Posted by Menagerie on August 02, 2005 at 22:25:55:
SPECIAL
“Yes, Mrs. Levinson,” the broad-faced, impassive man was saying into the phone. “I can get you fixed up, sure thing. How many pounds? I’ll do it this afternoon. No, absolutely fresh. I just got a shipment in this morning. Right, after six. See you then. Bye!” He firmly slammed the phone into the cradle on the wall, turned to the girl on the floor. “Old crone,” he remarked. “Twenty pounds of sausage. I don’t know where she puts it all.”
Lynn was naked, on her side, lying in the sawdust on the floor. Tears coursed from her eyes; she’d been hogtied, wrists tightly bound behind her and looped to her ankles. She’d managed to roll over onto her side. “Am I—?” she whispered.
“Naw, naw,” said the man. He had a face like a big, round slab of bologna, features set deep into the meat. His cheeks were full and red; he wore a jaunty straw hat, with the legend, HYMIE’S FRESH MEATS. His apron had faint, translucent orange stains from past days, but it was starched and fresh. He never smiled, but always seemed almost ready to. More of an earnestness, like he’d seen it all before, and was not unwilling to tell you about it.
Lynn averted her eyes, then looked again around the shop. It looked like an ordinary butcher shop, with hand lettered signs in the window. Lynn could see the signs, the lettering backwards and faint through the white, shiny paper. BREASTS $5.99, said one. Another, WHOLE BONED LOIN, SPECIAL THIS WEEK. A tinkling bell signaled the arrival of each customer; it had rung not often, but not infrequently, busy people bustling in and out. The man behind the counter greeted them by name, plaintively asked what he could do for them, complimented them on their choices, reached under the counter for their selections.
And drew them out. Rounded breasts, the nipples standing out dark red against white, bleached skin. Racks of human ribs, the delicate curve with a thin layer of red meat and white fat laced throughout. An upper thigh and buttock, the meat pink around ivory femur, the plump asscheek jauntily high as the butcher carefully wrapped the joint in plastic, then waxed paper. “Very lean,” he assured his customer as she scratched out the check. “She was on the trail, all muscle. You should have seen her. I just cut her up this morning.”
Lynn had gone out on the trail to sun herself; she wore an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weenie bikini, hot pink and barely held on by straps. A high place, nice and secluded, and she put on the shades and dozed. Next thing she knew, the bikini, the shades, and the secluded place were gone, and she was tied up like a chicken and bouncing around in the back of a van. A hard jolt had awakened her; her mood went from drowsy, to startled, to panicked, to frightened out of her wits. The scream was interrupted by the gag. It was only then that Lynn had realized she wasn’t alone.
The other girl was much bigger than her, and had really toney muscles, like she played volleyball or something. Lynn’s face was nearly into the crack of the girl’s ass, and she had glutes to die for. “Mmph?” asked Lynn, and the other girl answered, a deeper, “Mgwth.” That’s how they chatted the rest of the trip; Lynn squirmed closer, her belly and breasts against the girl’s back, her face rubbing against those mighty thighs. That was something, she thought, and they took solace in touching until the van screeched to a halt.
The first girl was unloaded by two men in overalls. Lynn saw she had sandy, shorter hair, shining grey eyes over the gag, flashing in defiance. She squirmed frantically. “Wow, a big ‘un!” said one as they wrestled her between them, and hauled her away. The van door was partially ajar; Lynn could see an alley behind her, gravel and rusty trash barrels against brick buildings, a cascade of rear entrances. She wondered about rolling out of the back of the van, maybe finding a sharp stone to cut her bonds. Yeah, just like James Bond, or something; she managed to move a few inches, then gave up, and waited, breathing hard, heart pounding.
They came for her, eventually. She didn’t fight, and the two men seemed pretty businesslike. Lynn was naked, had been tied up with another naked girl, and figured rape was next, but it wasn’t. She was simply hauled through a door marked, DELIVERIES, and dumped on the floor in a dark room that smelled of stink and sawdust. Something dangled above her; she couldn’t make it out. It slowly turned, then stopped, then turned the other way…someone came in and a light blazed, and Lynn sucked in so hard the gag nearly filled her esophagus.
