Bloody Snowflake

They told me I was a special little snowflake. Sure, all the others were little drops of acid rain, but me, I was a real special snowflake. I was destined for great things. That’s what the Butcher said.
I was Abattoir Head. I chose which food was fit for the Kings. The Kings were crime bosses with a twist of lemon, or in this case something a bit more sinister. I consulted with the Butcher on what the Kings wanted for dinner that night, week, or month. Did they want a muscley one that would nourish them with lots of protein and anabolic steroids? Or did they want a skinny one that really made them chew, chew, chew? Some of the Kings liked both. Some liked their food rare in every sense of the word. Well, I said, this food was hard enough to get. I had to go out, catch it, and bring it back in all by myself. So you could say I was also Head Hunter.
I first started with the Butcher a few months ago. He found me beating the shit out of some punk who’d given me the finger as I watched him shoot up in an alley. The Butcher pulled me off, said I look like the right kinda guy. I told him to piss off. The Butcher, though, he didn’t give up that easy. He said he had a job offer for me. I said thank you, but I already had a job. I was a bouncer, I said, at the Tumbler on Persephone St. He laughed at that. He said we were both employed by the same man. I asked if he worked for Madame Francine too. He laughed again and told me to go higher. He gave me his business card and told me to call him the next day. I let the punk go and read the card as he scampered off down the street.
Next day I called the Butcher, he basically told me this: He worked for the Kings; they had refined tastes in meat. I asked what he meant by that and he said homo sapiens sapiens. I said I didn’t speak Latin. He said, “People, mate. They eat people.”
At first I was a little shocked, didn’t want anything to do with it. I asked why they did that. The Butcher said they were sick, hungry little puppies. But then he mentioned the pay, and I said, really? He said yes. I thought for a second and then said I’d take it.
So I worked for a few months in this basement where they had these cages with all kinds of people in ‘em. Fat girls, muscley guys, skinny people, all kinds. I’d ask the Butcher what he had in mind for that week, and he’d say, the black one, or, the scared looking one. All I had to do was drag them out by their hair and go into a special room, where I’d take care of them. Then they were out of my hands. I’d have a clear conscience. That was the beginning and end of my involvement.
At least, it was meant to be.
One day, a few days ago, we ran out of people to take care of. So the Butcher came to me and asked me to help. I asked if he wanted me to go find more meat. He said no, there was no time. He said, well, you’re the only one left. I said I didn’t understand. He pulled out a syringe filled with something and stuck it in my arm before I could stop him. I started feeling woozy. I passed out. I suppose sometime after that I died.
I wasn’t done, though. I hovered over my body, watching the Butcher drag it into a car. Then to his place, where he cut me up. Then to the Palace, this mansion just outside the city.
I chose to leave it there. I’d seen enough. One thing’s for sure, though: that fucker will be hearing from me again.

Bloody Snowflake


Joined August 2010

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Don’t bash it if you haven’t tried it.

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