Officer Collins sucks down the last puff of his cigarette thinking, It’s going to be another long-ass night. At least I’m not on patrol anymore.

He stands on the portico of the mayor’s mansion looking at the empty front street.

Don’t have to deal with BLM protests. All fucking worked up over the beheadings. “Oh, why don’t the police do more?” “Them cops always coming down on the Grove for the drug dealers!” Blah blah blah. If I have to deal with another load of Dindu bullshit, I’m quitting. Getting to blast on some badge bunny’s tits is not worth that shit. Fucking Jenny, all down to suck my dick, fucking middle-aged MILF slut.

Collins gets wood thinking about it and walks it off.

He keys his mic. “Officer Collins to hub. I’m doing a patrol.”

An electronic chirp, then a quick burst of static, “Hub to Collins, understood. Have fun.”

He does a perimeter check, walking the paving stones through foot-lit paths and among the ornamental shrubs past old oaks dating back to the early 20th century.

Recent rain has cast a humid pall over the clear night.

Polyester might look sharp and presentable, but sweating my ass off in this shit is annoying.

Thighs rubbing together, Collins’ footsteps sound echo off the outer wall.

Then again, I could be working the Chestnut Street Jam. Lotsa cuties there tonight, just four blocks over.

He strains his ears to catch any sound of the bands.

He rounds to the back of the mansion. Collins looks over the fifty yards to the back wall.

A spontaneous chill runs through him. Eyes search from bush to bush, tree to tree, shadow to shadow.

Weird.

He shakes it off and walks to the rear wall. He plays his flashlight at sporadic intervals.

In the furthest corner, he sees the figure of a large man deep in shadow.

Collins’s pace hesitates for a split second; maintaining composure, he walks parallel to the dark alcove. Once in line with the shadow, he draws his Smith and Wesson M&P and hits the flashlight.

Only an empty corner.

Just a trick of the light.

He walks away.

The fuck? I’ve been passing that area for ten times a night for months and never had that happen.

He looks back at the corner and sees no figure.

Tingles run up his spine the remainder of the patrol.

Collins returns to the portico and takes his post.

As he lights up a square, he sees the wet imprint of two feet facing the front door.

Keying the mic, he says, “Collins to hub: anything on motion sensor or visual? Check cameras; we might have someone on the premises.”

A chirp and spurt of static, “Hub to Collins, that’s a negative. What’ve you got?”

Collins looks closer. He sees there are no prints leading to or from the solitary pair in front of the door.

Probably that fuckstick Vukovic playing a joke. Fuck! I’m going to look like an ass.

“Collins to hub, never mind, thought I saw something.”

“Was she cute?”

“Nah, might have been your sister.”

***

Officer Vukovic sits in the guard shack at the front gate. Oblivious, he scrolls through the Hotwife subreddit while scratching his balls. Vukovic closes the app and returns to staring out the window.

I’ll see what is on Coast to Coast tonight. Maybe they’ll have something on Missing 411. Damn, I hope I hear back from the National Parks Service soon, get the hell out of this shithole.

He searches the A.M. band and, to his disappointment, the show is about Area 51.

UFOs do appear in the woods…

He watches the street zoned out. A knock at a door snaps Vukovic to attention.

“Collins?”

No answer.

“Who’s there?”

A muffled voice on the other side of the door replies, “It’s me, Collins.”

“It’s unlocked.”

The door opens and Collins steps in. “Hey man, you playing jokes on me again?”

“Nah. I figured after the fit you threw when I left doo drops in here, you didn’t have a sense of humor.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Check something out with me.”

***

Collins shines his light on the portico’s landing. Vukovic also uses his light and peers closer.

“Collins, man, I don’t see anything except a couple of little puddles.”

“I’m telling you, they were footprints, wet footprints facing the door. Big too.”

Vukovic scans the portico covering with his flashlight. “Could be a leaky gutter, some bad light. Strange, all right, but the hell can we do about it?”

“Just thought I would see what you thought.”

“I think rain and leak. It isn’t an incident. I guess I’ll put in the D.A.R. and let second watch know.”

“Whatever, man.”

***

Back on post, back on watch, Collins’s eyes grow heavy as the night wears on. He patrols another patrol. On the side of the mansion, Collins stops for a second to gaze at the full moon. The interplay of moonlight and shadow relaxes him.

He hears  crash followed by a squeal coming from above inside the mansion.

“Collins to all, sounds of a disturbance inside! Meet in main hallway, front entrance!”

When Collins arrives at the main door, Vukovic is already inside. Officer Gould is still running from the hub.

“What’ve you got, Collins?” Vukovic says.

“Wait for Gould.”

Gould stops short, takes a breath, and whispers, “What’s going on?”

“I heard something on the second floor, the mayor’s room, maybe.”

An irritated look crosses Vukovic’s face. “How you want to play it?”

“I’ll take lead, cover me. Gould, watch the main hall and entrance.”

Collins ascends the stairs, pistol still in holster with his hand resting on the pistol’s butt.

Silently, they mount the art deco landing, the second floor hallway cavernous lit only with spaced spotlights.

From the end of the hallway, muffled by distance, a groan and talking.

Guns come out.

Closer.

Words.

“…do you see…”

                          “…no, no, no…”

                                                    “…you knew…not care…”

                                                                                            “…how?”

                                                                                                          “…death’s a funny thing…”

                                                                                          “…guns…”

                                  “it was Peary…your fault…”

                          “…safety…public…”

            “…yes…”

“HELP! NO! NO! NO!”

