The Sights and Sounds of a Butcher

I am a butcher, as you can imagine, my clothing is always stained. Blood smears, greasy hand prints and of course sweat. I am a well respected butcher in my community, my shop is something that is a bit unorthodox. I have several different kinds of meats from all over the world. Hell, sometimes I get things that come in and I can’t figure out what I’m dealing with. My shop runs at odd hours of the night, it’s when the intellectuals are curled up with a book or some documentary with a cup of tea. That type of lifestyle is something I fantasize about from time to time because my line of work is frowned upon. Watching a huge burly man covered in darkened bloody garb and a permanent scowl on my face certainly doesn’t bring in a lot of welcome on the streets. Something that also steers people away is my wooden companion; I call it “Pinocchio” as a joke which causes a lot of corner of the mouth nervous laughter or just a bewildered face filled with confusion. This wooden companion is my peg leg which causes me to drag my right foot a lot when I’m walking on the cobblestone streets of this city. The wood on my leg gets checked every few months by some characters, the wood is cheaply made which causes it to easily decay and eventually becomes something that you would throw for your dog to fetch.

It was an especially dark night, the fog rose from the sewers which caused a huge gray cloud of smoke to fill the in for the darkness. I dragged my leg along the cobblestone, the clanking sound was almost calming in this dark of night. It reminded me that I was one of the few shady looking characters who dared to wander the streets at this hour. My walk isn’t very long and I arrived within ten minutes time. I stick my pudgy hands in my torn pants, I scoop past the lint and feel around for the sticky and rusted key to my shop. Once I find my key, I open the shop and flick the light that reads open with the typical red and blue fluorescent lights. One of the letters for the sign flickers in the dim of night. Looking on the counter, I see a note that appears blank, but I know what this means. I go in the back where my office is located, papers are scattered everywhere, some with smudged visible ink addressed to me and others I had very dark and deep pencil markings to decode messages. This note was one of those messages, I thought these notes were childish and reminded me of silly secret love letters kids would pass to one another. I pushed what felt like millions of papers off my desk, dust went flying when I did this and a few specks made their way into my hairy old man nostrils and I sneezed. I wiped my hand against my nose, getting some sticky residue on the back of my hairy hand and I wiped the residue on my back pocket.

I found my pencil underneath the papers and dust, I scribbled on the the sandpaper like sheet and saw the message. It read “We will be stopping by at 2:30 AM with a delivery, please get the stuff ready.”

I pressed my fat fingers against the ridge of my nose and I started to move toward where I keep my tools to grind meat. I had several meat grinders depending on the size and thickness of the meat. I grabbed my favorite grinder, it has never steered me wrong despite the rust on the crank and how it tends to take a couple tries to get the meat through it, but it always pulls through. I lift the very heavy grinder, sweat begins to pour down from my greasy black hair and onto my bushy black eyebrows. I carried this huge silver pile of metal to the counter and slammed it down. A few of the items on the counter rattled, but eventually stopped and went back in its place.

I pattered my thick fingers on the counter, it was 2:20 AM according to my watch. I always hated the wait, I never knew who would come through that door. I plucked at a few of my pepper-y silver mustache hairs out of anxiety. My heart felt like it was pounding out of my chest, salty sweat continued to pour down from my hair. This caused me to sit on my horrid rocking chair that was slowly deteriorating with each rock. 2:25 AM and I could hear a few cars slowly pulling in front of my shop. The engine’s eventually died down and all I could hear was the slamming of the doors. The clacking of dress shoes headed toward me, this was the worst part for me. Who is coming in? Why do I do this line of work? What’s the point?

