Boiling Betty

by Rouen

The first thing that struck Betty was how large the caldron was. Where did they get such a thing? Especially in the jungles of New Guinea. She looked down at her bare toes. She was bare all over, having been stripped and washed by the women of the tribe. She could still smell the spices that they had rubbed into her newly scrubbed skin. She was ready for the pot, it was only a matter of time.

Her hands had been tied behind her but her legs were unfettered. She would walk to the pot on her own. Any show of resistance would only make her death even more horrible than it was going to be. If she resisted being boiled prior to the tribe eating her, they would perform a savage vivisection instead. She would lie staked out on the table and watch while piece after piece of her flesh was cut off, cooked, and eaten before her eyes. Compared to that, the prospect of the cookpot seemed as inviting as a warm bath.

The chief (or should she say "chef" ) motioned that it was time to begin. Slowly she moved toward the huge iron pot. The fire had just started and the water and vegetables were just getting warm.

Two of the natives lifted her by the arms and set her in the steaming water. She sat still, her ample breasts just cresting the surface.

How long would it be? she wondered. They say that a watched pot never boils...perhaps if they were watching too much...

But as more fuel was added to the fire the water began a slow, rolling boil. Betty squirmed as her nipples were splashed by the hot broth. She could see the oil from her skin collect on top of the water's surface.

She bit her tongue and tried not to scream as the water boiled faster and faster. The pain was intense but she dared not cry out. They could still pull her out and eat her alive.

She began to feel faint. Her marble white body was turning a bright pink. Soon I'll be red as a lobster, she thought.

Her head dropped to her shoulder. The pain ebbed as death approached. She could smell her aroma as her body continued to cook. Then, all senses shut down.

The natives stirred the pot as they extinguished the fire. When she had time to cool enough to handle, they would carry her to the banquet table and the feast would begin.

Everyone declared afterward that Betty really had been quite tasty. The flavor of her tender flesh was so succulant that the chief, who was quite adept at English, wrote a letter to the Foreign Mission Board of Betty's church.

"Send more missionaries," it read. "The last one was delicious."

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