Blood Cream: A Short Story
It had been a bizarre conspiracy. Strange even by the standards of surreptitiously infiltrative germ terrorism. Blood cream donuts threatened to become an epidemic. No one knew where they came from; or the identity of the persons whose blood had been put to such a purpose.
Early days of the investigation saw them ignorant of the method of collection. Had the blood been taken from a hospital or blood bank? Or several of the same?
Had it been extracted involuntarily? In which case were there unknown persons wallowing in agony, dead or dying? Had it been given voluntarily and freely, with the donors duped as to its true destination and purpose? Or, had it been donated voluntarily and freely by persons who knew full well? Who looked forward to its impact with evil pleasure? If this was true, what did it mean?
The inauguration of a brutal new blood cult? The intensification of already well established demonic sects?
The blood had to be typed and samples matched up. This task was made more arduous by the duplicitousness of the conspirators----surely there was more than one of them. A box of a dozen donuts would be filled with the blood of a dozen different individuals.
In the early days investigators could not tell whether persons had lost a little of a lot of blood. Even when it could be determined, later, that each person had lost several liters of blood, this drew them no closer to a solution. For it was not known when the blood had been extracted---if extracted it had been. Had it been taken all at once, or a little at a time?
Investigators still could not say whether they were looking for a mass of victims or fiends. What's more, the blood could not be matched to any database-stored DNA profile.
What good news there was to drawn was this: The results for the screening of the blood for diseases, had come back negative.
Unless the supply carried pathogens evasive of current techniques.
Herb Josephson was tired. He was a tired man. A tired husband. A tired employee. He was, for almost all intents and purposes, a tired human being. The only thing, he sometimes thought, that saved him from utterly suicidal fatigue was fatherhood.
He was not tired of being a dad. On the contrary. His sweet, trusting, inquisitive, affectionate, apple-cheeked, eight-year-old, Steven, had been his salvation. It was for Steven that this tired fifty-one-year-old man rose each morning from his tired marital bed, while his tiresome wife snored on: the shrew without even the wifely decency to put on the coffee, much less go really wild and actually fix him a plate of ham and eggs, once in a while; yet she had the energy to bitch at him about how little money he supposedly made, at regular intervals.
It was for Steven that this tired man brushed and flossed his tired teeth; and swigged mouthwash over his tired molars and gums; and jumped into the shower and washed his tired body, and dressed in his tired police officer's uniform.
It was for Steven that he got into his tired car (even his vehicle sounded tired) and drove the tired roads and bridges to his tired and tiresome police precinct. Where, come to think of it, he was tired of constantly being overlooked for promotion. Didn't anybody see his worth?
The only thing that gave him some pleasure in his day, some respite, was the few minutes of congenial amiability he enjoyed, each day, with a longtime friend of his.
Abe Pastel owned "The Pastellaria," a fancy, contrived name for an establishment that was little more than a plywood and drywall lean-to shack that sold coffee, pastries, a few other things, and Abe's optimism.
The Pastellaria opened at 7:00 am every single day. The two old friends, Herb and Abe, convened every single day at 6:30 in the morning.
They talked, played chess, drank coffee, talked about the bad news they had seen on television, heard on the radio, or read in the paper. Abe would get up to pull a tray of something out of the oven. He offered Herb one of those hot, sweet, delicious things.
Abe charged his old friend, friend-prices for drinking his coffee and eating his food: nothing.
Abe set down the donut on the table and said that he had to go to the back for something, and that he would be right back.
While he was gone Herb took a gulp of coffee and took a bite of something that was supposed to be a powdered sugar raspberry-filled.
When Abe returned he found his friend frowning and looking down at his donut.
"What's the matter?" Abe said.
At that Herb gave him The Look: he raised his eyes, without lifting or moving his head. This is The Look that was no nonsense. This is The Look that would admit no hesitation, evasion, or dissembling. This was The Look that was All Business.
"Where do you get your donuts, Abe?"
Under the glare of The Look Abe was forced to choke back his usual catalogue of responses. He choked back the offended dignity. He choked back the appalled indignation. He choked back the wounded pride.
He was forced to choke back all the stuff about how "I make my pastries fresh every morning! You know that!" He choked back the denials about what his progressively worsening arthritis was doing to him.
He stuffed it all. And told police officer Herbert Roland Josephson the name of the bakery goods distributor who supplied him. "Why?" he said.
Still giving him The Look, Herb said, "I don't think you're going to open up this morning, Abe."
"Why not for God's sakes?"
