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Tasty Treats

Tasty Treats

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Published by: stumbleupon on Aug 15, 2012
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01/14/2013

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 Tasty Treats
By Bradley Ramsey
A man's gotta eat
 – 
that's what my momma used to say. I wonder if she ever thought herson would end up eating people for a living? It's a hell of a way to dispose of the body, but it's adirty job and someone's gotta do it. And let's face it: everyone knows people taste like chicken.
Tonight’s dish was far from the loins of a recently dead chicken. No, tonight’s menu was Jerry
Parkinson, some kid living in the slums of beautiful New Orleans, who thought he could borrowmoney from the biggest mobster in town, not pay him back, and somehow get away with his life.Damn, people are stupid.I grasped the zipper on the black leather body bag that Frankie had brought poor Jerry inand pulled it op
en, revealing Jerry’s pale and fearful face underneath the leather flaps
, like the
final expression of a banana as it’s peeled open. The first thing I noticed
was that the kid had aquarter-sized hole in his head laced with coagulated blood. I sighed loudly, and I heard Frankieshuffle nervously behind me.
“You fuckin’ shot him
,
Frankie? What did I tell you about shooting them?”
Frankie snickered loud enough for the neighbors to hear him.
“What did you want me to
do? Give him a lethal injection and read him his last fucking rights
? I ain’t
a priest, Clyde;
I’m a
ruthless mobster,
and I wanna keep it that way.”
I closed the flaps b
ack over Jerry’s horrified face.
I hated looking at it.
“Well, you could have stabbed him, or maybe drowned him
 
 – 
 
anything that doesn’t putgunpowder in the body I’m about to eat. That’s like mixing the mashed potatoes with the peas on
your dinner plate, Frankie;
you just don’t do it
,
man!”Frankie either didn’t get the joke
,
or he got it and didn’t think it was funny. He ran a hand
through his jet black hair and shrugged.
“Whatever 
, man. The rest of him is still good,
right?” I
shook my head and waved for him to go as I turned around to start. I could still feel him standing
 behind me though, and I sure as hell didn’t hear the door to the warehouse slam shut
."I don't like anyone to watch me while I'm working, Frankie. You can go now," I said,looking back at him. Frankie just stood still, curiously eyeing the body of the man he had justordered killed. Jerry Parkinson owed him money and, like any good mobster, Frankie collectedon his debts with a large caliber pistol."What are you going to do with him?" Frankie asked. I hated his squeaky Mexican voice.He was built like a freight train, but talked like a mouse. I never understood that."I'm going to eat him, Frankie; it's what I do."
 
Frankie released a deep guttural laugh. "You're one sick fuck! You know that?"I shook my head, setting down the hand saw that I was preparing on the table next toJerry's right hand. I turned around to face Frankie, eager to end this conversation. I hadn't eatensince lunch."I could give less than two shits what you think about me, Frankie! So long as yourmoney's good, this kid is going to find himself a permanent resident of my large intestine, andyou'll get away with murder, again. Sound good?"Frankie nodded, the smile fading from his face. "Yeah, sure. I'll leave. Enjoy yourdinner."I winced at the amount of sarcasm Frankie placed into his last sentence and watched as heleft through the door, closing it with a metallic clang that rang across the wall of the warehouse. Iturned back to Jerry and reached for the remote. It was just about time for Shelly Barnes' showon the Food Network.I chuckled at the thought as I drove the spinning handsaw in my hands down into therecently deceased flesh of Jerry Parkinson. The skin separated in a beautiful fountain of 
coagulated blood. I’m sure wherever Jerry is right now, he
wishes he had bathed before the boys
from the dock came a’lookin’ for their money. Or maybe he just shat himself when they blew his
brains out. I always hated it when they did that
 – 
ruins all the head meat; then, I gotta eat aroundthe gunpowder. I turned off the saw, silencing its shrill cries and placed onto the table next to the
now severed hand. It was one thing to break the gun rule, but I’m not eating shit. I pulled my cell
phone out of my pocket and quick 
ly dialed Frankie’s number. The line rang sev
eral times beforehis nervous Mexican voice answered.
“I thought I told you not to call me after nine!”I didn’t bother apologizing.
That was his job here.
“Sorry, but I have to ask, did your boys realize that this kid shit himself before they did
him in? I told you, Frankie;
I don’t eat shit
 
