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From: Eurytion <eurytion@tripod.net>
Subject: {ASSM} Cannibal 4 H (C4H) Chapter 20 2/4
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Of the seven races Joey’s horse was entered in, her best chance to
finish first was in the mid-distance races. These were run to a distance
of two furlongs. To take home the Cup for her division, his equine would
need to win at least one of these races. Then, depending on what her
competitors did, a combination of placing and showing in three other
races could “bestow fortune’s smile upon us.” Although he spoke of the
upcoming  races with a calm and measured tones, Joey could sense an edge
of excitement creeping into his mentor’s voice.

Before Joey could ask his next question, the crowd around him exploded
into a buzz.

Pulling not a sulky but a small wooden cart, the final participant in
the Grand Promenade had reached the track.  Standing upright in the cart
was a driver swathed entirely in black silks.  Even his eyes were hidden
by a dark visor built into his hood.  In place of the regular riding
crop his black-gloved hand held a sjambok cane, a vicious instrument
capable of flaying the flesh from a back with a single hard stroke.

Older than the other entries and of medium height the mare’s slumping
body was softly rounded with a small pot belly.  She wore only the
skimpiest of black leather tack, exposing most of her body to public
view.  Mousy brown air was pulled back off of her head and secured with
black bands into a shoulder length mane.  Her brindle consisted of neck,
forehead and chin straps connected to each other by an “O” ring lying
centred on each cheek.

Attached directly to the “O” ring was her bridle, the metal bit pulled
as far back into her mouth as it would go. This cruelty forced her upper
lip down to cover her top teeth while her lower lip was forced below the
gum line of her bottom teeth leaving them exposed.  The result was a
pained grimace like the sharp slash of  a jack ’o lantern smile.

Around her neck was a choker made of black silk about two inches in
width.  This neck band had a fabric loop at one end and a metal circle
at the other.  The metal ring had been threaded through the fabric loop
to create a slipnoose which could be tightened by pulling on the circle.
For now the ring lay slack against her shoulder.

Her chest straps, arrayed in the normal “X” shape crossed in the centre
of the valley between her cupcake-sized breasts before ending in a broad
belt at navel level. Each nipple had been newly pierced, through the
binoculars Joey could still see small droplets of carmine blood oozing
from the edges of the holes, and three-inch rings thrust through the
openings.  Three tiny silver bells hung from the lower curve of each
link.

 A “V” strap descended from the navel belt, crossing a second board belt
located just above the start of her public hairs becoming a single strap
running between her buttocks and back up to the public belt. The
tightness of the tack forced her reddened flesh to bulge slightly over
the leather bindings.

 Her wrist bands were manacled to the handles of the cart.  Reins made
of metal chain were joined not to the brindle but first to the wrists
then to a pair of “O” rings positioned between the upper and lower body
belts and finally into the hands of the driver.

Midway up the grandstand, Marty Brune turned towards Peter Barton,
spilling a quarter of the beer he held in his hand in the process.
“Damn ole’ Moondog was right.  There’s a black hood in this year’s
races.”

Looking down in resignation, Barton watched as small rivulets of amber
fluid flowed across the concrete to dampen his program.  Having spotted
the proprietor of the Stockyard as he entered the grandstand, Peter had
gone over to thank him for the donation last month of the Gygers’ meat
to the local food bank.  The last thing he had expected or wanted for
that matter was to sit with the man.  He had felt ambushed when Marty
had extended his invitation and trapped when even the explanation he had
his step-daughter Patty in tow didn’t allow him to beg off, not that he
had wanted to bring Patty in the first place; that had been Marcia’s
idea, a little step-father and step-daughter outing.

Although Brune’s slaughterhouse made frequent donations to the food
bank, there was still something slightly unsavory about the man that
made Barton want to keep his distance. But, as the saying goes,  “there
is no such thing as a free lunch,” even when that lunch was intended for
others and so Barton resigned himself to spending a potion of the day in
Brune’s company, intent upon making his escape as soon as possible.

“Mr.  Brune, who is Moondog and what’s a black hood,” asked Barton’s
step-daughter, entranced by the activity below her.

“Well, sweetheart, Moondog is a person who knows a lot about horse
racing,” explained Brune his eyes travelling up and down Patty’s thin
body, “sort of like a teacher. And if somebody wants to know which horse
might win in a race, well they ask Moondog. Of course, just like your
teacher Moondog’s got to eat and so we all pay him for his answers.”

Lifting her lanky horse-like face, Patty looked up at Brune to ask “and
what’s a black hood?” He thought for a second before he answered.  Hell,
Pete figured she was old enough to bring her here.  I’m not going to
candycoat life for her.  Besides, there was a rumour going around about
her already being slated for conversion once she gets a little more meat
on her bones.  Wonder if Pete’d consider a feeder contract on her until
then.

“Let me help you stand up on my lap honey, so you can see better and
Uncle Marty will tell you all about it,” he promised, his hands running
up Patty’s skinny thighs to cup a youthful buttock in each hand as she
wriggled her way skyward.