Three men walked in all wearing sleek black suites, but one of the men was wearing a red tie with his suit. Seeing the men, it was almost like ordering meals of each size because the size of them varied from small, medium, and large. The small portly man who had a sea of silver hair and a huge powdery snow like beard, grinned at me as he walked in front. The man reminded me of a twisted Santa Clause. He was the one with the red tie, which was oddly fitting and almost comical given his appearance. The average sized man, was about a regular build, mocha skin and had huge curly hair that seemed to spring and bounce when he walked. He was wearing shades which I found odd, but he seemed young and I know a lot of younger folks wear shades for any occasion it seems, despite it being dead of night. The larger man was supposed to come off as intimidating, but he was my height and was very pale. He had very odd embedded scar marks on his face, piercing green eyes and tangerine colored hair. He stood tall and threatening, but this didn’t phase me.

I looked down at the Santa Clause man, who was still grinning at me like I was his favorite grandson.

“I have been told you are simply the best of the best, the cream of the crop when it comes to...these situations.” The Santa Clause man spoke gently and had a very calm demeanor.

I just nodded, I wasn’t much of a talker when it came to work, I just wanted to get the job done and have these sketchy figures leave immediately so I can do my work in peace.

The Santa Clause man looked up at the two men he was with and they both left to go to the car.

“May I have a seat, if you don’t mind my good man, I am getting old ya know!” The Santa Clause man began to chuckle.

As quickly as I could, I grabbed my decaying rocking chair for him and placed it by the entrance for him. He scuttled over to the chair and let out a sigh of relief. He noticed my leg and how I dragged back to my counter and began to ask in another chuckle.

“Bum leg eh? Was it from eating too many sweets? No offense, you’re not a slim young fellow.”

I heard a trunk slam and I heard something hit the hard gravel road. I heard the two men outside arguing about which side they were going to carry. I looked at the Santa Clause man and answered his question with my deep and husky voice.

“Lost my leg in a “wrong place, wrong time situation”, you know the rest I’m sure. That’s why I run this shop, it’s the only reason I am kept alive...it’s my cursed talent.”

The Santa Clause man chuckled some more and continued to joke with me. “So your bum leg isn’t from sweets, such a shame. That would be a much better way to lose a leg.”

The two men outside finally ended their argument and I heard them hoist up the meat I’d be grinding. They both busted through my door, huffing and grunting. They placed the sheet that seemed small onto my counter. It was coated with messy blood smears and tied with two very cheaply made leather belts. I undid the belts and ripped open the sheets with my strength. Inside the sheet, was a young looking kid who seemed to be between the age of 13-15. I looked at the pale faced kid, his bleach blonde hair that was disheveled, his shirt that had a huge black hole in his blue long sleeve shirt. I closed the sheet quickly, hiding my disgust by asking my usual question.

“How much?”

The Santa Clause man chuckled and began to run his old prune-y looking hands through his vast white beard. He lifted one of his shaggy gray eyebrows and grinned once more.

“I will pay you once I see that kid basically as a hamburger patty and I will discuss the price then.”

He grinned and slowly turned away from me, the two men he was with began heading toward the door. The large man stood outside and left the door open to let the older man come out and the average built man went to start the car. Before the Santa Clause man left, I had to ask him a question that I didn’t need the answer for, but my curiosity got the better of me.

“May I ask why this kid...got shot?”

The Santa Clause man stood at the exit of my shop and there was a lingering silence. So much so, I heard the average built man start up the car and the engine roared so loudly it echoed and pierced the silence. The Santa Clause man lifted his hand as if to wave and chuckled once more.

“I believe it was one of those “wrong place, wrong time situations” except unlike you, he had to die.”

The large man and the older man left and with that, I was left with peaceful silence. As I heard the engine slowly drifting into the night, I grabbed a few tools I kept under the counter and began some measurements. I hated this part of my job, imagining what this kid could’ve accomplished and I have to just grind him into a hamburger patty for these criminals to feed to their pets or just dump and get rid of the evidence in a different way. I began to chop, cut and grind away, my garb again getting to be a deeper red than I would like. Each bone being shattered, skin being peeled and cut, the sound of it all was numb to me. This is sadly the sights and sounds that echo in my head and pour out to invade my shop. It’s just yet another typical night for the human butcher.