Late that Halloween evening, after kicking a dozen pumpkins off my porch as their juices spewed high enough to ruin both my Heavenly Star bra and my Versace Heritage Print boxer shorts, I stepped into a splattering of pumpkin seeds and pulp in my Falke Merino and Silk knee socks.

And yes, don't freaking annoy me and ask about my fucking sexuality! I don't ask about yours, so leave me and my pronouns alone, because right now, right this damned minute, I have more important things to attend to: a new cadaver is chilling nicely in the basement.

I sold the blood to Segal's recycling and Amazon delivered it with special instructions: knock three times on the trailer door.

Segal had given me some story about how much better his meals were with fresh homemade gravy and since I make my meals from cadavers and not their blood, I leave the blood to other connoisseurs. My only taste sensation would be devouring those fruitcakes who live next door, whom I'd blanket with their roasted walnuts. Damn, my mouth is watering once again: those fruitcakes will make a glorious feast!

I don't know when I fell asleep, but the damned phone rang at 3:27 A.M. That's in the morning in both good Old Segal's and my time zone. . . the freaking morning for God's sake and I stumbled out of bed, tripping over Intrepid who meowed her way into the corner, sucking her limp front right paw as though she'd been run over by a sixteen-wheeler.

Have to rename her, rebrand her. . . perhaps just Trepid from now on!

I thought I heard a DONG

DING DONG!

DING DONG!

DING DING DONG!

Doggone it!

Wrestling mat on the floor, piles of pumpkin seeds and bodies everywhere cat screeching billowing about the meals gone awry as if ogling me from the past or the future but at least not the present. . . the present is far too difficult, my little pussy

I devour the present and it's gone before I can remember.

Yet,

Sometimes when I cry myself to sleep, I hear them beg. . .

Ogling me from the East Side of heaven-where the rich snobs live

To the very pits of hell where those who were even richer, cry in delicious torment.

Okay, heaven is imagined in my world, only hell is real.

I struggle, half blinded being awakened at this hour of the deepest night

Yet

Yet

Yet I swear I saw the full moon hanging above me waiting to crash down into my skull, while next door that damned dog, Wolfie, the Wolfhound, howled so freaking loud, it drowned out the prosaic sound of the chorus of cicadas, those non-stop chattering fucking critters, and yes, I say, that strictly as a function because that's all any insect could possibly think about after seventeen years living in a hole in the ground, isn't it?

The incessant noise of their lovemaking caused Trepid to slink into a corner amid her meows and paw pats, patting, patting, patting, God, so freakily loud, the rumbling in my stomach finally obliterates it because food is all I care about, all I savor, all I adore, and as I looked down at the still small suffering tasty Trepid, the drool oozed out of my lips more than my tongue could capture-so I sang!

I always sang when I was fucking awakened before dawn,

Singing that old Roy Roger's tune and changed the word doggie:

"Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little Trepid. it's your misfortune and none of my own

Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little Trepid, you know my stomach will soon be your home."

When I finished my lungs were parched and my stomach growled and Trepid ran like hell

Six senses those cats have. . . and six lives and yet, all I want is one. Just one cat life!

The others will grow back, won't they?

I said WON'T THEY?

Can they, will they, shall they?

Then back to that same distraction

Sung over and over and over and over again

Fierce flying mating cicadas.

Get it on, you fucking bugs! GET IT ON!

Hop on that buggy closest to you and get the fuck on!

Then I walked blindly into the dank darkness of the freezer, patting my hand against the sticky walls stumbling over bodies merely to grab a snack of a few fingers and-damnation! the phone keeps ringing:

keeps ringing

ringing

ringingggg

keeps the fuck fucking ringing!

Until it stops.

Thank God!

And I waddle deeper and deeper into the walk-in freezer, stumbling over thighs and femurs searching for a thumb, although the toes are meatier and tastier but they're way down the other end, deep under Susan.

Susan Hopewell!

HOPE WELL!

Makes you laugh doesn't it?

One needs to laugh

even if blood oozes out of your lips when you bite your tongue in anticipation

One needs to laugh

Must laugh

Is rampantly laughing.

