Little Louie left, followed by his body guards, and Bernard Hutson screamed and screamed and just couldn't stop.

This is something I wrote back in college. It's the first time I ever did a story using only dialog. I read this at the infamous Gross Out Contest at the World Horror Con, but was pulled off the stage for not being gross enough. The next year I came back with a truly disgusting story and won the contest, becoming the Gross Out Champion of 2004. The story that won the contest will never see print. If you're curious, the ending involved relations with a colostomy bag. This piece is much less extreme.

"Hi, welcome to Ra.n.a.ldi's. You folks ready to order?"

"Not quite yet."

"How about we start you off with some drinks?"

"Sounds good. I'll have a rum and toothpaste."

"Flavor?"

"Pepsident."

"I'm sorry. We only have Aim, Close-Up, Gleem, and Tarter Control Crest."

"Give me the Crest, then."

"And you sir?"

"I'll take a Kahlua and baby oil."

"Miss?"

"Vodka and mayonnaise."

"How about you, Miss?"

"Just hot b.u.t.tered coffee for me."

"I think I'm ready to order."

"What can I get you sir?"

"A pimpleburger."

"How would you like that cooked?"

"Until it turns brown and starts to bubble."

"You have a choice of soup or salad with that."

"What's the soup?"

"Cream of Menstruation. It's our special - we only get it once a month."

"That sounds good."

"How about you sir, ready to order?"

"Yeah. I'll take boils and eggs."

"Good choice. The chef has several big ones just waiting to be lanced."

"Is the ham fresh?"

"No ma'am."

"Okay, I'll take the ham. Can you cover it with vomit?"

"Of course. What kind?"

"How about from someone who has just eaten chicken?"

"I'll have the cook eat some chicken right now so he can puke it up for you."

"I'd like it to be partially digested, if possible."

"There will be a forty minute wait for that."

"No problem."

"And you miss? Have you decided?"

"Yeah. I think I'll just take a bowl of hot grease with a hair in it."

"Pubic or armpit?"

"Can I get one of each?"

"I think I can arrange that."

"Could we also get an appetizer?"

"Of course sir."

"Fresh rat entrails."

"How many orders?"

"How big are the rats?"

"They're a pretty good size."

"Okay, two. Do we get to dig them out ourselves?"

"Yep. We serve out rat entrails live and squirming."

"Make it three then."

"Can we get a cup of placenta for dipping?"

"Yes you can."

"Is it okay to order dessert now?"

"Of course miss."

"I'd like the sugar fried snot."

"Good choice. One of the busboys has a terrible cold."

"I think I'll have a slice of lung cake."

"Would you like spit sauce on that?"

"On the side."

"Sir, would you like to order your dessert now?"

"A blood sundae."

"What kind?"

"What kind do you have?

"Types A, B, and O."

"No AB?"

"I'm sorry. We're out."

"Could you mix A and B together?"

"It will clot."

"That's okay."

"And you, Miss? Dessert?"

"I think I'll skip dessert and eat my own stool when I get home."

"That's a good idea, honey. Cancel the lung cake, I think I'll just eat my wife's s.h.i.t too."

"We do serve feces here. Regular and chunky style. We're also running a special on diarrhea. Two cups for the price of one."

"No thanks. Why buy something you can get for free at home?"

"Thrifty thinking, sir. Can I get you folks anything else?"

"Yeah. This fork has got water spots on it. Can I get a new one?"

"Absolutely sir. I'll be right back."

I wrote this for the anthology Wolfsbane & Mistletoe, edited by Charlaine Harris and Toni L.P. Kelner. It was one of those stories that practically wrote itself. Werewolves have always been one of my favorite monsters, and I was thrilled to have a chance to cut loose and let my imagination run wild. Some quick notes: The Salvation Army is a wonderful organization with over 3.5 million volunteers, and I'm pretty sure none of them are cough syrup swilling psychotics. The names used in this story are all names of characters from famous werewolf movies. Unless someone tries to sue me, in which case I made all of them up. (L.L. Cool J also did a rocking version of "Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.") While the modern Bible is missing many of its original pa.s.sages, the Book of Bob isn't one of them. You're probably getting it confused with the lost Book of Fred. Other than that, everything in this story is 100% true.

Robert Weston Smith walked across the snow-covered parking lot carrying a small plastic container of his p.o.o.p.

Weston considered himself a healthy guy. At thirty-three years old he still had a six-pack, the result of working out three times a week. He followed a strict macrobiotic diet. He practiced yoga and tai chi. The last time he ate processed sugar was during the Reagan administration.

That's why, when odd things began appearing in his bowel movements, he became more than a little alarmed. So alarmed that he sought out his general pract.i.tioner, making an appointment after a particularly embarra.s.sing phone call to his office secretary.

Weston entered the office building with his head down and a blush on his ears, feeling like a kid sneaking out after curfew. He used the welcome mat to stamp the snow off his feet and walked through the lobby to the doctor's office, taking a deep breath before going in. There were five people in the waiting room, two adults and a young boy, plus a nurse in pink paisley hospital scrubs who sat behind the counter.

Weston kept his head down and beelined for the nurse. The p.o.o.p container was blue plastic, semi-opaque, but it might as well have been a police siren, blinking and howling. Everyone in the room must have known what it was. And if they didn't at first, they sure knew after the nurse said in a loud voice, "Is that your stool sample?"

He nodded, trying to hand it to the woman. She made no effort to take it, and he couldn't really blame her. He carried it, and a clipboard, over to a seat in the waiting room. Setting his p.o.o.p on a table atop an ancient copy of Good Housekeeping, he got to work filling out his insurance information. When it came time to describe the nature of his ailment, he wrote down "intestinal problems." Which was untrue---his intestines felt fine. It's what came out of his intestines that caused alarm.

"What's in the box?"

Weston looked up, staring into the big eyes of a child, perhaps five or six years old.

"It's, um, something for the doctor."

He glanced around the room, looking for someone to claim the boy. Three people had their noses stuck in magazines, one was watching a car commercial on the TV hanging from the ceiling, and the last appeared asleep. Any of them could have been his parent.

"Is it a cupcake?" the boy asked.

"Uh... yeah, a cupcake."

"I like cupcakes."

"You wouldn't like this one."

The boy reached for the container.

"Is it chocolate?"

Weston s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and set it in his lap.

"No. It isn't chocolate."

"Show it to me."

"No."

The boy squinted at the sample. Weston considered putting it behind his back, out of the child's sight, but there was no place to set it other than the chair. It didn't seem wise to put it where he might lean back on it.