"Because there is blood in this donut. Blood! Blood! Blood!"
Oscar Bindle woke up, yawned, sat up, and slapped his well-tuned, fat belly like a bongo drum. His radio alarm had sounded. It was tuned, as always, to an AM sports talk program that he favored. He didn't listen to the radio otherwise; for Oscar Bindle did not like music.
What kind of person doesn't like music? Oscar Bindle, that's who! It was ironic, though, given his proficiency on the bongo belly. Which he played as he made his way into the bathroom to wash up, brush his teeth, and dress. Before going into the kitchen to microwave himself something for breakfast, from his frozen Jimmy Dean collection and put the kettle on for instant coffee.
Before willing himself to leave his apartment and go to work.
To call his domicile a "hovel" would be to give hovels a bad name. The crummy material circumstances we find him living with, at the moment, are due to an acrimonious divorce. He could not decide who had been more bloodsucking: his ex-wife, Dorothy or the Fem-a-Nazi she had hired as an attorney.
She turned the kids against him... His ex-wife, Dorothy, not the Fem-a-Nazi attorney.
He had loved Dorothy once, but now he wouldn't spit on her if her hair was on fire, as the saying goes. To be fair to Dorothy, if she saw Oscar on fire, she would pour on gasoline.
That was the last time Oscar Bindle would ever marry for love.
The water boiled and he filled his cup. He tasted it and added sugar. He tasted it again and added milk. He tasted it yet again and this time, added a stimulant which he kept lovingly stored in a silver flask.
When the concoction hit his bloodstream, life became bearable again, and he found the courage to face the day and go to work. He drove a taxicab. About as far away from the astronaut he'd dreamed of becoming in his youth.
He got into his car and drove in the direction of the cab company, his place of demoralized indentured servitude. He stopped at a convenience store for a coffee and a couple of powdered sugar lemon meringue donuts.
His "stimulant" was running low. Though it was too early, by law, to sell alcohol, Oscar slipped the lone clerk a twenty for his pocket, to top it off for him. It was important to keep the reserves well stocked. In case his joie de vivre should inexplicably flag during the course of his lovely day.
He arrived at the cab company and muttered words of greeting to all who merited them. He got his cab assignment and went to it. He pulled out of the garage and headed for the bridge which would take him "downtown."
It was a hot, hot day. Desert hot. At least it was a dry heat and not humid. Small favors and all that. His windows were all open and he put the air conditioner on full blast.
He took a sip of his coffee. He would take real brewed convenience store crap over instant coffee crap any day of the week. He put the cup into the cup holder.
He took a bite of his donut...
If you're waiting for an explosive reaction, of some kind, from Oscar Bindle, you're in for a mighty long wait.
Yes, there was blood in the donut. And yes, he was pissed off about it. But Oscar Bindle had endured a life---especially during the last ten years---which had conditioned him to take even random, Hell-on-Earth visitations of damnation in their stride. And an increasingly bitter stride it was.
In fact, a bloody-filled donut was about par for course for Oscar. Just his luck in this lousy, rotten town. He kept right on driving as he chucked the donut out of the window. He chucked the other one out, figuring it was more of the same.
He used to work as a cook at a restaurant. He figured he had put worse things in the soup of offending customers. Lousy, rotten customers. Always sending their food back. What did they think this was, the Ritz?
He didn't want his coffee anymore; so he threw that out the window as well, and took his stimulant directly from his flask.
Augie March was twenty-six years old. He was tall, lanky, gangly, and ungainly. He had a long, thin neck, and an oversized head, with a long, hooked nose. He had an Ichabod Crane thing going for himself.
He was a college graduate and a law school dropout. He was currently rudderless and without direction because he had declined to go into the property development and real estate speculation game with an uncle.
He was a rock guitar hero; and someday he would get the right people to recognize his virtuosity. The hundreds of publishers that had rejected his poetry were equally blind to his genius.
In past lives he had been Walt Disney, Thomas Edison, Crispus Atticus, Genghis Khan, and that guy Jesus had been talking to on the crucifixion cross next to his own. Augie March---as himself---had been abducted by aliens; and he felt certain that his seed had been collected with the purpose of breeding a hybrid race somewhere in the galaxy. He remembered it all so clearly with the help of hypnotic regression therapy.
He was a vampire. As one of the undead, he really should not have been out and about in the daytime. It was okay though. It was early in the AM; the sun had not escaped the clouds; and he was insulated under a coating of sunscreen.
