“What the hell’s going on?” Roy Senior asked his wife.

“Burglary,” Momma hissed vehemently as if the crime carried less respect than murder and cannibalism. “That fella is trying to steal our divine wooden prophet.”

Jughead started sputtering despite Isaac’s attempt to shush him. “Divine? Prophet? Oh, for fuck sake. He’s a babbling imbecile. They think he’s a god? I’ve suffered some grave indignities in my life, becoming a jug being near the top, but this is just ridiculous.” Isaac ignored him and continued watching the couple through the shot-gunned holes in the door. They stood over Junior, still semi-conscious and moaning.

“What’s his problem?” Roy asked.

“Crushed face. He had some kind of black hand of death on his jaw and it disappeared when the light shined on it. Of course, he was just carrying on and on about it like a giant goddamn baby. At least your other son had the decency to go quietly.”

“Huh?”

“Oh yeah. Billy is lying over there all choked to death.

“No kidding.” Roy didn’t even bother to look.

Momma bent to her son, roughly shoved his hands away, and surveyed the damage. “Well, dammit. You better just go ahead and die because if you think I’m gonna be making meat milkshakes for you from now on you got another thing coming. We don’t even own a blender.”

Roy stood next to her. “One rule around here—we all gotta pull our own weight. There ain’t nothing wrong with having fewer mouths to feed. It’ll make things easier on the rest of us.”

“Yes, you’re certainly right about that Roy.”

Isaac couldn’t really make her expression out in the bad light, but he could tell by the tone of her voice that she’d just had a murderous epiphany. The clothes iron swung, connected tip first with Roy’s temple, and dropped him inert with a single blow. Like any good cannibal, she continued to wail on her victim, either to ensure death or to tenderize for a future recipe. In either case, Isaac could still hear the crushing blows when he turned away from the door.

“What just happened?” Jughead asked.

“Momma got a Kentucky divorce.”

A snap of his fingers brought one of the altar candles back to flickering life. The flame then arced to an adjacent candle, and then the next, hopping from wick to wick like a flaming sprite, until the altar was completely aglow. He surveyed the room—nothing but bodies and stench. As if reading his mind Jughead said, “So what’s the plan for when she busts in here and beats the shit out of you?” On cue, Momma began hammering on the door.

“Here you go, here’s your chance to be a deity for a minute.” Isaac set Jughead on the altar spot previously occupied by his nemesis.

“Behold! Your fearsome god! Kneel before me and become acquainted with alcoholic despair!” Jughead proclaimed in a surprisingly booming voice. While the jug playfully lorded over the pit, Isaac pulled a small knife from his Everbag and, with gritted teeth, cut into the back of his left hand just enough to get a free flow of blood. “Suicide eh?” Jughead said. “A bold, if counterproductive, plan.”

Isaac let it run to his fingers and drip from the tips before he started flicking his hand, sending droplets into the pit. Satisfied with the spread, he then drew a bloody pattern on the back of his right hand. Concentric circles with the last layer growing arrow-like tentacles that traveled up each digit. A long slow breath on it, like someone drying freshly painted nails, came next. Finally, he held the marked hand out over the carnage, closed his eyes, and focused his will. The foul magic immediately made his stomach wrench with nausea.

It started with a twitch. The larger, more complete pieces exhibited it first. A leg, severed at the knee, moved its toes. An upper arm, chopped at the shoulder, started bending at the elbow. The smaller bits, hunks of meat, skin, and scattered internal organs moved like slugs, undulating across the floor leaving a trail of decayed ooze. All the human remains crawled in whatever way they could toward the center of the pit.

The door to the room shuddered under repeated blows from Momma. Isaac was sure it’d burst open any moment but either the wood was sturdier than he gave it credit for or Momma had burned her cardio limit pulverizing her husband.

The offal pulled itself into a pile, flesh adhering to flesh, splintered bones knotting together with tendons and skin. By the time Momma pounded through the door the remains of her victims had assembled into a thing fairly reminiscent of a skinned pig with no head. It dragged its bulbous body to the edge of the pit with makeshift limbs. Momma stomped into the room, bloody iron in hand, and stood before it as it reared up.

A carrion abomination.

He'd learned the spell years ago but had never had the cause nor the means to cast it. Ending up in a room with a large pile of human offal tended to be a singular experience. It had been too good to pass up. But while the putrescent creation impressed Isaac, it wasn’t having the desired effect on his opponent. The abomination existed solely to horrify its victims beyond the limits of a normal human psyche, to snap their hold on reality. It was a nightmare made into a semi-solid-gelatinous undead monstrosity.

This may have been a miscalculation, as Momma couldn’t seem to care less. She sized the abomination up as if selecting cuts at the butcher. It was disgusting and scary, but beyond that, it really didn’t have much going for it. It moved slowly. It couldn’t see as it had no eyes. It had no mouths to bite or fully functioning hands to grab and claw with. So, for the next minute and a half, Isaac watched with a stunned fascination as Momma beat the unliving shit out of his creation.

The bloody clothes iron crashed down repeatedly. She kicked and punched and stomped. The abomination didn’t even have a skull, but Momma managed to find a way to utilize a headlock. At one point she even bit the thing and chewed down a mouthful. In short order, she reduced the magical monster to quivering, flattened pieces strewn about the room. Momma stood victorious in puddles of gore, her iron raised like Thor’s hammer.