It was the other girl. What was left of her. No head; no bowels. No forearms or lower legs. The gutted carcass was gently rotating back and forth, knobbed bone ends emerging from above her knees and upper arms. Lynn could see into her belly, see the back ribs on the rear abdominal wall, the spine with spongy, pink flesh on either side. Her vulva was completely gone, as well, just a neat, elliptical hole between her legs. The thighs were magnificent, thick and sturdy as Lynn had remembered.
The other girl’s tits—not very big, Lynn’s screaming brain noted, the hysteria giving way briefly to competition—hung flat on her chest. A bit of neck bone jutted from the gaping hole between her shoulders. Lynn tasted puke, washed it back and forth a couple times, and made a high pitched sound like a very insistent dentist’s drill.
“You’re up front.” It was one of the overalled men, and he lifted her over his shoulder and carried her past the half a woman, into a brightly-lit room. This, Lynn thought wildly, is where the deed was done. The wood shavings on the floor were blotched red directly under a grisly meat hook, which still bore shreds of flesh. A table had scattered saws and knives; a steel pan under a grinder was filled with pink, amorphous meat—hamburgirl, Lynn realized. And on its side, atop the grisly stuff filling a wooden basket labeled “Refuse”…was her head, the grey eyes still staring wide, a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth to her chin.
Lynn went from stunned to shrieking, howling into the gag, flopping like a fish against the delivery man. He paid her no mind, just cleared away some tools and propped her up on that table, between an evil-looking flenser and a heavy-duty riptooth job. And there she continued to eep into the gag, fighting the hogtie, finally panting for breath again and feeling like all her blood was behind her eyes and she was going to drown in it…
“Well, hello there!” Big, broad, a wide doughy face, wearing that hat and that apron, looking her over, curiously. “You did good, fellas!” he called out over his shoulder, but then shook his head as he placed his hands on Lynn. They were callused, slick, and very strong, as Lynn discovered when he pinched a bit of her between them. “Well, I’ll say this,” he said, “you’ll come apart real easy. Lots of seam fat. Now, her—” a thumb jerked in the direction of the moist pile of pink goo in the steel pail—“I needed sharp knives for her. Really put together, she must have spent a lot of time on that trail.”
There was just something strangely soothing about the patter, so matter-of-fact, so open. Even as the man was talking about how he would cut up Lynn, how he had cut up the other girl; even as his fingers brutally gouged at her body like the halves of a vise…his good-natured garrulousness finally calmed her down. Lynn just kind of melted, and sobbed, softly, as he continued. “I’ll need to trim away that belly,” he said, a palm pressing the spongy flesh. “Now, here—do you kids all shave anymore?,” and the big, hard finger entered her. “I need a few of these on the display.”
He went on for some time, an expert, thinking about loud about how he would handle—Lynn retched into the gag—fresh meat. He told her that her legs and arms and lower back would be plenty tender, that her butt was probably good for grinding, that her tits were OK—“They like ‘em a medium size; easier to stuff.”
Then, to Lynn’s surprise, he pulled the gag out of her mouth. “I need to get you out front,” he said. “I got customers who like to see them on the hoof,” and he lifted Lynn as easily as if she was a scarecrow, and hauled her out of the horrid room and out to the front of the shop.
It wasn’t much easier to take there. In the silver reflector on top of the meat case, Lynn could see the rows of tits and asscheeks and cunts and legs and shoulders. Down near the end, dark brown or violet—kidneys and livers, she thought, lightheadedly. “The trail hasn’t been very good lately,” the man remarked. “Now, the bars, they been pretty good. Lots of you kids hang out there at all hours. The pickings been pretty good there, for sure.”