It was a good thing the aliens had gotten to him before he'd been turned. Because as everybody knew, vampires were, unfortunately, tragically, sterile.
It was his turn to do the grocery shopping for himself and his roommates. A motley collection of disaffected artists who called themselves an "artist's colony." Their home, their residence, the place they lay their heads, their den was wherever they happened to be squatting at the time.
Abandoned buildings, neglected spaces offered rich opportunities. As did newly built but yet unoccupied buildings. Sometimes they slept in the woods or fields of tall grass and called it "camping." But currently, they were living in high style, in a lovely loft overlooking a majestic river, which was in a newly built office building, that hasn't, as yet, seen the onslaught of paying tenants.
The best thing, though, about Augie March's current crop of associates was that they were true friends. He could be completely open and honest about himself with them. They understood him as no others could and no others ever would. You see, every single member of the artist's colony was a vampire as well.
Blessing upon blessing followed, as he discovered that they were all "good" vampires. Like himself. Of course, they needed blood every bit as much as "bad" vampires did. The difference was that Augie and his gaggle of BFFs tried not to kill human beings for it. And they were even careful about who they "turned."
You see, eternity is a long time; and Augie and his associates wanted to spend it with the right kind of people. Quality people.
Augie's shopping cart was full to overflowing. You see, although he is unemployed at the moment---at least not gainfully employed---he was making out alright. He had the benefit of a trust fund left to him by his grandfather. Also, he was one of those lucky son-of-a-guns who seemed to just trip over money.
And finally, Augie March was an extreme couponer!
He had picked up a box of those chocolate filled donuts that he adored. You could see the decorative ribbon of chocolate bulging from the side. He opened a box and took a bite out of one.
The fact that it had blood in it took him aback for a moment. But only for a moment before he gathered himself. He investigated and sure enough the blood ran all the way through. He tasted another one and another one. Probably the whole box was like that.
Now, a normal person might have grabbed a store employee, or a manager, and said something like: "Dude! There's blood in these donuts!"
But alas, as we have already established, Augie March and his compatriots are not normal people. Are they?
They are vampires. Really they are.
He opened a box of vanilla-fudge creams in his cart. He tried one and again there was the taste of the cake, the powdered sugar, a bit of vanilla-fudge cream, and most all, again, blood. Glorious blood! It was like a gift from Lord Nosferatu.
Unconventional and novel sources of blood were always welcome. Biting people on the neck was so seventeenth century. His kind had become caricatures of themselves.
Augie wondered if there were more blood donuts in the store. He wondered if he shouldn't scoop them all up before they fell into the hands of those for whom they were not meant. He wondered if he should clear the shelves and ask for all they had in the back.
He wondered if he shouldn't call a couple of his boys, at the colony, for help. It was only four-thirty in the morning---vampires keep strange hours---so there was still time. He wondered if this were the only store that had the blood donuts.
Did Lord Nosferatu mean for his children to comb the entire city?
Should Augie ditch his shopping cart and get another, filling it only with the blood donuts? After all, Augie only bought human food to keep up appearances. The only food the creatures of the night really needed was blood.
Well, we leave Augie March, vampire, beloved of Lord Nosferatu, standing there, making his plans. Anticipating like a hungry wolf stalking a fat, juicy lamb.
April Garland was a good person. She was a hero; she liked to save people. In her opinion, cuddly animals, small children, and old people needed special protection; and April was happy to provide it.
From a very early age she had studied CPR and First Aid. She spent her spare time reading books on anatomy, physiology, pharmacology; and books about the effects of drugs and other chemicals on the body...
She had learned to swim so that she could save people from drowning. April was tall and athletically built with broad shoulders; and very strong. Strong enough to carry a full grown man out of a burning building, should the need arise.
She joined the fire department and became an emergency medical technician, and EMT. Now she was in nursing school.
April Garland had battled adversity. Principally in the form of a nemesis called Emma. They had met as children; and had, at one time, been very close. But Emma's devotion had turned sinister and she went all "Single White Female" on April.
Emma dogged her steps, sabotaged everything April turned a hand to, damaged property. Emma... did things to people... Innocent people. People April cared about. People close to April. In many cases, defenseless people.
April flew to save these people. But Emma was a witch, a dark, evil one. Sometimes it felt like Emma wove an enchantment around April, imprisoning her legs in invisible quicksand. The faster she tried to run, the harder she pumped her legs, the farther away she seemed to get from the victim.
God only knew how she always made it in the nick of time. To fight off and subdue Emma. To force the she-devil to tell exactly what she had done to her victims. So that April could very quickly administer the necessary emergency ministrations. Until she get the poor thing to a hospital.
