One of my oldest friends and mentors was visiting for the weekend. He tossed his luggage into the guest room without even entering it. He said, “Let’s go eat.” I began to move toward the kitchen; but, he reprimanded me, shaking his finger in my face, “No, no. We must hunt it, first.”
His evil grin sent chills through my body. I had almost forgotten about his predilection for human flesh. As if he could read my mind, he added, “Of course, my dear, you may torture it first.”
And, nearly as soon as we sat down on a park bench nearly adjacent to my house, here she came: our dinner. She was leisurely walking, and my mentor waved her down. His idle chit-chat evaporated from my mind as I examined her tone shoulders and sleek physique. But, then, I saw what drew my mentor to her: her ass. Plump, succulent, yet still muscular. He always did love asses, and it was comforting that some things never change.
I vaguely remember hearing words like, “my daughter” and “dinner”; I don’t know why I was surprised when she followed us back to the house. After all, it would be silly that my mentor could have lost his magical touch; in fact, I looked at his aging beard and thought that the exact contrary was true.
We enjoyed a glass of wine together as our guest became foggy, tentatively grabbing her head and finally following off her chair. I wish he hadn’t done that; I like them to be awake when I play with them. But, he helped hoist her into my torture chair, I had a better idea. I dropped her body and walked briskly to get the largest metal pan that I had. Of course, I had planned to use it for something like this—but now was the perfect occasion.
We placed her in the pan and I began prodding her. Whatever he had given her was strong. He pilfered through my spice rack and kitchen while I used a pitch fork to open up a few wounds. “I usually like different parts in different spices, cooked separately; but I think I’d like to make an exception given your beautiful set-up here, darling,” he whispered over my shoulder. I beamed with pride and returned to slicing her stomach open to put some of his spices. She yelled in pain, and I was happy that she was awake. I didn’t want her to miss the fun.
He told me which organs to remove, such as the intestines; I followed his instructions, enjoying her screams and gushing blood. I was sad to hear her cries stifle and die. He had already turned on the large oven that I had installed mainly just for him (and a few other friends). We lifted her up and slid her in. The smell of burnt flesh permeated the room and my mentor inhaled as if it were the sweetest aroma that he’d ever encountered. We took her out of the oven a few times; mainly, he was trying to help me satisfy my lust for blood. I’d slice into her, sauté her, tenderizing our dinner.
Dinner, indeed, was magnificent. We laughed, reminisced, drank more wine, and planned the evening’s agenda. “My darling, Victor Hugo’s last words were, ‘I see a dark light.’ Shall we go out and claim it for ourselves, my darling queen Jezabel?” He extended his hand and off we went into the night.
