In the Belly of the She-Beast:  Part One
By Zuiderzee (zuiderzee@yahoo.com)
Man-eating African Giantess tale-recounted by one who thinks he's gotten away.

  (formerly entitled: Offerings)

   giant, humor, interr, rough, magic, viol, VORE






     From the lost diary of Dr. Auguste VanZeeland.

     Oostende, October 25th, 1860


     Big women!  I loved big women.  And Africa.  And science.  In that exact order.

     My account is factual; though true, it is not to be wholeheartedly believed
by civilized man in this century, but as God is my judge, I am no liar.  The relating
of scientific details which are not accurate is sinful-as bad for mankind as gluttony-
it is my solemn wish in these pages to inform my colleagues that the mouth can be a
truly DREADFUL organ and those who owe themselves to be wise can lead by
example to others that what goes through our lips, either inwards or outwards must 
be of the purest possible nature.
     What happened to me in Africa is absolute fact and attested by witnesses.  But the
astonishing tale which is the MEAT of the following entries will doubtless be deemed
by both the scientific and religious authorities to be both OFFENSIVE and RIDICULOUS.
     No matter.
     As we, the enlightened people of  the European Continent seek to illuminate that
much darker region to the South, we will certainly encounter mysteries and horrors
to equal or surpass the NIGHTMARISH account in this journal. Neither God nor all
the distinguished men of science could have prepared me for what I was to encounter
in darkest Africa.


     I sat in the customs office at Oostende, half-engrossed in the skillfully-rendered
image of a weird frog-like animal in a jar-a creature that could, according to 
eyewitnesses-eat four times its own mass in a single swallow.  I had to journey to
the African Coast, to Angola, specifically, to verify the existence of this freak and
perhaps put some of the upset of losing my hefty wife behind me.  I marvelled that
such a creature could even exist, but as I found out later, this freak was not the only
thing possessed of the power to swallow things of great size.  I was at that particular
moment, learning more and more about the reputed power of the so-called "weaker-
sex" and this helped me later when the topic of the unappeasable giantess entered
my notes.

     My name is Auguste VanZeeland, formerly a practicing physician, but now
heavily into research and my own peculiar hobbies, particularly food, eating and
digestion throughout the animal kingdom and even some carnivorous plant species
the existence of which I'd like to verify to my countrymen here in Belgium.

     I sold my large house in Brugge, visited Antwerp for a time and Brussels and
then made the long trip to Paris, hoping that French decadence would lighten my
spirits, but more than anything, it was the thrill of travel which did me the most
good and the sights and sounds of Gallic sexual frivolity didn't warrant the long
trip.  I continued to the coast and worked my way up to Oostende, fascinated by
the sight of ships and the outlandish citizenry gathered in the port towns.  If ever
there was a time to go on an adventure, this was certainly it.  And it had to be
Africa, although there was the constant buzz of journeying  to the New World.
I couldn't be dissuaded from my original travel plans.  American oddity would
soon stampede its way into my life once I had arranged passage on the AQUARIUS,
a steamship bound to the Boer-peppered Cape.

     The hall was cool, almost cold, but what was going on made it seem cramped
and sweltering; I had my head down, making it appear that I was still studying
the picture of the freakish swallowing mutation in the open book, but I was really
watching the big woman who was ahead of me, sorting out the formalities of
travel.

     Willem Jachem Jansz was polite; he spoke 10 languages fluently, could read and
write 16 and was an infrequent but honored guest at museums and at the royal court.
But communicating with the forceful, excitable woman from "Kain-Tah-Kee" was
a task beyond his skills.  His uniform, clean and pressed at dawn now looked rumpled
and sweaty as though the poor man had just fallen down a long flight of steps and had
been forced to walk back up dazed and pained in a fate fit for the most evil of ancient
Greek despots in Hades.
     His glasses were flecked with spittle as the woman, a strapping specimen of likely
six feet, six inches, leaned over his desk and prattled back in a strange version of
English I'd never heard before.
     Her name, which I overheard, was Miss Abigail Chalmers (she had to repeat this
name as often as she could, it seemed) and she did most of her talking with her
fist.  She was also given to loud foot-stamps and gusts of frustration.  She went
about with an utter contempt of all things English, particularly their language, and
I observed her to repeatedly scratch between her legs as though wearing burlap
undergarments.  Whenever she did this, a silent dark man at her side would look
at the floor.
     Of course, this was an American.
     "So..."  Customs Officer Jansz removed his glasses again and wiped them clean
of her spray of saliva,  "Miss Chalmers...you're not.../British/, then?"
     "HEH!" The tall, but muscular New Worlder raised her arms in display that
unnerved the studious man who cowered in her not-inconsiderable shadow. "Ain't
friggin' John-Bull English THEN, ain't NOW, N'ain't nary time in the FUTURE-
HEREAFTER, neether!  So there, timber-shoes!"
     WHAM!     
      She brought her fist down on the dense wood of the desk, making
inkwells jump and lamps shiver with the impact.
     "Jest what does N'American hafter do to get some ree-spect in this heathen
kingdom?"  
     The big woman fumbled with her luggage a bit, muttering something about,
"clog-footed idgits" and showed the officer a new batch of papers, all stained
with deep, brown spots.  "Aww! Consarn crumbs o'cornbread, here'tis!"
     "If these will help simplify your-" Jansz began, but stopped.
     She chose that dramatic moment to spew her cheekful of tobacco juice into a
brass spittoon carried dutifully by the raggedy Negro who hovered at her elbow.
     "Not British...an American."  Jansz made a note in his book while he reviewed
various papers required for travel.  I stood a ways back, admiring the spectacle
put on by this maid of the American hinterlands.  He turned to the Negro.
     "And you, sir?  Your name, please?"
     WHUMP-WHUMP!
     Not quite so brutally this time, the brown-haired woman brought both palms 
down on the desk, making sure Jansz looked her right in the eyes.
     "He don't talk."  The Amazonian American said flatly.  "Don't read, ner write,
neether.  I taught him to make his mark in such 'cayshions...draweth nigh unter
yon scribe, Mephibosheth and maketh thy mark wherethupon he sheweth ye."
     The Negro approached timidly, set his spittoon upon the fine wood of the
desk, bent and made some sort of simple mark in the huge, open book with a pen.
Then he took up the spit-filled contained and returned to the woman's side.  He
could have been of any age from 30 to 60; smooth skin and white hair threw my
physician's perceptions a bit.
     There was more rankling and more gusting dialog from her about "Aff-ricky"
and "Neega-roses, Ell-fints, Lie-ins, and Setch-like"
     Jansz was busy writing and tried to explain to her that certain books and papers
she produced were not necessary.  "I don't need to see that," he would say, only
to have her counter with: "Well, timber-shoes, you's a seein' it anyway, ain'tcha?!"
     After a long while, this battle was over and the tall woman and the quiet dark
man left the hall-her in pounding strides and him scooting along behind with 
small, silent pads of his bare, cracked feet.
     "All right, Fatty, it's your turn, ain't it?"  She remarked as she swept past me
in a rush of wind and a perfume of spent gunpowder and tobacco juice.   "Great
gobs of goose-grease what a land of persnickety furriners this is!"



                     TO BE CONTINUED