I slam the freezer door so loudly Ronald Joseph Ingrasin, the fairy in the attached townhouse, bangs his "thing" on the wall. I've never figured what his "thing" is, but it's hard and firm and when I finally get to it, I'll put it in my mouth for a long sexy throaty suck and not in the pot with the hungry lobsters.

That way I shall enjoy it

one way or the other

it's mine!

A few moments later I make it back to my bedroom.

I check my phone:

there is a message

A loud nasty message:

"Where the fuck are you? The blood you gave me dried up. I told you I needed fresh blood. I'm cancelling the check. GOD DAMN SON OF A BITCH!"

The thunderous clunk on the other end didn't bother me as much as that Mr. Segal thought I was a dog-a dog for God's sakes. Wouldn't have one. . .always tastes muddy. Vile, disgusting things: dogs!

Well, serves Segal right!

I already cashed his check so let's see how fast he gets his.

I must have nodded off again-too much protein, I reckon or too much fat.

I woke up naked, with my cock hard, painfully swollen and rock hard. . . as always.

The lobsters somehow had meandered out of the pot and I swear one of them had a big toe in its claws.

It was noon, a reasonable hour, and I wondered where Intrepid, AKA newly named "Trepid", had gotten her pussy self off to and I got distracted, me for God's sakes: distracted. Ha! That's a hoot, isn't it?

I crawled out of bed but stepped on that damned phone while trundling off to the john-not the edible john-he was delicious-just this plane ceramic john.

Made it

just in time

thank God!

There are still some pleasures left to all of us, I reckon and then I thought, what the hell, it's lunch time-time to drag Tommy Mathias and Gladys Witherspoon out of the freezer and see how their sorry asses taste.

Both asses were, in fact, and pretty damned sorry!

Gladys' was tight and boney, and I tossed it in the stewpot for the rest of the lobsters to marinate, but Tommy's ass was just what I had expected:

aged

mature

aromatic. . .

He had bragged about being a new dad when I killed him so I thought of him and his kid as I sucked on his Popsicle, even though my lips turned blue and my tongue got stuck more often than not on that big thick frozen dick.

Feeling sorry for myself, so sorry I began to cry, first time I ever remember crying, sobbing actually, weeping like a schoolboy after a paddling and then I thought:

DOWNSTAIRS!

There's better human-meat in my other freezer!

I scurried down and flung that freezer door open-inside were nineteen cadavers-plump, ready to be aged in the tack room or garage - or even in my bedroom if I could drag one there.

I hoisted the first one up and over my shoulder as heavy a son of a bitch as I've ever lugged, but he'd provide enough calories to satisfy me soon enough and that other one wasn't stew meat for the lobsters to marinate-this rascal, however, is prime beef if ever I smelled it-the hell with aging! I'll start off with steak tartar and then roast up a thick porterhouse. . . then perhaps, a sirloin, a half dozen round steaks-and then a huge fat glorious rump roast. . .

Followed by ground beef and OMG ribs marinated for a week

what joy! what absolute joy!

My mouth watered so much I was barely able to break up the furniture in the living room and start a fire big enough to start roasting what's his name?

smells good

what in the hell was his name?

bet he'll taste even better roasted over a long slow hot fire

but he had a name

. . . didn't he?

Or did I forget?

Again?

Always again.

Names!

Names like chuck roast?

Or flank steak?

Or tenderloin!

NAH!

Now I remember: "You gotta match?" he asked

Yeah, yeah, you know I like fires and raw bubbling meat, but matches? O what the hell! I thought.

Just let me say this: that guy had a big ass has more meat than I can chow down in a month.

"What's your name?" he asked and he lit up his cigarette

as I lit up my appetite.

Then he looked at me

from face to feet

and I knew he hadn't had a man-

a real fucking man like me

in a long god damn time.

"Name's Charles Nelson Beaver, but those who know me well, just call me Chuck," I smiled and said "I live nearby. Come with me. I'll set your heart aflame-but what's your name, big boy, what's your?"

"Joe," he said

That's all he said.

Just Joe.

Plain tasting

sweet and hunky

savory-sweet sweat smelling

mouth-watering Joe.

During that walk to my house

to my garage

to my meat clever

he was still just Joe!

A man-meat about to become

Joe the "unjust!"

Joe just about to be dead.

Well "Just Joe" satisfied me that evening.

