Chapter 1: The Beginning of Mark’s Suffering
The bus smelled of diesel and old vinyl, and the landscape outside the window had long since traded Boston’s brownstones for a blur of pines and red clay. Mark Abernathy pressed his forehead against the cool glass, his duffel bag of crisp polo shirts and philosophy textbooks feeling more ridiculous with every mile.
“Internship at a winery,” his father had said, clapping him on the shoulder with a force that felt like a threat. “Build some character. Get your hands dirty.”
The bus wheezed to a halt at a crossroads marked by a faded sign for Jericho Creek. There was no station, just a dirt pull-off. Mark stepped down, the duffel thumping against his legs. The bus doors hissed shut and the vehicle rumbled away, leaving him in a silence so profound it rang in his ears.
A beat-up truck, paint bleached to the color of bone, idled nearby. A man leaned against it, gaunt as a fence post, chewing on a toothpick. His eyes were the pale, washed-out blue of a winter sky.
“You Abernathy’s boy?”
“Yes, sir. Mark.”
“Jeb.” The man didn’t offer a hand. He just pushed off the truck and nodded toward the bed. “Toss your bag in back.”
The ride was a teeth-rattling journey down progressively worse roads, dust pluming behind them. They turned onto a private track, overgrown, the truck lurching through deep ruts. The air changed. It grew damp, heavy with a sweet, rotten smell underpinned by something sharp and chemical. It was nothing like the clean, oak-barrel scent Mark had associated with the word “winery.”
The farm—if you could call it that—emerged from the haze like a vision of industrial decay. Rusted tin roofs sagged over wooden frames blackened by constant moisture. Makeshift structures of tarp and timber huddled between thick pines. Copper tubing glinted dully, snaking from barrels into other barrels, all of it enveloped in a low-hanging steam that carried that same cloying, acidic odor. Men moved through the mist, figures in worn clothes, their movements slow, deliberate. They looked up as the truck passed, their faces hollowed, their eyes lingering on Mark with a blank curiosity that made his skin prickle.
Jeb killed the engine. The quiet was broken by the constant, low drip of liquid and a faint, fiery hiss from somewhere deep in the complex.
“Home sweet home,” Jeb said, his voice flat. “Come on. Tour’s short.”
He led Mark past a roaring furnace stoked under a vast copper kettle. The heat was immense. A man, shirtless and sheened with sweat and old scars, stirred the bubbling contents with a paddle as long as he was tall.
“That’s the mash,” Jeb said. “Where it starts. You’ll learn.”
Further in, the structures grew more enclosed. The smell intensified, becoming almost unbearable—a mixture of overripe fruit, yeast, and a sour, bodily funk. In a dark, low-ceilinged shed, men sat on wooden benches along the walls, connected to glass jugs by lengths of clear tubing. Their expressions were vacant, blissful. One looked up and gave Mark a slow, yellow smile.
“The tasters,” Jeb explained. “Quality control. Human palate’s still the best instrument. They filter the impurities through the gut, give it nuance. That there’s our mid-range. Good stuff.”
Mark’s stomach turned. This wasn’t wine. This was something else entirely.
The tour ended at a smaller, isolated barn. It was quieter here, the air cooler, but the chemical smell was strongest, laced with an astringent, medicinal note. In the center of the space, suspended from a heavy beam, was a contraption of polished wood and leather straps. It looked like a medieval torture device, or a piece of extreme performance art.
“This,” Jeb said, patting one of the wooden arms, “is where we make the good shit. The reserve. The single-barrel, if you catch my meaning.”
Two other men emerged from the shadows. They had the same gaunt, patient look as the others.
“What is this?” Mark asked, his voice sounding too high, too young in the thick air.
“Your internship, boy.” Jeb finally looked at him, and his pale eyes weren’t unkind, just utterly matter-of-fact. “Your daddy paid a premium. Wanted you to learn the business from the ground up. This is the ground. This is where the most valuable product comes from.”
Mark took a step back, but the two men were behind him now. Their hands were not rough, but their grip was immovable.
“The human body,” Jeb continued, as if giving a lecture, “is a marvel. The digestive tract, in particular. The finest filtration system on God’s green earth. The mash, once consumed and… processed… undergoes a transformation. The sugars, the impurities, they’re stripped away by the gut. What’s left, after a careful distillation inside the individual, is a spirit of unparalleled smoothness. A purity you can’t get from copper alone.”
“You’re joking,” Mark whispered, struggling now, panic a live wire in his chest. His arms were wrenched forward, fitted into the wooden sleeves of the harness. The wood was smooth, worn by use. A strap cinched tight above each elbow. Another man knelt, forcing his ankles into the lower braces.
