Chapter 8

He could see the black bag, half empty now, on the table just fifteen feet away from him. If I can get to it, he thought, it's only another 30 feet or so to the long stainless steel sink where I clean the utensils. I could wash the flour down the sink, and then it would be gone.

But he was so weak. He didn't know how he'd be able to get his shaky legs to walk that far, and then lift the bag and tote it to the sink. It seemed like a herculean task.

Then he heard the women again, fighting over some donuts. They were cursing and shouting at each other, and their cries sounded like ravenous wolves or hyenas. This is madness, he thought. I can't let this go on, or they'll kill me. It's evil, what's happening out there.

He hoisted himself up shakily, and started for the table.

The table seemed a mile away, because every step was an effort for Arnie. His legs felt so weak he could barely put any weight on them, and he was so lightheaded he was afraid he'd fall. When he looked down, though, there was his stiff cock waggling like a flagpole in the wind. It was so absurd, so bizarre, he almost burst out laughing. When he heard Julie shrieking with glee at finding some more donuts out front, though, it refocused him on the job of destroying the flour.

He finally made it to the table, and he grasped the flour bag by the top, holding it with both hands and then starting for the sink. He knew the bag couldn't weigh more than five pounds, but in his weakened condition it seemed as heavy as an anvil. He counted each step he took toward the sink, trying to will his feet to go faster.

Finally, he got there, and he propped the bag up on the counter next to the sink. He hoped he could turn the water on without the women hearing him. He screwed the tap just a quarter turn, so that there was a trickle of water coming out of the faucet. So far, so good -- the women were still shrieking and carrying on in the front, and it didn't seem like they'd heard anything.

He slowly opened the bag and tipped it over slightly, in order to pour the flour into the sink. When he opened the bag the sickly sweet aroma of the flour filled his nostrils -- and the noise from the front of the store suddenly stopped.

He could feel them listening, sniffing the air, like animals who've sensed danger.

He tipped the bag further, and a tiny stream of the fine white flour poured out.

There were four simultaneous screams of rage that came from the front of the store, and then the sound of large bodies running. Arnie tipped the bag further, and the stream of flour pouring out of it got thicker, but before he could tip the whole bag over and empty it into the sink, he felt a hand clamp on his shoulder, and then another grabbed the bag of flour out of his hand, and then he was thrown backward across the room.

He went crashing into the big wooden table, then tumbled onto the floor, ending up in a heap near the oven. He looked up to see Julie towering over him like some mythological beast, her belly quivering and her huge breasts shaking from side to side. Her face was red with anger, and her hair was hanging in matted strings. Her teeth looked larger than ever, and she seemed to be struggling with an urge to tear Arnie apart.

"So you thought you were going to get rid of the flour," she said. "I should have known you would try to do that, you skinny assed jerk. You don't understand, do you? That flour is nectar to a woman. It's done something to us, changed our DNA somehow so that we're connected with it. You can't destroy it without destroying us." She put her face down close to Arnie's, and he could smell the flour smell on her breath. "And we will never let you destroy it!"