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    | |      c   o   m   m   u   n   i   c   a   t   i   o   n   s     | |
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 ...presents...                Milk and Blood 
                                                        by Lady Carolin

           __//////\   -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-   /\\\\\\__
 Est. 1984   \\\\\\/  cDc paramedia: text #335-08/01/1997 \//////   Est. 1984

    __    _   _    __     _   _    __       _   _      __    _   _      __

     My lover moans as I brush up against her.  From behind, I caress her
flanks, feeling slowly, languorously all the way down to her ankles.  She
twitches as I touch her; she shudders in anticipation as I fit my body against
her rear.  My arms hold her in place, bracing both of us, as I push into her
from behind again, and again.  As I thrust I reach to feel and knead her
teats.  Her excitement is great; milk flows from her.  I long to be facing
her, to suckle at her as do young, but I can not bear to pull myself from her.
My beloved groans as I thrust again, again.

     As I begin to feel the first stirrings of pleasure, I see Them come into
the field.  They hold the Pain Sticks in their hands, and a rope.  My lover
bellows in terror.  I don't know if they have come for me, or for her, but I
am angered either way.  I disengage from Bessie, causing her to shriek in pain
from the loss of my engorged calfmaker.  I charge Them; hooves digging into
the ground; sweat glistening off my flanks.  They run about the field
frantically.  I give chase, snorting in my rage.

     They succeed in distracting me.  While I chase the first group of Them,
others sneak up to Bessie, surrounding her, roping her, pulling her with them.
They head over to the Shed of Disappearances with her, my precious.  I am
frightened by the Shed: my father, my mother, my brothers had all been taken
there, and never returned.

     They take Bessie from me.  They catch me and shock me, burn me.  The pain
is no worse than when They had fixed Their mark upon my thigh; the pain of
separation from Bessie is worse.  My anger grows, quickly, like wet grass.  I
pray to Our-Mother-Who-Is-The-Sky for help.  She blesses me.  I escape my
tormentors.  I charge towards the Shed, determined to follow my favorite into
the Great Disappearance.

     By the time I knock in the shed door with my great horns, They have
mutilated her.  My hooves slide in Bessie's blood, which pools on the ground.
I stare at her head, in one corner of the room; I look at her body, which is
in another.  Her brown eyes, which just two cud-times away had been shorn with
desire for me, are now glazed over, unfocused, staring at the top of the Shed.
As I stand here in shock, They are carving Her open, piece by piece, with
their shiny knives, their humming tools.

     My shock is overcome when I see them slice her belly open, tearing it
apart to reveal the Holy Place, the Calf-Nest.  I see my white Bull-Juice
dripping out of her gash.  Enraged, I charge Them, as I had never charged
before.  My right Great Horn skewers one of Them in his man-place; he screams
as he falls, then is silent.  I swing my massive head around; my left Great
Horn stabs into an abdomen, and the tormentor falls to the floor, collapsing
onto the body of my dead mate.

     The two of Them at the door scream and run for their Pain Sticks.  I am
faster, tossing them over my head and body into the wall of the Shed.  I stomp
on their bodies, dancing, trying to raise my torso in the air to walk like
Them.  I am too heavy.  I can't do it, and fall heavily onto Their broken
bodies.  I enjoy the sounds of their bones snapping, and fall on them again,
again.  My hide is covered in manblood, Bessie's blood, sweat, and milk that
has seeped from Bessie's dead udders.

     I crawl from the carnage into the pasture, and lay panting on the Grass.
To my horror, our son comes and lays next to me, mooing softly, inquiring
about his mother.  I can not tell him.  I am too weak, too confused.  I growl
at him to be quiet, and he nurses at the grass for an hour or so.  When I can
face him, I tell him his mother has moved on to greener pastures.  I forbid
him to ever go near the Shed.

     I left our son with a brood cow in the next field, determined to avenge
myself of this most awful tragedy.  I ran into their homes, not minding nor
noticing the clear Walls that I broke as I charged through, not minding the
cuts in my hide.  I found their young in their beds.  It was to fatten these
sickly young that my Bessie was killed; They took the milk out of our calves'
mouths to offer to these pale, small beings.  Goring the young, soft flesh was
easy, and peculiarly satisfying.  My horns slid through, and came out clean.
Their young bled in their beds silently.

     I learned to enjoy waiting, squeezing my huge body into the rooms of the
children until morning, watching the horror on Their faces as they saw their
young dead in their beds.  They saw me and yelled, running into their
hallways.  I tore their flimsy walls with my huge body, my sharp horns,
destroying their houses before I took their lives.  My hooves kicked their
pliant stomachs to shreds, popped Their hard heads open.  My horns gouged out
Their eyes.

     Terrible smells I found in most of Their houses, emanating from hard,
cold boxes.  It took me days to pry one open.  My sorrow when I found the
corpses of our kind was immense.

     I learned to use their roads, I learned to hide myself in their forests.
I learned to butt open their doors, break their windows, and climb their
flimsy stairs.  I learned a thousand ways to kill Them, to grievously injure
Their soft bodies.

     I ate of their lawns and gardens.  I drank of their pools, their buckets,
their irrigation ditches.  I killed, and ambled on.

    .-.                             _   _                             .-.
   /   \           .-.             ((___))             .-.           /   \
  /.ooM \         /   \       .-.  [ x x ]  .-.       /   \         /.ooM \
-/-------\-------/-----\-----/---\--\   /--/---\-----/-----\-------/-------\-
/lucky  13\     /       \   /     `-(' ')-'     \   /       \     /lucky  13\
           \   /         `-'         (U)         `-'         \   /
            `-'              the original e-zine              `-'    _
      Oooo                    eastside westside                     / )   __
 /)(\ (   \                       WORLDWIDE                        /  (  /  \
 \__/  )  /  Copyright (c) 1997 cDc communications and the author. \   ) \)(/
       (_/     CULT OF THE DEAD COW is a registered trademark of    oooO
          cDc communications, PO Box 53011, Lubbock, TX, 79453, USA.      _
  oooO        All rights reserved.  Edited by Grandmaster Ratte'.   __   ( \
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 \  (  \__/       Save yourself!  Go outside!  Do something!       \)(/ (   /
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