“Holy shit,” Isaac said.

“Yeah,” Jughead said. “Looks like I may have hitched my horse to the wrong chariot in this battle.”

In between labored huffing and puffing, Momma said, “You think you can beat me with my leftovers? I don’t think so. Now, put...it...back.”

It took a moment for him to realize she spoke about the totem. In the heat of battle, he’d forgotten it. With his attention drawn back to it the whispering static flooding back into his ears. It really was annoying. No wonder it drove these people mad. Well, even if he got ironed to death at least he could spare the poor woman a future of the maddening noise. With that, he dropped it into his Everbag.

The whispering ceased immediately, which made perfect sense. The Everbag was a miniature dimension, a pocket between worlds. For all intents and purposes, he just dropped the damnable artifact off the edge of the Earth.

Momma stopped dead in her tracks. She cocked her head to and fro, like an animal disturbed by sound, or in this case, the lack thereof. She searched every corner of the room, the air itself as if she had previously been able to see the totem’s mad ramblings floating about. When she finally accepted that the whispering had faded her gaze drifted to the carnage, the pieces in the pit, and then to the doorway, where beyond lay the bodies of her kin. Confusion crossed her face. She panted and swallowed hard several times.

Jughead said aloud exactly what Isaac had been thinking. “Really? That’s all it took? Dropping that stupid thing into your bag was enough to knock her back to her normal life? Wow. Of course, it’s going to be a solitary life since all of her family have been savagely killed. Oh, and she’s definitely going to jail for the rest of her days. But hey, she’s not crazy anymore. Think she wants a drink?”

A pang of guilt shot through Isaac as he imagined this wretched woman coming to her senses and realizing what she’d done, whom she’d killed and what she’d eaten. Then, amidst her total psychological breakdown, she’d collapse (or slowly sink down depending on what her knees could handle) amid the human remains and with her head in her hands, weep for her unforgivable sins. How horrible would that be and how could she live with it? He realized he’d have been better off leaving the totem exposed and letting her stay crazy.

And so, he breathed a sigh of relief when Momma’s eyes lit back up with rage and she regained her insanity, pushed too far by the totem to need its urging anymore. She let out a battle cry that would have curdled the blood of a Viking and pointed her iron at him.

A shuffling sound distracted them. Junior staggered into the room. The lower half of his face hung slack, like a blood-soaked towel. He held his father’s shotgun. His attempts at speaking came out like B-movie zombie moans.

“Junior, shoot this trespassing thief,” Momma ordered.

For a moment Junior hesitated. The shotgun came up but aimed at empty space between Isaac and Momma. The barrel waved back and forth with undecided hands. Isaac hoped that Junior may opt for matricide due to that meat-milkshake crack earlier. Jughead echoed this thought by whispering, “Ooooo, hillbilly kid is going to shoot that bitch.” But familial ties won over and Junior finally swiveled the shotgun at Isaac, to which Jughead said, “Well, damn.”

“Shoot him in the head, Junior. I hate pulling all the pellets out of the chest meat,” Momma ordered.

Junior clearly remained in a state of reduced consciousness from his injury. His eyes were unfocused, and the shotgun dangled so loosely in his grip that he couldn’t raise it to his shoulder. However, strategically this brought no advantage to Isaac. Two barrels of buckshot at this range made aim almost irrelevant.

With much effort Junior finally got the shotgun pointed at him and just before he pulled the trigger, Isaac used his telekinesis to nudge the weapon to the left. Both barrels discharged into Momma’s back, blasting her off her feet and into the carnal pit.

“Ha! Take that you bitch!” yelled Jughead.

A slow moan escaped Junior’s disfigured mouth. The shotgun fell from his hands and he sank to his knees. He swayed back and forth, tilting his head this way and that, searching for something Isaac couldn’t see. Hallucinations maybe? Ghosts? Or maybe Junior just now realized he couldn’t hear the totem calling to him. The whispering madness had fallen silent. He reached for the knife on his belt, missed it with fumbling fingers several times before snatching it up.

“Look at that. He wants to have a knife fight. Isaac, you should have a few drinks from me before you accept this honorable challenge. The liquid in your belly will keep your innards moist in case of substantial blood loss via stabbings,” Jughead suggested.

“Huh?” Isaac said. He most certainly had no intention of dueling Junior in any way, but once again he felt the sudden urge to accept Jughead’s offer. Just a few gulps to take the edge off, his mind suddenly told him. Isaac liked his booze to be sure, but here, amidst the carnage with a knife-wielding cannibal still alive? Under no circumstances would he normally even consider it.

Junior tried to talk. A curse, a challenge, a dying declaration? Isaac really had no idea and didn’t really care. In the end, it was a moot point, as the man had nothing left. His eyes drifted shut and he slumped facedown on the floor. A pool of crimson spread quickly around his head. Isaac wasn’t sure if he had died and didn’t bother checking. Death or being a cannibal with no jaw—both seemed fitting punishments.

“That was anti-climactic. A good old-fashioned pig-sticking match would have been better. But c’est le vie, at least it’s over. A drink to celebrate?” Jughead asked happily.