“I don’t joke about product,” Jeb said. He picked up a ceramic jug from a nearby table. “First we will prep your anus, insert the fruit, then the honey. Then one of my men will add his seed. I’ll place a cork down there to get it all in, and we will hang you up outside. Once you are done, we will know from your enlarged breasts, where you will dispense the product.”
The other men would being fingering Mark’s ass, while Jeb would approach with the fruit, giving him little time to accept what was happening.
The other men were already moving, their hands impersonal and efficient. One gripped Mark’s shoulder, holding him bent over the harness frame. The rough wood grain bit into his cheek. He heard the rustle of clothing, the snap of a rubber glove.
“Wait—no, you can’t—” The protest was choked off as a cold, greasy substance was smeared over him. He jerked violently, but the hands held him fast.
“Just relax,” a voice muttered behind him, devoid of malice or care. It was a workman’s tone. “Fightin’ just makes it worse.”
A sharp, intrusive pressure followed. Mark cried out, a short, animal sound of shock. This wasn’t happening. This was a dream, a bad trip, something. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the reality of the barn, the smell of mash and sweat and pine tar, was overwhelming.
“Good,” Jeb said. He came into view, holding a wooden bowl. In it was a pulpy, mashed substance that smelled overwhelmingly of fermented peach and molasses. “Now for the base. This here’s the soul of the batch.”
The violation was constant, a humiliating, stretching fullness. Mark panted, tears of shame and panic hot in his eyes. “Stop. Please. My father—he didn’t know—he wouldn’t—”
“Your father paid for the premium internship,” Jeb repeated, his voice a low monotone. He scooped a handful of the fruit mash. “He knew. Maybe not the particulars, but he knew it’d forge you. Now hush.”
Before Mark could form another plea, a thick, cold glob of the mash was pressed into him, followed by another. The sensation of being packed, filled, was grotesque. He could feel the coolness of it, the gritty texture of the fruit. A slick, golden honey was drizzled over it, adding to the impossible pressure.
“It’s too much,” Mark gasped, his body trembling uncontrollably. “It won’t fit. It can’t.”
“It will,” Jeb said, working methodically. “Body accommodates. You’ll see.”
The fullness became a burning, stretching ache. Mark’s mind screamed, disassociating, trying to flee the prison of his own flesh. He was just a vessel here. That’s all any of them were.
Jeb stepped back, wiping his hands on a rag. He gave a nod to the man behind Mark.
A new presence shifted closer. Mark heard a buckle, the rustle of denim. Understanding crashed over him a second before the new violation began.
“No—Jeb! Jeb, talk to him! Make him stop!” Mark’s voice cracked, raw with terror. He strained against the harness, but the wooden frame held him utterly exposed, utterly powerless.
Jeb moved to stand in front of him, placing his hands firmly on Mark’s shoulders, pinning him in place against the frame. His pale eyes looked down into Mark’s, not with cruelty, but with a dreadful, placid certainty.
“It’s part of the process, boy. The yeast needs activation. It’s biology.”
The man behind him pushed in.
A white-hot lance of pain tore through Mark. He screamed. It was a sound that ripped from a place deeper than his lungs.
“Listen to me!” Mark sobbed, trying to focus on Jeb’s face, his only anchor in the shattering world. “This isn’t—this isn’t making anything! This is just… it’s just wrong! It’s a crime!”
Jeb held his gaze, his grip steadying. “It’s alchemy,” he corrected softly, as if explaining to a child. “Transformation. Pain is part of it. The best stuff always comes from a struggle.”
The rhythm behind Mark was mechanical, a brutal piston motion that shook the entire harness. Each movement forced the packed fruit and honey deeper, a sickening internal collision. He retched, but his stomach was empty.
“Please,” Mark whimpered, his reasoning dissolving into pure, primal begging. “I’ll do anything else. I’ll stir the mash. I’ll… I’ll taste it. Just make him stop.”
“Almost done,” Jeb said, his thumbs pressing into Mark’s collarbones. “Breathe. It’ll be over soon.”
The final moments were a blur of agony and degrading completion. The man behind him grunted, a deep, satisfied sound, and then the pressure withdrew, leaving a searing, empty burn. Mark hung from the harness, utterly spent, trembling in aftershocks. Tears and slick sweat mingled on the wood beneath his face.
Jeb moved away, then returned. Mark felt something else, solid and blunt, being pressed against him. A cork. It was forced in, sealing the horrific mixture inside him.
“There,” Jeb said, his voice almost gentle. “The barrel is set. Now we hang you up and let nature work. You’ll swell. You’ll feel a pressure in your chest, in your glands. That’s how we know it’s working. When you’re full, and tender, then we’ll tap you. That’ll be your first real lesson.”
The men undid the straps. Mark’s legs wouldn’t hold him. They caught him under his arms, his body a dead weight, and began to drag him toward the barn door, toward the fading light and the waiting trees.