To be attended to by doctors. With April helpfully standing by. Ever ready to provide whatever insight necessary.
Having finally vanquished Emma, April was savoring the sweet nectar of life. She was married to the most wonderful man. And she was mother to the most magical, angelic, sweet five-year-old son.
Her husband's name was Sam Burkowski. Sam was a doctor of internal medicine. The patients of this amiable healer always seemed to get around to calling him 'Dr. Sam.' April was a surgical nurse; and it had seemed like a natural to her, that the two of them should go out on their own, and go into business for themselves.
Sam had been amenable; so the two of them opened their own private practice. They were equal partners. Sam was the doc and April was his nurse and office manager. Later, they hired three more doctors, another nurse, and part-time office help.
One day, April had decided to take the entire day off, electing to spend it with her son, Evan. She left the office in the care of the severe Mrs. Clairborne.
April and Evan had been out and about all day, doing this and that, that and this. They had stopped at the supermarket and were now back home. Where April was getting an early start on preparing dinner. Evan was with her in the kitchen, having a snack and watching television, something called Sponge Bob.
While standing over the stove, stirring the linguine, April opened up a box of her favorite cinnamon toast apricot treasure donuts. She bit into one.
There was blood in it. April reacted with all the shock, horror, outrage, disgust, aversion, and indignation one might expect. All of which was amplified due to her status as a health care professional.
She started to throw them away. But no, on the other hand, best to hang onto them for evidence. She would call the Better Business Bureau! She would call the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta! She would call the Federal Bureau of Investigation! She would call the Office of Homeland Security!
All the time we had expected those A-rabs---she pronounced the word in this Archie Bunker manner when she was in an excitable state---would get us with a 'dirty bomb,' or something like that. Or germ warfare, but this! Such in your face blatancy! Such open desecration!
Those A-rabs knew perfectly well that the donut was the quintessentially American food, every bit as much as apple pie, she thought.
But it had also been the Keystone Cop incompetence of the supermarket chain and whomever they got their bakery goods from, that had allowed this infiltration.
April Garland would sue the supermarket. She would sue the bakery goods distributor... Maybe she'd better put the donuts down the garbage disposal, after all. She didn't want to risk Evan getting his hands on them. To April, it was like leaving a loaded gun lying around. She retained three of them for evidence.
April was outside of her body. She was watching herself standing at the counter. She had one of the blood-filled cinnamon toast apricot treasure donuts on the cutting board. Odd, April had thought she threw those away.
She was watching herself cut the pastry into four sections. She was watching herself take each section and sprinkle sugar and cinnamon into the blood in each sectioned piece. She was watching herself take chocolate cake frosting, and, sort of, seal the opening of each sectioned part of the donut with it.
Then, suddenly, April Garland realized that it wasn't herself she was watching, it was Emma. Emma, whom she'd thought she put down forever. Emma was back and using April's own body against her, to poison Evan.
She tried to scream. But either she had no mouth. Or she might as well not have had, for all the good it was doing. Because she could generate no sound.
She tried to move to stop Emma and rescue her son. But she was held fast by some kind of invisible bondage.
She was watching Emma put the donut on a plate. Next she was helplessly watching Emma pour a glass of milk, for Evan to have with the donut. She watched Emma reach under the kitchen sink and remove a bottle of bleach. She watched Emma carefully pour out one, then two teaspoons full of the bleach and stir it into Evan's milk.
Trying to scream and move, futilely, all the while, she watched as Emma use April's own mouth to call out to Evan, to come to the kitchen for his snack.
She watched as her son bound into the kitchen. He was none the wiser, of course, because Emma was using April's form to comfort and reassure Evan. April's hand set the tainted donut and milk before Evan, against her will.
April's own lips smiled at him and kissed him on top of his head, against her will.
April would extract herself from this latest wicked enchantment somehow. She would save Evan. Then she would track the witch down and kill her this time, she promised herself. Kill her good. Kill her so she couldn't come back ever again.
The word you're looking for, ladies and gentlemen, is Munchausen by proxy. With a touch of schizophrenia.
Sitting around an oil drum camp fire under a bridge, on an evening in the middle of November, Dietrich Moobley took his turn. Taking a swig of the passed around bottle of Irish whisky he said, "The happiest I've ever been is the time..."
He told about the time when he'd been pushing his shopping cart down the street. Not bothering anybody. Minding his own business. When a couple of Yahoo, hillbilly crackers had come speeding by in their truck and whooped at him.
