U. F. Meat O.

“It’s the ones with the removable heads that you have to watch out for. Not so much a problem that they can remove them. Big problem that they can put ’em right back on and start yammering at ya and ripping through your bags with their greasy teeth.”

Bearded and wet, the man casually swung the nasty edge of his axe through the epidermis of a massive wall of flesh that told the valley where madness began and order halted, shaking in its fancy boots. It had come from the sky, they said (them that saw what they did), and careened off a mountain side, screaming void gibberish and dying, right there. In death, it began to grow heads and push them out of its flesh like mushrooms, except that when mature the heads and their wiggly skin stalk would fall to the ground and thrash around wildly, clacking their teeth and eating anything in their mouths.

To maintain the illusion of the stability of their civilized lives, the townspeople paid a few weird, dirty men to live in the woods and crush the heads with axes and trim them where they grew. The trees grew high around the massive abomination, hiding it from sight in the town (if you never looked past your feet or your neighbors’ knees.)

“Yeah, just watch your ass. And by that I mean your calves. Things are awful sneaky for being so stupid. Bite ya right on your leg and holler disease at your bones up close. That’s how I lost my last partner. One leg, then the next. You sleep okay in that tree, did ya? Your eyes look glassy.”

The axe made a sucking sound when removed and the wound from which it hung dripped grey, fetid blood.

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