The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart by Jesse Bullington Page B

into the dirt.
    Manfried rolled the thing onto its stomach with his weapon. The shallow wounds on its back were far less severe then they
     definitely had been when they had dragged it out of the brush. Seeing this, Hegel went berserk. He hacked the crushed head
     free and kicked it away from the bleeding stump, then stomped at its cranium until the pulpy chunk bore no vestiges of humanity.
    Occupied with his task, Hegel did not see what happened to the corpse. Manfried could not open his mouth, hypnotized by the
     sight. Steam pored from the mutilated remains, its legs pulling inward, its back arching. In moments the skin holding it together
     melted off into a greasy pool, taking all color with it. The musculature and bones remained but these were sallow and pasty
     as a grub. Its hair came loose and floated in the pool save for a wide flap of pelt running from shoulders to haunches, resting
     on the gruesome lump like an ill-fitting cloak. This scrap retained its odd coloration, shining black and gray, red and blond.
    Finally tearing himself away from splattering brains, Hegel took one look at the mess in front of Manfried and dropped his
     sword.
    “What in Hell did you
do
?” Hegel was more than a little impressed.
    “Power a prayer.” Manfried shuddered.
    “I, uh, didn’t mean to. Didn’t mean to—” Hegel swallowed. “Didn’t mean to take Her, uh, Bosom in vain.”
    Manfried waved it off, eyes locked on the pelt. Something about it intrigued him, maybe the way the different hues played
     off each other. Hegel watched his brother, apprehensive that a reference to the Virgin’s chest failed to get a response, regardless
     of extenuating circumstances.
    Hegel narrowed his eyes, steeling himself for the coming blasphemy. “Mary’s Wet Ass.”
    “Uh huh.” Manfried leaned out to touch it, to see if it felt as warm and dry as he suspected.
    “Stay away from that!” Hegel barked, grabbing his brother’s wrist.
    Manfried shoved him away, suddenly light-headed. “What’re you on bout?”
    “What am I—No, what’re you on bout? Why you want to touch that nasty thing?” Hegel could not articulate why the idea bothered
     him, but it did.
    “Dunno.” Manfried grumbled, standing up slowly. “Looked nice.”
    “Nice? Nice! It’s a rotten old skin from some demon and you think it’s pretty?!”
    “Suppose it
is
a demon-skin,” Manfried admitted, still staring at it. “Guess I probably shouldn’t lay hands on it.”
    “Damn right,” Hegel huffed, secretly relieved Manfried had not picked up on his defamation of the Virgin.
    “We can’t just leave it here,” said Manfried, “some heretic might find it and put it to evil use.”
    “What use?”
    “I ain’t no heretic so I couldn’t say. But they’d find a use for it, rest assured. So we should probably take it with us.”
    “What fresh Hell is this? We’s not takin that mangy hide no place. It stays where it lays.”
    Manfried worried his lip. “Can’t have that. Maybe we oughta bury it?”
    “Sound enough, though I reckon the fire would suit it better.”
    “That’d mean touchin it, though, to carry it back to camp,” Manfried pointed out.
    “Could carry it on a stick.”
    “Stick might break and it’d land on your hand.”
    “You’s keen on just that a minute ago.”
    Manfried grunted, still curious whether it would feel soft or bristly.
    “We can start a blaze here, burn it up,” Hegel suggested.
    “Might not burn.”
    “What?!”
    “Think bout it. Demons crawl up out a Hell, so stands to reason their skins don’t burn. Otherwise they’d never get out a Hell
     in the first place.”
    “If it’s a demon,” said Hegel.
    “What else you think it is?”
    “Seems more like the thing that Viktor in Ostereich was talkin bout. Lou Garou, or some such,” Hegel ruminated.
    “Lou Garou?”
    “Yeah, them folks what turn into wolves.”
    “That demon look like a wolf to you?”
    “No need to condescend,” said Hegel.