The surprise had almost made him jump out of his skin. The Yahoos suggested that perhaps Dietrich might alleviate his circumstances if he found employment. Though they hadn't quite couched the sentiment in such polite terms.
Anyway, the hillbilly redneck cracker on the passenger side had reached out and actually swiped the cap off Dietrich's head.
Dietrich was positively effervescent as he told this part. That The Lord God, in his infinite mercy, because he is a good God, caused the truck to hit a deep pothole. And because the Lord God Loves the humble and Hates their tormentors, He caused the truck to then pop several feet into the air, slam down, and then roll over ten times.
No one else was touched. But the two hillbilly redneck crackers were laid up in traction for months. Not only that---tears had come to Dietrich's eyes---but because the Lord God blesses abundantly, the police had found open containers of alcohol in their hillbilly redneck cracker truck.
That means that the two hillbilly redneck crackers were under arrest for DUI. They had actually been handcuffed to their hospital beds!
Dietrich laughed like a banshee, as he recalled. His fellow campers around the oil drum liked the story as well; and they laughed in hearty appreciation. They all affirmed that God is a good God.
Dietrich dutifully declared that God, in His infinite mercy and wisdom, had let the hillbilly redneck crackers live. So that maybe---just maybe---they might find Jesus and accept Him as their Lord and Savior; stop being hillbilly redneck crackers; and come to know, in their hearts, that whatever they do unto the least of His creatures, they do unto Him.
A runner up for the happiest Dietrich had ever been, involved a dog---a very bad dog---being smote by the Lord's Righteous Vengeance. As well as a pickup truck going about seventy miles an hour.
One thing Dietrich Moobley was tired of was dogs in the neighborhood barking incessantly at him as he walks by. It seemed to him that other denizens of the community do not receive that kind of treatment from man's alleged best friend. He was beginning to take it personally because he suspected what the problem was.
He suspected that the owners of the dogs had the problem. They had a problem with Dietrich Moobley. But that problem was expressed by their dogs. Their dogs expressed their hostility toward him on their behalf.
He believed this because he felt that the dogs would never have behaved in such an aggressive, antisocial fashion, if it wasn't an expression of their owners' will, in some way.
There was one dog in particular that menaced him. Every time he walked by a certain house, late in the afternoon or evening, this dog would bark at him. Pulling at the long rope that held him. As though the junkyard beast meant to fly at Dietrich's throat.
Often times the dog's master would be outside with him. Making an ostentatious yet halfhearted attempt to soothe the animal. But Dietrich could not help thinking that the dog's furious roaring pleased the man, or at least amused him. It was a feeling he had.
Sometimes Dietrich feared that long leash would break and then the dog would have him. Dietrich did not want to provoke the seemingly barely domesticated wild wolf-thing. He often walked on the other side of the street because he had heard, once, that dogs were "territorial."
Perhaps his position on the other side of the street would convince the dog that he meant no harm. That he had no intention of trespassing on the property. That he had no intention of violating his space. That he had no intention of coming anywhere near it.
Dietrich pleaded with the animal, night and day, in his mind. Could the dog please, please, please---as James Brown used to say---leave Dietrich be? Could the dog please stop scaring him, acting like he meant to tear Dietrich's throat out for simply living and breathing? He wished he could explain to the dog that if there was some other route he could take in his walking, he would.
If it were within Dietrich's power, the animal would never have to suffer the sight of him on his street. But it was not within his power.
Can't we just get along? he thought at the dog. Can't we coexist? I love dogs and if you gave me the chance, I could love you too.
But the dog did not have the problem. If he had another owner with a different attitude, he would not bark so furiously at Dietrich.
The dog's owner---a hillbilly redneck cracker---and some of the other dog owners in the neighborhood, who did not precisely fit into the sociological category of hillbilly redneck cracker, but were prejudiced nevertheless, had a problem with poor people. Especially poor people darker than themselves.
As soon as this thought entered his mind, Dietrich Moobley knew in his heart that it was The Lord's Gospel Truth. It was with the Knowledge of this Truth in his heart, that he appealed to his Lord and Savior, against the demon-dog and all the works of the wicked household of his hillbilly redneck cracker owner.
Dietrich swore to his God that he had harmed no one. He had abused no one. He had spoken harshly to no one. He had cheated no one. He had taken nothing that did not belong to him or that had not been given freely.