But now I hear sirens, multiple sirens-more Sirens than Odysseus heard when he sailed to Calypso's isle.

Now. . . Lights, flickering gloriously red, red, red, red and my hot lips watering for Joe's red meat

the meat,

the meat,

the meat!

Then. . .

The door burst open and then all I smelled was walking red meat

heading toward me, and

me without a knife or an axe to defend myself to chop them into ribs and shoulder roasts.

Then two more red meats,

then four

then a house full of red meats.

Cuffing my hands behind my back, one red meat pushed my torso forward so my ass

My ass, for God's sakes, was forced up

as though that walking red meat sensed my ass was a tasty morsel for him to munch.

Then the truck came.

Then-

no-

it can't be-

NO!

It's not fair-

my time isn't done-

not done-

but-

yes-

you're coming for me with your turned up noses, and bulges in your pants.

Stop! I screamed:

THIS IS MY GARAGE!

at dozens and dozens of man meats-

all with watering lips.

How? How did this happened?

This is my territory. . . Not yours! You have no rights here.

You can't do this to me!

Not now!

I'm the eater-the cooker-the roaster

not you!

Me!

Then I saw a hot assed man light a fire in the fire pit

smiling back at me as his rancid oozing nostrils dripped and dropped

and his flabby lips shrugged to make even one coherent statement-

not one, not one damned statement at all

just meaningless syllables: og, um, babaum, kaboom:

the fool!

I saw two man-meats layering week-old newspapers over a twenty-foot table

What? No table cloth?

I am a man not a crab to be eaten on yester-week's sports pages and Walmart sales brochures.

Serve me on China not on your paper plates.

Then I saw more man-meats setting the table with steins overfilled with beer.

My mouth watered now

couldn't stop watering.

Then another man-meat became the bearer of the ubiquitous paper plates.

What a cheap ass party this is!

K-Mart disposable paper plates!

Like I'd love to dispose all these rancid man meats hovering around me

Then out came the plastic knives and forks

and God knows what they'd use as napkins.

Do men ever even use napkins?

Then a bouncing blubbering Man Meat/Hog Face arrived with ketchup and Worcestershire sauce.

What the fuck? Ketchup and Worcestershire sauce on my body?

Have they no sense of decency?

Joseph Welch where are you now now that I need you?

"Have you sir, no sense of decency?"

Have you? Have You? WELL, HAVE YOU?

Then jars of store bought mustard and homemade mayonnaise!

Who the hell uses mayonnaise on my prime beef?

Sickos, that's what. . . just mother fucking sickos!

Then came the pickles, without giving me a sideways glance to admire my handsome body!

These goons had the cheap stuff: store brand koshers and dills, and a big glob of what looks like homemade relish. . . or it might have been freshly cut grass

as each man-meat grabbed his knife and fork and sat and ogled me.

They're not going anywhere.

The man meats are rooted now.

Their delicious plump fat asses lop over their second-hand metallic folding chairs.

Put on the Ritz, guys!

This is prime beef here!

PUT ON THE FUCKING RITZ!

It's me you're honoring with this fiesta! This moron fiesta!

yet

the more and more and more and more I watched

I assured myself-

Yes indeed, this meal is being planned by slovenly fools.

Then I see the skewer-long and thick and hot from the fire.

I feel it entering me as it forces its way deeper and deeper into my body

from my ass to my wide-open mouth.

Then two of them hoisted my skewered body-

hoisted I say by worthless man-meats.

And there was no ceremony

not even butter

should have been real butter

not that fake stuff

to anoint my body

but no

man-meats are not thinkers

and my body hung there

teetering

and tottering

wobbling

three feet above the flames.

just like home, I thought.

just like home,

a slow sweet agonizingly roast-

but at lease my victims were dead.

Nevertheless,

the flames were inviting,

more inviting than when I was the roaster not the roasted,

and my aroma was awesomely delicious

it made my mouth water in anticipation of the feast

as I saw my spit and my sweat, dripping into the fire

thinking

always thinking about how much better I would have tasted

with butter

it would have made my skin extra crispy

as I hear the men roaring in delight.

ogling me

salivating over me

I smell their sweat.

I feel their joy!

and for the first time in my life

I

feel

SATISFACTION!

The End


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