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Where The Meat Comes From

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The butcher came down the hall wearing his blood soaked apron, reeking of pain and death. He had a rough beard that was hard and jagged against the hand. He had long greasy hair that gave an odd shine off of the dim lights of the hallway (although that may just be because of how dirty the lights were). The hallway was either lit in a dirty piss colored light, or covered in a miasma of darkness.

The only thing pristine there was the butcher’s clever. It was cleaned and polish to a shine, it’s blade carefully manicured so it could easily cut paper in one motion. The butcher gripped it with his strong-callused hand. In the other hand was a bucket filled with blood, swaying as he walked. Little bits fell out and splashed over the previous stains, keeping the coat on the floor fresh.

Eventually the butcher came to a door at the end of the long hallway It was made of an old and rotting wood, and he worried about it falling apart and what would happen if it got out.

He knocked twice to let it know he was coming in, not that it mattered. It always reacted the same way, stupid thing. He twisted the knob and let the door gently swing inward. The room was filled with blackness, and in the middle was a small yellow dot floating at about knee height. It bobbed up and down with a heavy breathing.

“Tom.” The butcher said calmly, waiting for a response but like always there was nothing. He sighed and flipped on the light, bracing himself for the noise.

As soon as the light came on the screaming started. This horrible eardrum-bursting wail erupted from a pale creature rolling around in the middle of the room. Its skin was white, almost translucent, as you could see all of its many veins. It was naked and bald all over. You couldn’t see the face as its long bony fingers with over grown nails covered it. But you could see the scars. All over its torso were these white lines and dark spots from happier times like the spots and odd colorings of a cat.

The butcher ignored the thing rolling around in agony and instead focused his attention on the wall; where chains were hanging up the meat. All naked and wide eyed, either staring at the creature or the man in the doorway. He eyed each of them one by one.

There was a blonde, her long hair a tangled and frizzy mess, with large fat breast. But they might have been fakes, as they did not seem proportionate to her very slim, almost starved, figure. There was a man, maybe in his late forties or fifties. His body wasn’t as lean as the woman. He was much chubbier and hairier, with gray patches on his chest and armpits. The thing could only get what it finds in the night so the butcher couldn’t be too picky.

The next was another woman; young like the blond, (it had a preference for grabbing young woman) who was so perplexed by the thing in front of her she could not look away. Finally there was the Asian. He had been there the longest, and instead of looking at the screaming thing he just stared at the butcher with a gaze of more hatred than fear.

“Yes” thought the butcher, “it’s about time.”

He turned off the light and just like that the screaming stopped, replaced with a deep panting as it tried to recover.

“The one on the far right” The butcher said loudly, and he listened to the soft, almost nonexistent sound of movement. Next thing the butcher heard was the combination of chains rattling and the sound of liquid hitting the floor, each creating it’s own echo resulting in a mess of splats. Then a body was tossed into the small path of light created from the hallway. The butcher dropped the bucket and grabbed the corpse’s bruised wrists, and dragged it out of the room. When it was out, he slid the bucket inside and shut the door.

Then there was the sound of liquid spilling everywhere, then choking, and lastly licking; first the crinkling sound against metal, then the rough, ripping sound against stone. When it was done there was a thump against the door followed by a faint raspy whisper.

“T-th-than-nk yo-ou… da-dad-dy-y.”

But the butcher didn’t hear, he was already up in his shop preparing the meat for the next lunch.

Bio

Joshua A. Flowers is arguably a pretty funny guy, or at least I; Joshua A. Flowers, thinks he is. Born in L. A. California he now resides in Maine and has visited the Grande Canyon. Joshua A. Flowers was not impressed.  Primarily dealing in horror, he takes inspiration from Lovecraft, the Silent hill series, and various creepypasta lying around on his desktop. Joshua A. Flowers plans on putting out more stuff so keep an eye out for the name, Joshua A. Flowers.

 

 

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