Collins kicks in the door as Vukovic follows. Sights cover a confusing picture; a gigantic man in rags bear hugs the mayor. The mayor, in a silk robe, eyes bulging, is lifted clear off the floor. Four corded arms wrap around his torso constricting tighter in spasmodic grasps.

The mayor’s arms thrash as a stream of urine flows from between his legs.

“HUK…HUK…HUK…”

The giant speaks, “Let’s see how full of shit his Honor is.”

The arms clamp down in an encircling embrace and squeeze.

The mayor’s face turns beet red, blood vessels burst in his eyes, blood streams from his nose and mouth.

A stream of liquid feces and blood gushes out of the mayor’s anus, splashing all over the room’s Persian carpet.

Another press of the arms and bones crack, and his Honor’s entrails spill out his ass.

The room goes silent except for a wet farting sound.

Gould comes running down the hall. “What the fuck!”

“Satisfying, isn’t it, officers?” The thing hoists the corpse into a fireman’s carry. “Bye. Bye.” Then it jumps out the window.

Collins stares at the pile of blood and shit. The paperwork on this is going to be a bitch.

Gould runs to the window.

Vukovic puts a call out over the police band.

***

The Chestnut Street Jam: two blocks are closed off downtown for a live music party complete with food and drink vendors.

Hundreds of people mill about from the bars to the open air concert, and when their bladders are full, they hit up the ubiquitous portable toilets. Hipsters, yuppies, and the working class jostle shoulder to shoulder.

Lindsay, a petite and bubbly blonde of 26, grabs three beers for her and her friends at one of the less-packed bars.

As Lindsay gathers up the beers, she hears a familiar voice, “Hey, Linds, let me help you with that.”

Lindsay turns to an equally petite, pierced, tattooed, outfitted-like-some-early-oughts-scene girl.

“Shelley? Oh my God, I haven’t seen you in two months. What’s happening?”

“Been busy, work, life, you know, all that shit. Who are the beers for?”

“Just some friends. But you, you look good. Finally quit that 7Eleven job?”

“You could say that. I’ve got something better going on.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Oh, nothing.” Shelley’s eyes dart sidewards. “Just some night work. But what about you? Still working at county?”

“Sadly yes, that floor nurse life. Do you want one?”

“Sure. But your friends.”

“Can wait.”

Shelley takes a beer and hesitates before taking a hard gulp. They move outside through the throngs of people. The conversation is just the usual catch-up talk of high school gal pals: guys, relationships, aspirations.

“So this fall, I’m taking courses to be a nurse anesthetist—” Lindsay breaks off.

The two women halt at a knot of people growing and murmuring near a bank of porta-johns.

“What’s going on?” Shelley asks.

Lindsay sees where some people are pointing and aiming their phones.

“Oh no, some man is standing on that ledge,” she says.

Six stories above overlooking the street stands a giant vagrant, an inscrutable look on his face.

“Fuck. You think he’s going to jump?” Shelley giggles.

Lindsay doesn’t answer.

The giant seizes and hauls the bundle at his feet above his head.

The folds of the mayor’s robe fly open as his body is lifted, fat belly and dick exposed for all to see.

Then a voice booms from the vagrant. “Behold! Meat! Meat! Good to eat!”

He hurls the corpse to the street below. It hits the bank of porta-johns, bounces, slides, and flops to the curb.

Lindsay covers her mouth in shock.

The crowd starts retreating. She stays fixed thinking, I might be able to do something.

She turns to say something to Shelley, but the words dry up in her throat when she sees Shelley drooling and panting with wide-eyed rapaciousness.

“Shel—”

Shelley dodges forward through the press of people towards the corpse, now laying in a pool of blue septic fluid.

Lindsay can see Shelley isn’t alone; others converge on the corpse.

Three men and another woman rip at the body, rending limb from limb.

A couple hardy souls stay forward and continue to film as people flee in a panic.

They continue to film as Shelley tears off a buttock and chews it, staining her face blue-and-diarrhea-yellow.

Lindsay turns to run as headlights blind her. A black van races towards her.
With a shriek of burning rubber, it stops.

Lindsay, terrified, hits her knees. Men clad in black tactical gear with assault rifles pour out of the van as boots stomp around her.

One yells “smoke out!” and pulls the pins on two metallic canisters before tossing them towards the crowd.

Clouds fill the air.

Muted gunfire breaks out.

Hot brass lands in Lindsay’s hair.

“Take the one on the right! He’s getting away!”

Lindsay curls up on the ground turning to see what is happening: the soldiers advance on the macabre feast, pouring out suppressed gunfire. The feasters scramble in all directions. Four get away, including Shelley. One, a hipster, eats an enfilade of bullets and spasms on the ground.

“Cease fire!” A soldier pulls a pistol griped shotgun out.

Closing in, the soldier unleashes twin thunderclaps obliterating the hipster’s head.

More sounds of boots running, something thick rustling. Lindsay watches as the soldiers unroll two body bags and load the half-eaten corpse and the now headless hipster cannibal into them.

As they storm past her back into the van with the bodies, one stops and places his boot on Lindsay’s stomach.

As Lindsay stares into the muzzle of the suppressed AR15, his boot presses harder and he says, “You saw nothing, bitch. Remember that: nothing.”

Tires squeal, retreating into the night.

Lindsay curls up alone, sobbing on the pavement in the drifts of white smoke.