Back bowed, Crowbait slowly made her way onto the track, her body
quivering as she strained to pull her burden forward.  Once she had been
sleek and graceful, more powerful than jealousy and swifter than the
Niagara current, a steed fit for Apollo’s chariot. But these abilities
had proven to be evanescent, subject to the slow leak of time.  Her
sinewy body had gradually softened, rounding like a pat of butter left
out to warm.  Injuries took longer to heal. Finish lines seemed further
away, her eyes filling more and more often with the dust of passing
horses. Her first owner sold her to a second who, in turn, sold her to a
third, the quality of the races she competed in declining with each
succeeding owner.  Finally, her glory days well past, she had been sold
for service as a brood mare.

Even here entropy made itself felt, her aging structure rejecting two
embryos.  After the second miscarriage she was sold to her fifth and
final owner who had intended to use her as a companion animal for his
stable of racers.  Profit, in the form of the purse available for black
hood entries, had changed those intentions.

Of all the conversions, human equines retained the greatest amount of
their previous awareness. Docility and submissiveness were key
characteristics for human cattle, whose only purpose was to be
slaughtered; the more bovine in nature an animal was the better. Any
remnants of sapience were, if not entirely burnt out by the process,
buried far below numerous layers of conditioning.  Human horses were
another matter.

With these conversions, certain characteristics from their human
existence needed to be maintained. Cattle were bred or conditioned to be
dumb, dull and obedient. Obedience was also a primary characteristic of
human horses but, unlike cattle, a moderately high level of intelligence
was desirable. Human horses needed, within limits, to be smart, spirited
and competitive. To meet these parameters required different conversion
techniques, ones which left tattered remnants of the old human psyche
closer to the surface.

Those remnants now sent bubbles of fear and apprehension through
Crowbait.  She sensed something was different, wrong about this outing.
In all the races she’d run she’d never worn this style of trace before,
so restricting and heavy.  And she’d always pulled a sulky with the
driver sitting, not a cart with the driver standing up.  Near panic the
aging horse stopped, only to be driven forward by the sharp sting of the
sjambok ripping a thin strip of skin from her back, red blood welling up
from the torn flesh to mark its point of contact.

Brune felt the young girl’s ass cheeks flex under his fingers as she
watched the horse jump ahead.  “You know all about cows don’t you
Patty,” asked Brune, “and what happens to them don’t you,” feeling a
small tremor run through the prepubescent body as she nodded her head
yes.

“My baby sitter Valerie became a cow and Peter took me to see her at the
barn.  He even cooked me some of her hamburgers after she was
butchered.” With a twist of his head and a raised eyebrow, Brune shifted
his gaze to the implement dealer who just shrugged.

“Patty,” explained Brune returning his attention to the young girl,
“when a horse gets too old, so old  it doesn’t win any races and it
costs too much to feed it and keep it in a stable, it gets put down.
You know what I mean when I say ‘put down’ don’t you sweetie?”

“It means killed.”

“That’s right, it means killed.  Now sometimes, if the horse is young
enough, we eat parts of it, just like we do a cow.  But if a horse is
old like that one out there, well, nobody wants to eat meat that tough
and stringy and so nobody would buy that horse to eat.  And she’s too
old to win any more races.  But her owner can still make money off her
one more time by entering her in a race as a ‘black hood.’ You’re
getting a little heavy girl, just sit down on my lap here, will ya?”

After he had Patty situated sideways on his lap, her butt pressed firmly
against the top of his thighs, her legs dangling down to bounce against
his right outer calf, Brune wrapped his left arm loosely around her
lower ribs while using his right hand to raise her face toward his.
Brushing her shiny long brown hair back toward her shoulders, he
continued his explanation, all the while paying close attention to the
young girl’s expressions.

“When a horse is entered as a ‘black hood’ it means, unless the horse
wins the race and believe me they make sure there’s no chance of that,
they sure don’t want a bunch of disappointed spectators, she’s gonna be
killed.  They don’t take her back into the stables to do it; they do it
right out in public where everyone can watch.  You can tell how there
going to do it by what she’s wearing.  If she was wearing a red neck
collar, they’d cut her head off either with an axe or a guillotine.
Silver chains on her wrist and ankles means she’d be drawn and
quartered.” The slaughterhouse owner paused to gauge Patty’s response, a
mixture of intense interest, excitement and just a suggestion of fear.

“A silver cap would mean the electric chair.  Boy,  I watched a horse
fry on one a couple of years ago.  He had smoke coming from every part
of his body.  A blue vest and she’s gonna drown, orange and she’s
roasted alive.”

Patty swallowed the saliva that had built up at the back of the mouth,
her throat undulating as the fluid slid down to her stomach.  “She’s not
wearing any of those, Mr.  Brune.  All I can see is a black collar
around her neck.  What’s that mean?”

Once again the uberbutcher carefully measured the young girl’s reaction,
watching her slim salmon tongue tip unconsciously circle the rim of her
mouth leaving a glistening shine in its wake.  Her eyes seemed feverish,
her legs rhythmically squeezing then relaxing.

Cannibal 4 H Chapter 20 Part Two of Four

Eurytion


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