The Butcher of Choice Cuts

THE BUTUCHER IS OBSSESSED WITH HIS WORK! He loved cutting up meat and providing for the people. He didn’t mind the mess or stink that came with his work. He swore, at this point, that he was immune to it. Blood splattered aprons had become his comfort wear. He owned the most famous shop in town called Choice Cuts. People came from all over to pay him for his services.

The butcher was so good that he could cut up a chicken in such a way that each strip of meat was boneless without processing. He was pretty quick at it too! Every morning there was a line down the sidewalk outside his shop. He was always there hours before the doors would open, preparing what orders he already knew about, and trying to make choice cuts that would satisfy any walk-ins. He took so much pride in his work.

He washed his hands thoroughly before putting on his gloves and tying his apron around his waist. He heard the familiar ding of the door bell as his assistant came in for her shift. She would get everything ready in the front of the store. She would restock refrigerators and freezers of cuts that the butcher had been preparing all morning. He gripped his knife and made his first hammering slice through the thigh of the cow. Blood spray up onto his apron, that was already stained pink. It wasn’t easy to get the deeply saturated stains of blood on his white clothing after so many years.

His assistant wouldn’t come to the back. Truth be told, it made her kind of squeamish. And the butcher thought that was okay. His job wasn’t for everyone. If it was, he might not be the best. She would handle everything in the front. The butcher wasn’t the best with people. His deformed face scared them. When he was a kid the kids on the playground used to call him Butcher Face — ironic.

The butcher continued with his cuts. He smiled as he reminisced about the many exotic animals from all over the world that he had the pleasure of cutting up. He’d sliced antelope from the grasslands of Africa. An elusive tapir from South America. He’s even cut some seals only found in the coldest hardest places to reach in the Northern and Southern poles. He was so proud of his work. There wasn’t an animal that he wouldn’t cut! And he hoped the slice as many creatures as he could get his hands on — as long as it provided a meal for someone. He wasn’t interested in cutting animals that didn’t yield fine succulent meat.

He slammed his butcher knife through flesh and bone. The sound was part of Choice Cuts’ environment. “Morning Butch,” his assistant called. It thought it so cute that she called him “Butch.” He misinterpreted the pet name as playful flirting. But nothing could turn him away from the middle of a cut — not even a pretty girl!

Another slick of blade through meat. Then there was a soft knock, a rapping upon the wall that separated the front of Choice Cuts from the back, where the butcher did all of his work. He lifted his knife to make another slice, ignoring the interruption. Another knock. “Butch!?” His assistant called.

The butcher aborted his carefully aimed chop. The lack of slicing ambiance caused his assistant to continue, “There’s a client here that has something for you in the back.”

“Huh,” the butcher groaned. His voice was gravely from so many words left unspoken.

“He claims that you’ve never cut anything like this.” She continued.

The butcher was intrigued. “Okay,” he groaned and placed his knife down on the cutting table. He limped over towards the backdoor. He moved in an uneven gait, as if one leg was bigger than the other. He put a big meaty hand on the handle and pulled the door open. The man and a black bag came pouring into the butcher’s cutting room. This was his sanctum! His sanctuary!

His entire atmosphere disheveled, the butcher followed the man as he laid the black bag onto the cutting table. The butcher grumbled at the fact that the cow he’d been cutting into was now unsanitary and ruined!

“I have something for you, butcher!” The man said. “I promise you’ve never cut this before! I need it done quickly — and I’m sure you can be discrete.”

The butcher didn’t say much. This wasn’t his first time cutting up an endangered animal. He could be discrete. He just grumbled at the man as if to say his promise for discretion and for the man to continue. <Open the bag,> the butcher pleaded mentally.

The man continued, “I take it you’ll keep quiet. Not much of a talker are you?” He began unzipping the bag. “I’ve heard that — that you don’t say much.” The butcher was growing impatient as the man continued to jabber and unzip. He wished that the man could unzip as fast as he spoke. “I promise you we’ll eat it.” The man looked at the butcher with the devil in his eyes. What had this man brought him!?

A hand slipped out of the body bag! The butcher almost stepped back! He was hoping for some rare mountain cattle from the nearly inhabitable parts of the Himalayans or some thick snake from deep in the jungles. The last thing that he was expecting — was a hand! A human! The butcher had never cut a human.

“What did the man bring you Butch?” His assistant called, but he knew she was only half paying attention as he could hear her tending to a guest’s question.

The butcher just grunted in reply. The assistant was used to this. The butcher assumed that she could understand him, which is partly why she’d lasted so long at Choice Cuts. The butcher realized that the man was staring at him wonderingly. He’d finished unzipping the body from the bag, slipping the black material towards the floor. It swooshed.

“You’ll do it, right?”

There was a tiny war waging within the butcher. He never thought…

He nodded. The thrill of cutting something new was too engrossing! He couldn’t say no! He’d never cut a person before. Oh how it looked so much like his assistant. He had to call it an it. He was afraid that if he focused on the fact that it had a life, a family, possibly a boyfriend — he’d get wet feet.

The man looked very pleased. A lusty glaze fell over the man’s eyes, something similar to what the butcher had. Two men succumb to their own individual perversions, together — it was almost homosexual in some twisted way. The butcher couldn’t wait any longer! He carried the body to a clean cutting table and yanked a fresh blade from a magnet on the wall. He made his first slice across the clavicles — connecting them with a thin red line. He almost let an audible gasp of pleasure escape his lips.

“Right then,” the client said. “I should have that by this evening. Doesn’t appear it will take you long. I prefer the thighs on the bone, just so you know.” The man went to shake the butcher’s hand, but the butcher was too occupied — and there was already too much blood. “Name’s Jefferey. I’ll be back.”