The Goddess

by D.E. Russell

"Special run for you tonight," Forsythe said, handing Michie a scrap of white paper on which a street address was printed. "A very important run... the most important you have ever made. Treat her extra special. They'll be ready for you any time after midnight."

Michie examined the address and slipped it into his breast pocket. The neighborhood was familiar to him... the homes of many Hollywood's top talent were in that area of town.

It was a slow night. Michie and his partner stopped off for chili dogs along the highway, just to kill time, and ate them at an overlook from which they could look down on all of Hollywood. It was nearly 11 when he looked at his watch.

As the hearse pulled up the long driveway, Michie realized he knew the house. He had seen it dozens of times, on TV and in Life magazine. Doc Forsythe had made the big score this time. Tonight's run was no pathetic young hooker or starlet-want-to-be. Tonight it was The Goddess herself. Michie smiled to himself.

Tonight The Goddess would soon give her last – her greatest - entertainment.

They took the stretcher out of the back of the hearse, and wheeled it around to the kitchen door at the back of the house. The neighborhood was quiet... the news boys were still oblivious to the passing of the Divine MM.

The house was silent. The silence of barbiturates.

Quietly, reverently, they entered her bedroom, the sanctum sanctorum to which half the men in the western world had dreamed of making a holy pilgrimage, to worship the divine form of the Ultimate Woman if only for a single night.

The Divine One herself, sprawled out on the bed, nude. She was lying on her back on the bed, the crimson satin sheets twisted around her sculpted calves. The scene emulated the images of The Goddess which had graced men's magazines and gas station calendars for the past decade. Her face was placid, as if asleep. A lock of platinum-blonde hair covered her right eye. Her trademark. Her moist ruby-red lips, freshly painted, ever so slightly parted to reveal the slightest hint of perfectly formed white teeth. The ample mounds of her breasts tipped with rosy-pink aureoles. Her firm abdomen stretched taut across a strong pelvic frame made for breeding. The deep, almond shaped navel a subliminal echo of the warm, wet, yielding vagina that every red-blooded American male yearned to fill to overflowing. The thin tuft of curly blonde that adorned the mound between her firm thighs.

Michie placed his hand lightly on her chest, half expecting her to awake at his touch. Her flesh was warm, resilient. Her heart - The Heart - was still.

They turned her onto her side. His hand slipped across the silken curve of her buttock. He shivered at the electric thrill of touching the physical essence of the Divine One. Gently, they lifted her off the bed and slipped her onto the stretcher. They covered her with a sterile white sheet, tucking her in securely. Michie fastened the straps across her thighs and chest, careful not to cinch them too tightly.

The old Mexican woman who had faithfully attended her for the past six years sat at the kitchen table, clutching in her fist a plain white envelope which contained more money than she had ever seen in her life, and weeped silently.

Forsythe took personal charge of The Goddess at the morgue.

Silently, he performed his ritual ablutions. Reverently he contemplated her nude form stretched out on the stainless steel altar. It seemed almost blasphemous to mar her perfect body in any way. Yet The Divine One's body had to be cleansed of its earthly impurities. For the past six days he had meditated upon this procedure, envisioned every step in his mind's eye. He placed the edge of the scalpel against her side, and drew it across her skin. The flesh parted easily.

Following the rounded curve of her ribcage, he cut purposefully across her torso. Slipping his gloved fingers into the slit, he gently opened the incision to bare her tightly packed entrails. He coaxed out the convex grey-pink pouch of her stomach, and the tangled and intertwined mass of intestines and mesenteries. Methodically he excised the plebeian organs which seemed her only link to mere mortal women. When he was finished, he scrupulously scrubbed her body, inside and out, and dried her.
The station wagon arrived at the back door of the morgue an hour before sunrise, while the night was at its darkest, to ferry her on the last leg of her final journey. Her body, once more veiled in white sheets, was dropped off at the kitchen door of the restaurant.

The restaurant staff unwrapped the Divine One and placed her in the steel pan which lay ready on the counter. The oven had been lit in anticipation of her arrival. The head chef inspected her closely, nodding his approval. He began to fill the empty void of her torso with stuffing while his protege dappled her thighs with fragrant cloves.

Closing the incision with black silk thread, he gently massaged her abdomen with both hands to press down the stuffing and recreate the exquisite contours of her belly. His assistants lifted up the pan, and slid it into the oven. He looked down one last time at the Divine One, as beautiful in death as she was in life, and closed the oven door.

After a few hours, the aroma of The Goddess began to fill the kitchen. As his staff busied themselves with preparing the side dishes, he stood guard by the oven door. Every half hour, he ladled the drippings that had collected in the bottom of the pan across her breasts and belly and thighs. He studied the thick fluid as it trickled slowly down her sides and puddled in her exquisite navel.

At 7 o'clock, the doors of the banquet hall opened and the guests filed in, seating themselves on either side of the long polished table. Tonight, The Goddess would provide her final entertainment to a select audience of her most devoted fans. The Ultimate Woman would bestow upon them the Ultimate Pleasures of the Flesh.

With appropriate pomp The Goddess was wheeled into the hall on a stately serving cart, her pale white skin now metamorphosed to a golden brown. With appropriate ceremony, the head server pushed the tip of the knife into her abdomen just below her sternum, and sliced downwards towards her groin. The succulent flesh parted to reveal the stuffing, moist with her juices. A small cloud of steam rolled upwards from her opened torso. The assemhemorrhage diners fell into enrapt silence as they watched him carve tender filets from her abdomen and thick slices from her thighs, the air thick with the smell of perfectly roasted female flesh. As the heaping plates of juicy meat were set before them, they murmured their approval. The Divine One had not disappointed them.