 – 
never have and never will. My mamma raised me
 better than that.”
Frankie laughed sarcastically.
“Your mamma raised a sadistic bastard, so you’ve got noright to talk. But I can see how that would be unpleasant. I’ll raise the payment by ten percent.”
He had to be joking.
“Twenty percent
, Frankie,
or I call the cops,”“Fifteen, and that’s my final offer, asshole.”
I smiled silently, giving him a moment to let the thought of life in prison sink in.
“Fifteen
, it is. Pleasure doing business with you,
Frankie! Tell Sharlene I said hello!”
Frankie started to say something else, no doubt another low brow insult, as I closed thephone. I looked up from my work and took a moment to appreciate the lovely woman on themodest television across the room, preparing a steak on her famous show that airs Sunday nightson the Food Network.
Tasty Treats
,”
it was called, or something along those lines. I usually
don’t work on weekends, but Frankie Ramirez pays good to have his dirty work disposed of, and
Lord knows I need to pay the bills. I looked over to my right, at the display of knives, powertools, and utensils splayed across the metal cart
 – 
all of which were charitably donated by thelocal hospital.As I picked up the cleaver, I held it ever so carefully over the fingers of the severed hand.As I did, Shelly Barnes made a comment about putting basil on the meat to give it thatsophisticated flavor.
You would go great with some basil, Jerry!
I thought as I brought down thecleaver on the pinkie finger. The finger popped off the hand like a cork from a wine bottle andbegan rolling across the metal slab. I leaped over and caught it just before it fell off. I raised the
 
severed pinky finger to eye level and took a bite, tenderly pulling the meat off of the bone withmy teeth. It was raw and chewy, but it tasted perfect, just like the first time I ate human flesh.
Truth be told, it was an accident, but I’ll never forget how my life changed that day.My brother, Timmy and I were jumping on my mother’s bed, something she absolutely
hated, but we were kids back then and we never really cared about what she thought because wetook her unconditional love for granted. We were leaping back and forth across the mattress
when suddenly my brother’s fist collided with my face. I remember it hitting my right with such
force that it knocked me back off of the bed. He was desperately trying to apologize while Istood back onto my feet. I was dazed and confused, but mostly I was royally pissed. I leapedback onto the bed and do
ve onto his arm. I suppose that’s
when, faced with complete and utterrage, we resort to whatever weapons we can muster to exact our vengeance. Right then, mymouth was loaded with pearly white weapons of mass destruction. I bit down on his arm, hard,until blood began to flow between my lips. He screamed something fierce until our mamma
came in, hootin’ and hollerin’. She couldn’t believe I bit him, let alone hard enough to draw blood. I said I was sorry, but deep down, I wasn’t. In fact, I was savoring the taste of blood and
the juicy tender flesh of his arm. I spent a long time after that, dreaming about eating my ownbrother. Of course, I would never do such a thing, and I never told him or my mamma about mynewfound taste for human flesh. I was able to suppress it for a while, but then I got into thisbusiness, and business is good.I looked up just as Susan was facing the camera and smiling as she took a bite of thesteak she had just made. Like any good Food Network host, she moaned as if aroused by thetaste of her own steak. Jerry was p
retty tasty, but I wasn’t about to moan while eating him. After 
severing all the fingers, I moved onto removing the limbs. I used the power saw to cut throughhis elbows and shoulders. The forearms and biceps make great roasts while the fingers will gogre
at in a soup. Wendy’s had the right idea when they put that finger in someone’s chili. As I
finished dismembering Jerry, I moved on to his chest and torso. As I flipped him over onto hisstomach, I could smell the simmering shit covering his backside. I looked down at the seat of hispants and saw the pancake shaped stain covering his entire backside.
 Damn, Frankie literallyscared the living shit out of this kid.
Judging by the bullet hole in his head, it was pretty easy toassume how the whole scenario went down.Frankie Ramirez brought his expensive Italian Loafers down hard on the door. The cheapand rotting wood gave way as a cloud of splinters exploded from the door handle. It swung open,revealing a half-naked Jerry Parkinson sitting on his couch amongst the rips in the fabric andcigarette burns on the arms. He turned away from his episode of Jerry Springer just as the armedand ruthless Frankie stepped into the modest abode,"You're fuckin' dead, Jerry!" Frankie shouted, raising his desert eagle into the air. Jerryfell backwards out of the couch and began awkwardly crab walking across the room. His bottomlip trembled, and he whimpered like a wounded dog as he tried to retreat. He collided with theback wall and winced as his head echoed across the stained wallpaper. Frankie caught up withhim quickly, placing the barrel of the gun to his head."You're dead!" he shouted again. Jerry continued shaking his head like a frightened mute.His whimpers slowly evolved into fragmented words before he was finally able to construct asentence."No, Mr. Ramirez, please! I swear I'll have your money next week! It's been slow at the

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