Blood & Ben and Jerry’s

This story was inspired by an unfortunate subject line from a work email.

Flakes of chocolate. Melting under his body temperature, stuck under his fingernails. Jerry Garcia listlessly flailed around, searching for something solid to grip, only to immerse his fingers in more sticky slipperiness.

“Chubby hubby, chubby hubby,” he heard the voice squeal, its high-pitched voice like nails on a chalkboard. “Mama wants to play.”

Jerry continued wading his way forward, pushing himself along as quickly as he could, but to no avail. His feet only sunk further into the cool, creamy batter.

“Oh chubby hubby, don’t you wanna play?” The voice was getting louder, closer. Jerry looked forward in desperation. The ladder was less than 20 feet away. If he flung himself forward, he might be able to shorten the gap by 7 feet or so, but then what? He didn’t trust his ability to stand back up, and his legs were already losing sensation.

He could taste the salty sweat mixed in with caramel, streaming down his face.

“CHUBBY HUBBY,” the voice boomed, deeper and ever closer. The hairs on his neck stood on end. He wasn’t making any headway trying to walk through the thick, vanilla scented pool. There was only one option.

Jerry put all his weight into his shoulders and tumbled full force towards the ladder. The batter enveloped him immediately as he struggled to look up and place himself. The ladder was nowhere in sight.

Trying to set himself upright, Jerry grabbed at the thick wall of cream surrounding him, but he only felt himself sink further in. He gasped for air but was greeted with the sticky flavor of vanilla flooding into his lungs. His temples vibrated as the pressure of the cold batter sucked him in, deeper, deeper.

Suddenly, he was hoisted out of the batter, feet first and gagging. The cold cream had now turned to liquid as he felt it drip up his throat, running through his nostrils. He was turned upright, coughing, then finally noticed the warm hands clutching his shoulders. Immediately he felt a chill roll down his spine as his vision cleared and he found himself staring into the face of a sneering, deformed orangutan.

“Chubby hubby,” it snarled, drool dripping between its sharpened teeth and onto its chin. “You can’t escape me.”

Before Jerry had the chance to scream, the creature bit cleanly into his neck, snapping it back as blood splashed into the batter. Chunks of red fused with the vanilla cream as the creature savagely bashed his body against the thick pool again and again.

The creature began devouring the remains, when suddenly the door above the ladder opened, revealing a tall, white, middle-aged man. The creature dropped Jerry’s remains, trembling with fear.

“Hey, Chunky Monkey,” the man said with a smile, “I’m the frosting on America’s cake, and tonight I’m willing to let you lick the bowl.”

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