Anything he had, he had shared with his brothers and sisters. When he had bread and drink, they had bread and drink. Dietrich swore to God that he would let himself die of hunger and thirst before deprived his fellows of any abundance he might have.
Therefore, could the Lord God please, please, please protect His Servant, Dietrich Moobley, from being torn limb from limb to said demon-dog belonging to the household of said hillbilly redneck cracker?
Thanks for listening, he silently signed off his prayer. Amen!
One day Dietrich Moobley was pushing his cart down the street. On the other side away from the demon-dog, leashed outside, owned by the hillbilly redneck cracker. The thing he always fear would happen, happened.
Try as he might to be inconspicuous, the dog acknowledged his presence and began his intimidating, predatory barking. He strained at his leash, in Dietrich's direction. As though he meant to rip his throat out. And leave poor Dietrich Moobley dying from an ugly neck wound. Bleeding out. In the middle of the road. Being run over by cars and trucks. With nobody even noticing or caring.
Then it happened. The leash snapped and the dog took off after Dietrich. He was helpless. The demon-dog had a direct bead on him. He could not get away. He would die without even knowing why. Without even knowing what anybody had against him.
Why couldn't he be allowed to live in the shadows, as he had been doing? He wasn't bothering anybody. Okay, sometimes he begged for change. But he was never aggressive about it. He was never insistent. He did not harass.
Dietrich prepared himself for death. To meet his maker.
But then he was, again, given reprieve. He was saved again, Praise God! For just as the demon-dog had made his leap for Dietrich's throat, a truck, going more than seventy miles an hour, slammed its grill right into the dog.
The impact turned the dog into pulp. A few drops of blood had actually splashed onto Dietrich. But, needless to say, he didn't mind.
No one else was hurt but Fido was hamburger.
Dietrich Moobley felt bad for the dog. He hoped that his owner's wickedness did not keep it out of Heaven. After all, the sin had originated in the wicked heart of the hillbilly redneck cracker. The dog had been merely the helpless, passive vessel and conduit.
The next day Dietrich wrote the dog's hillbilly redneck cracker family an anonymous letter of condolence. He expressed great sorrow for their loss, saying that the dog was selected of God to be Man's Best Friend. He urged them to have strength and to keep the faith, because The Lord moves in mysterious ways.
In that letter he told them that nothing happens under the sun but that He has a reason for it. He reminded them to place their faith in Him, their Lord and Savior; and that, knowing this, believers shall have eternal life. Radiated by the Glory of The Lord from everlasting to everlasting.
Dietrich told them that he would pray for their dog and for them as well. Then he clipped a picture of Black Jesus to the note and sent it off.
Finding the donuts had been anticlimactic for Dietrich Moobley. Dietrich and some of his fellows from under the bridge---specifically his associates from the vengeance cult---were out gathering breakfast. They had come upon many dumpsters full of donuts all around the town.
They were all tightly packaged. There appeared to be nothing at all wrong with them. They were not even beyond that arbitrary expiration date.
When one of them bit into one, the issue revealed itself. Then another bit into another one. Then another bit into another one. Then another bit into another one. Then another bit into another one; and that was good enough. The matter was sufficiently confirmed.
There was blood in those donuts; and that was likely why they had been discarded.
What to do? What to do? What to do?
Sure, the donuts had blood in them. But unfortunately, the situation was not as simple as that. It came to be decided that they simply could not be re-discarded. The vengeance cult had gathered enough donuts to provide substantial nourishment for the tribe under the bridge.
But what about the blood?
They simply could not afford to think about that too deeply. The priority had to be eating and survival.
But were the donuts safe?
Dietrich Moobley thought an insight had occurred to him. He said to his fellows under the bridge, the vengeance cult, that perhaps it was God's Test. Or The Lord God's Price.
What did he mean?
Well, Dietrich ventured cautiously, if the vengeance cult wanted the Lord God, their protector, to continue to injure, maim, and kill on their behalf---And they did, they all agreed---then they, the vengeance cult must be made to face it, made to drink the blood.
Could they face it? Dietrich asked.
To a man, without even thinking about it, the vengeance cult could face it, could pay the price, could pay any price. They would take in the blood that the Lord God had spilled---and promises to spill---on their behalf.
Okay, good, but what about the others under the bridge?
Still, they could not just toss all of those donuts. They would simply have to be told about the blood; and instructed to try to eat as much of the cake of each donut as possible---to eat around the blood.
At that, Dietrich Moobley and his fellows from under the bridge, the entirety of the vengeance cult, wheeled the blood-filled donuts back home, back to under the bridge.