He turned away; there was a woman’s leg—no, two legs—lying on the counter. Lynn watched, swallowing hard and every few seconds to keep from screaming or vomiting, as the man picked up a cleaver, tested the edge with a thumb, and then—Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The bone had been removed, she thought, dizzily. Just a long hunk—two long hunks—of human meat. Thunk. Thunk. The man piled the two-inch-thick steaks unevenly on a rectangular metal tray, lined each layer with green paper, and finally stuck a sign that was affixed to two skewer-like pins into the slab of thigh on the top. FRESH HAM STEAK, it said. $6.99.
“That fresh ham goes over real good,” he commented to Lynn, as he slid the tray into his case. “She was hitchhiking up in the Valley. No muscle tone, but they sure like that ham meat. They sure do.”
It was then that the tinkly bell went off, and a middle-aged woman in a housecoat walked into the shop, and Lynn started screaming please help me, and the man and the woman pretended Lynn wasn’t even there, although they did raise their voices a little. The woman left with a half dozen thick human loin chops, for which she had paid $23.59. Lynn was hoarse, and her pleas faded as the door slammed shut; she stopped, and wept again.
“I wish they were all like that,” remarked the man. “Real big loin eye, not much fat at all. That girl was all meat. Betcha she was a dancer. Calves had muscles like this.” He cupped his hands as if gripping a woman’s leg, pulled them apart. “If they were all like that,” he said, “this job would be easy.” He paused, wiped his brow with a backhand, then turned to the other boneless leg. Lynn was staring at his hat, and she finally dared to speak. Actually, she wasn’t very daring; the man wasn’t threatening, not at all. “Are you…” she whispered—Going to kill me? No, that would be stupid. Cannibals? Stupid, too. “Are you…Hymie?”
The man uttered a rare, mirthless chuckle. “Naw, naw,” he said, something he said a lot, Lynn would discover. “Hymie started this place 30—no, 35 years ago. I bought him out; he’s out on the Coast with his grandkids. Still comes in here once in a while; I fix him up some real good chops. ‘Scuse me.” The bell had chimed again.
Thirty-five years? Lynn watched, silently, wide-eyed, as the lady pointed with bony fingers to the loops of sausage hanging behind the counter. “Oh, sure, you betcha, just ground ‘em yesterday,” said the man. The woman was dour and sour. “You always tell me that, Marty,” she said. “Naw, naw, Mrs. Baxter,” said Marty. “You know our policy, money back if not completely satisfied. But you gotta bring the product back, too. If it’s not fresh, bring it back.” Twenty-five fifty, kaching! The register rang up the sausage stuffed with the ground flesh of women. Mrs. Baxter’s nose was in the air as she strode away, and Marty shook his head, sadly.
“Complaints,” he said. “I get complaints. Look—you,” to Lynn, “you know the meat is fresh, doncha?” She nodded, silently. “I just brought you and your friend in this morning.” Not my friend, Lynn said in a very small voice. “Well, heck,” he said. “Same shipment, I figure you got to know each other in the van, right?” Lynn thought about the close contact, the feel of the smooth flesh of the muscular girl in the van, the mutilated carcass hanging from a hook in another room, and she started to cry again.
“Aw, gee,” said Marty. “Just trying to run a business here. People have been coming to Hymie’s, and their moms before them, since even before they built up the Valley. Then they put the college campus there and then came all that computer chip stuff, and there was all of a sudden lots of people here. Our clientele, they haven’t changed much over the years, but I’ve been able to keep them in meat, I sure have. ‘Scuse me.”
It wasn’t the bell over the door, but a buzzer, and the man left and went to the back. Lynn lay on the floor—he just left me here? Well, they just left me in the van, too. She felt paralyzed, tried to raise herself on an elbow, and fell over facefirst into the sawdust behind the counter.
Lynn rolled over onto her back, and realized that she could see into the room with the table and the grinder. Marty was there with one of the overalled men; they were lifting, onto the hook, another young woman. Tall, lean, short, dark hair, totally naked, bound hand and foot, struggling mightily as the hook pierced her under the shoulder blade and emerged through the front. She kept kicking and twisting, right up until Marty cut her throat with the flensing knife. The fish-flopping ended, and the eviscerating began, as the butcher slid the knife into the girl’s belly; Lynn quickly rolled back over and buried her face in the sawdust, drool spilling from her mouth.
