The Butcher and I

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A man is on a mission to bring in the one who has been terrorizing a local village for many weeks, only to end up facing his deepest horror....Also, I hope the formatting works out.

Submitted: February 13, 2012

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Submitted: February 13, 2012

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The Butcher and I

 

“Give me your largest, plumpest, cheapest goose.” I asked, rather politely.

“I sell no feathered birds, goose or otherwise.” replied the shopkeeper. Odd, I thought.

“But the sign outside clearly states that you sell many birds, and that you specialise in geese.”

“The sign people messed it up. It's supposed to say that we, I, all of us, sell no birds and no other form of meat.”

“That is rather misleading, don't you think?” I proposed. “Why not get fix the sign and avoid future confusion?”

“I will attend to the problem that you have identified when I next see my sign guy, now please buy something or leave my establishment.” the shopkeeper answered.

“You are not selling anything else.” I pointed out. And I was right. The shop was devoid of things to buy. It was empty. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Even more synonyms for nothing. Get the picture? Good...where was I? Ah, yes, the conversation.

 

“We are waiting for this week's shipment of geese.” responded the shopkeeper. To this day I still do not know who the 'we' was, as the shop had only me and him in it, adding to the nothingness. In any case, this man was starting to perplex me, and so I began for the door.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, just as I reached the exit. “I have a goose for you, arrived this morning. I called him Tim and have been raising him for at least a six month. Like I said, arrived last week so you know it is fresh enough.” I turned and stared at this strange lump of a man in front of me. He had the quintessential butcher's look, if he was indeed a butcher, what with his blood-stained apron, robust figure and cleaver balanced precariously on his cranium.

“Did you say Tim?” I asked, as nonchalantly as I could muster. Also, Ha! You do sell geese!

“Yes, Tim. Fresh as the day I was hatched. You can have him when he is cooked in a couple of hours.” the lump answered. He had placed at least two more cleavers on his head in the time that it took me to ask my question.

 

“Tell me,” I ventured, “what colour is my hair?” Brown, of course, always had been. Well, brown-brunette with a hint of red from my hedonistic days of youth. Ah, the days! Look at me now, Colleen, a hot shot investigator! IS THAT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU!? Sorry, that just slipped out.

“I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to answer such a question.” the shopkeeper explained. Of course you aren't, I thought. At least that is what I would've thought if I had had time. You see, this, butcher fellow was the thing I had been searching for the past six weeks. The local village had been complaining of one of the monsters roaming the streets without a warrant, and I had been dispatched to bring him in alive or as dead as I could make him. His type, with a name so complex I wish not to disclose for fear of incinerating your ears, had one big give away: the complete inability to answer the simplest of questions due to their custom of being as vague as possible. So when I had asked him what colour my hair was, it was a clever test to weed him out. I bet the goose wasn't even called Tim. Damn, I am a handsome genius.

But, I digress. You must be wondering what happened. Did I live? Was he apprehended or at least forced to get the correct papers and undergo a course in human-monster relations, as well as a paper in basic economics to improve his shop productivity? Well, I did live, and yes, he did go on to become what some scholars claim to be the best butcher in all the village. But, before that, he had decided to take his chances. After refusing to answer my question on the grounds that he was not at liberty to do so, he grabbed the cleavers from his head and hurled two of them at me. I dodged the first, but the second one cut off my arm slightly. “SCREAM IN PAIN!” I exclaimed. He merely smiled, and lined up his third cleaver. I dove for my somewhat severed arm and threw it at him before the cleaver came hurtling my way. It was my right arm, and it hit him across the face and came to a twitching rest at his monster feet. This bought me exactly 3.25 seconds in which to make my move. I rolled across the floor until I was within breathing distance of his face, with only the shop counter separating us. Yes, it is a shop so of course there was a counter. It kind of goes without saying.

 

Anyway, with my remaining arm I reached across and grabbed his butcher's apron and pulled him down, slamming his face on the counter. He groaned, this guy was tough. And his apron was surprisingly soft. But, the face-slam gave me the opportunity to grab his cleaver, and so I didn't, because it was too obvious. Instead, I slid over the counter, grabbed my severed arm, and, holding it King Kong style, and sprinted out of the shop. I ran faster than any team of physics professors could conceive to be permissible by the laws of physics, but physics means squat in this monster-infested world. I made it out of the geese or geese-less shop just as the third cleaver came screaming past my ear and embedded itself in the door frame with a defeatist THUD. I kept running until I was a good five hundred metres from the man, who I just knew would be making his way to introduce me to my maker.

 

I lay my arm on the snow covered ground, and reached down into my left trouser pocket with my one good limb and pulled out my portable telephone device. I rang the precinct, quickly provided a five-second summary of the events that had just transpired and asked if they would be so kind as to send a containment team. “Okay.” the telephone connection receiver answered. I could have sworn I heard him call me an incompetent buffoon who deserves to have his face torn off by ravenous spider monkeys just as I hung up, but who knows? I looked back at the shop and saw the butcher was indeed coming after me, in actual fact he had his hand on my right hand - my severed right hand - and was trying to steal it, presumably to feast on it later.

 

“No, buddy, in a few seconds you will be contained more than a can of beans!” Ha! I had been waiting to use that line for weeks. Suck it, everyone at the academy. The butcher merely laughed, a horrible, gut-exploding laugh that makes me want to have my kidneys surgically removed and stitched over my ears just to avoid hearing it ever again. However, like all exciting fight sequences, this one came to an end. The containment team, designated 'Containment Team', arrived, like they do, on time and ready to rock and contain. The team members, covered head to liver in black garments, much like a monk who's tailor moonlighted as a ninja, surrounded the butcher and charged their weapons.

 

“Guys, I'm here too, remember!” I pointed out. No reaction from the team. Damn, I hate getting contained. The last time I couldn't have liquid food for a month. It was awful. The containment team fired their amazing weapons, and I and the butcher were pressed uncomfortably together in a cylindrical energy field, like being trapped inside a lava lamp. The butcher moaned, I squealed in a manly way, and then nothing. Well, not nothing. It’s just the sensation of being contained. We were actually just comatose inside the energy field. It’s the first step in containment, followed by the waking up, the searing, atom-splittingly blinding pain, then a serene feeling of being in a care-free wonderland. Then, more pain, more wonderland, and then you wake up, good as new.

 

Well, that was how this containment went. I awoke several hours later in a hospital bed, hooked up to a liquid foodifier. Not again. As for the butcher, he was successfully contained, taken to an official documentation and human relations facility and now does indeed run a successful geese distribution business. Yes, a successful mission followed by a night of liquid hospital food and debauchery. Damn good day.


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