Angelo’s been found out—lipstick smudged collars, suspicious underwear stains, and the lingering scent of other women’s perfume. His supposedly unsuspecting girlfriend, Jenny, calls her sisters, tells them the plan. They meet up. It’s almost time.
Alone now, I tread the shore to a tangled spot in the jungle and calm myself under a roof of wilted palm trees and wild weeds. To the west, The Cannibal Priestess and Cannibal Daughters sharpen tools for another hunt; I imagine their snarling mouths ripping into my flesh. The Priestess chants a litany of wavering verse that crescendos in a sustained falsetto squeal to the delight of her audience. I shiver through the echoing applause of twisted giggles and wild cheers. All night the Daughters hum praise to their Priestess like beautiful engines of insatiable death; bare bellies and murderous lust-songs gurgle through the jungle night.