Not too much later, Marty came bustling back and flipped her over with a heavy, brown, fat-soled shoe. “Not bad,” he said. “I like how you kids exercise, now. Gets you really built up. She’s got wunnerful legs, she does. And a flat belly. I need to get her into the counter; I’m running out of loin. Serves me right, put it on special, and they’ll squawk if I’m out.”
“Does that mean—” you’re not going to kill me? Shut up, shut up. Marty looked her over, and she could make out a frown through all that face. “I brought you out here,” he said, ‘because, dang it, they don’t believe me when I say fresh. When I say fresh, I mean fresh. If they ask for something from you, I will deliver. I’m not going to lose customers.”
Lynn sucked in her breath, and the rest of the afternoon, she barely breathed at all; lying nude behind a counter, on display for housewives seeking woman meat, Lynn did her damnedest to stay inconspicuous. She tried hard not to think; her vision has turned red and blurry. Each time a shopper trundled in, she closed her eyes and waited, waited for the finger to point, “I’d like that…” She could imagine Marty’s monotonous patter, the droning voice echoing through her head: “Oh, sure, Mrs.______! Good breasts, there. You just watch, I’ll cut them for you right now.” And back she’d go to the room with the head and the ground-up girl meat and the knives and the saw, and he’d pick up the knife—probably still complaining all the way, complaining about how her meat wasn’t so good and his customers weren’t fair and he’s trying to make a living—and Lynn’s life would go to neon red, and then black.
It was one, right after the other, right after the other. The stacks of meat in the counter, ruby red with yellow circles and slats of bone, the pink skin holding it all in, were gradually vanishing. A woman came in seeking a roast for a picnic, and Marty hustled out of the room, returned five minutes later with what Lynn realized was a hindquarter from the other girl in the van. He’d cut her halfway around the lower belly; she sure had a magnificent ass, Lynn thought, or at least this half of it. “Real lean,” he boasted, and the woman smiled and teased. “You always tell me that, Marty,” she scolded. “I’ll come in tomorrow, and you’ll be selling me chops from that one.”
Opening her eyes, Lynn saw the gesture and realized she was that one. For a moment, she was thankful she had quit the aerobics class. But it was getting late, and the trickle of customers finally slowed and then stopped. At five to six Marty said, “I guess we’re done for the day,” strode to the entrance as if shouldering a heavy tide, and flipped the sign. The side facing them had read, “CLOSED,” now it read, “OPEN.” But to the rest of the world, this community which had been feasting on human meat for 35 years, closed was what it was. And now, Lynn dared to hope, Marty will go home.
No such luck. “As soon as I’m done getting ready for tomorrow,” he said, “I can go home and kick back with a bratwurst and a beer,” and Lynn was again hoisted to the room behind them. Half of the slim girl, now headless, still hung from the hook, the left half; Lynn saw the empty abdominal cavity, the split pelvic bone, and then Marty plopped her on the table. He frowned as he examined the knives, and Lynn started crying again.
“You know,” he said, thoughtfully, “I need some whole loins. And that fresh ham goes over real good. People like that fresh ham. They sure do."
Lynn twisted on the table; her muscles ached from the tight hogtie. “You’re really not too bad,” he observed. “I don’t think they’ll gripe too much. Plenty of meat, and I’ll just trim away some of the fat. Use it in the grind; your friend was a little too lean.” Not my friend, Lynn’s face boiling tears, her soft fanny swishing this way and that, her body bucking under that big beefy hand on her shoulder, and the butcher had finally picked out a knife. Neon red, then black.
Marty had done this for a very long time, and Lynn, sure enough, came apart very easily. Just as he’d said, but then, he knew. As her legs and arms were cut away from her torso, the joints pulling free of sockets, as her body was split in half and then quarters, as the long, pink cuts of meat were lugged into the cooler, Marty was thinking about that beer. And a brat.