish for.” He was dragged snickering down the bright hallway by the unshaven man.

Nester was jerked back into consciousness, and was graciously bestowed severe disorientation accompanied by a pounding headache. Nester was bound to a chair and the unshaven man crouched on the floor in front of him.

“You’ll never guess what—or rather, who I crafted these smelling salts from.” Nester’s stomach turned, he didn’t want to know either.

“You see I make everything homemade around here, from my silverware to my meals, especially my meals.”

He was pacing around the bleached white room. It would have perfectly mimicked the sterile, health wise environment of a hospital ward if the tools on the cart behind him had not revealed his malevolent intentions. The man caught himself in a rant, and once again faced Nester with that overly polite demeanor.

“After all this time I haven’t told you my name! I’m- -“

“I know who you are.” Nester interrupted, “You’re Ignatius Clyde, the infamous serial killer at large.”

“On the contrary, I am Lyle Clyde, his lesser known, but certainly more devious younger brother.” Lyle seemed impressed that Nester had confused him with his older brother.
“But that is no matter! What is important is that I’m going to have some guests over tonight and I expect you to be the delicious entrée. How does that sound?”

“I’m just dying to be of assistance.” Nester retorted.

“I figured you would say something like that. Which is why I prepared a variety of instruments to inflict enormous pain upon you.”

Nester seemed significantly less headstrong as Lyle continued,

“I have both good news and bad news! The good news being that the wonderful thing about making a pudding is that it does not require that any of its ingredients be in a good, presentable condition. The bad news is that you are the only ingredient.”
Lyle surveyed the tools of torture on the cart behind him, eventually deciding on a nice corkscrew contraption. Nester loosened the binding around his wrists while Lyle had his back turned.

“Do you know why I captured your entire family and slowly used them up as ingredients in the dinners I serve at my four star restaurant?”

“That was a mouthful.” Nester spat, regaining a little courage. Lyle Clyde ignored him and continued to explain,

“Because I am testing a theory. A theory that each family has a distinct taste, much like how a certain kind of vegetable or fruit has a unique flavor. And do you know what the results have been so far?” Lyle’s voice escalated with excitement.

“The murder of 12 innocent people and proof of your family’s distinct flavor: Insanity.” Lyle tried to ignore Nester’s remark, but he was clearly becoming agitated.

“No. While my brother goes around dismembering and eating the raw flesh of randomized victims I prepare well planned meals and push the frontier of cooking to a new level.”

“All I hear is murderous ramblings of a twisted freak.”

“You won’t hear much after I drill this corkscrew through your ears.” Lyle reasserted that he was in control of the situation.

Nester opened his mouth to speak, but terror quickly stole away anything he might have said.

“Enough talk Nester Weinermayer.”

Lyle twisted the screw in preparation and moved in. As he drew closer, Nester faked lethargy long enough to put Lyle in head butt range. And what a head butt it was. Lyle flew backwards and crashed into the cart, knocking a platter of metal utensils into the air. The bindings around Nester’s wrists fell in a pile on the floor. Nester rose to his feet and studied the unconscious body of Lyle Clyde on the clean tiled floor.

In the private dining room a group of about ten guests were engaged in friendly banter around a large wooden dinner table. An older woman who spoke in an obnoxious upper class vernacular leaned over to address her friend,

“I heard he never even completed grade school, but just look at how far he has come. Ooh! It would seem that dinner is finally prepared.”

A man with soot covered sweatpants and no shirt pushed open the kitchen doors and stumbled to the dinner table. Someone screamed as he slammed the dead body that he had been carrying over his shoulder onto the table.

“Dinner is served.” He declared as he trudged across the room and out the front door of the restaurant.