The Flog: Wretched Beef

I missed the ground beef while unloading the groceries from the car yesterday.  One pound of extra-lean ground beef lay forgotten overnight in the trunk of the car.  Changing, mutating, becoming horrible.  As I lay sleeping in my bed, the beef churned and flexed and grew and thought.  It planned.

When my wife went down to the garage this morning, she screamed at the top of her lungs, again and again.  I rushed down to see what had happened…and immediately wished I’d stayed in bed.  The entire Honda Civic had been engulfed by writhing, twitching, rotten meat.  The garage was filled with the stench of it, every square inch reeking with putrid rot.  The meat itself puckered and suppurated, making foul squeaks and bubbling noises as Wendy and I stood and stared in disbelief.

Right before our eyes, a wretched orifice opened in the gray meat swaddling the car’s hood.  A deep, gravelly voice straight from the depths of hell issued from the gruesome maw.  “I…am…Moo’nalga…of the Ancient Ones!  Servant of…the darkest…lord of dread…the awesome Cthulhu.  Bow before me!”

Wendy stumbled back into the cellar, gagging on the stench of Moo’nalga.  I coughed and wiped the tears from my watering eyes.  Somehow, we had opened the gates of hell itself by forgetting to refrigerate the ground beef.  Now, it was up to us to drive back this demon which possessed the gray mass of putrefying cow’s-flesh.  But how?

As I wracked my brain for an answer, Moo’nalga spoke again.  “Prepare…a throne…of human skulls…for mighty Cthulhu.  Bathe him…in the blood…of innocents.  You will serve your dread master all the days of your misbegotten lives, dogs!”

Yes!  Suddenly, the answer dawned on me.  Checking the clock on the garage wall, I realized the time was right.  “Go stuff yourself,” I said, hitting the button on the garage door opener control panel.

The door crawled upward.  At first, there was silence from outside.  The only sounds were the hissing, oozing, and dripping of disgusting Moo’nalga.  Then, from down the street, the sound of barking cut through the morning air.

It was our neighbor from down the block.  We call him Three Dog, because he walks three dogs around the neighborhood every morning and evening.  Usually, he can keep them under control…but not this time.  As soon as they caught a whiff of the rotten beef, they bolted, snapping their leashes and charging straight for the garage and putrid Moo’nalga.

And by the time they were done, they’d gulped down every last bit of Moo’nalga and licked every inch of that car bright and shiny clean.  After which, they threw up their bellyfuls of pure, ancient evil all over my lawn.  And then gobbled it all up all over again.  So much for the servant of dread Cthulhu.  Now you know why I’m such a big dog lover.

©2009 Robert T. Jeschonek

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