Good Eats

                   They say I ate individuals as if I were some sort of animal. I detest this, for how many animals do you know, that cook their meals? How disgusting do you find me? I live in America, you know. If they cant burn their fat off, I could always do it for them.

         Those assuming that I attack like some sort of lion, must have never bitten into raw human flesh before. Try it, and tell me how tasty it is. Im sure the garbage can next to you  could tell me as well.

         I'm sure you're already writing me off as insane. How fast you would be, to judge someone who you know not where they come from. My father's best friend's name was Vodka, and if my father were a boxer, I would have been his practicing equipment. Though most boxers don't beat their opponent with rulers, belts, coat hangers, cooking pans, etc. When Daddy Dearest wasn't drunk, he was still an asshole. As a small child, I got to read magazines and play with toy soldiers for entertainment. I once asked for a television; my ass and back hurt for a month. I went to public school, and I seemed to be the butt of every joke.

         I was a  small, gray faced blond child, who couldn't afford respectable clothing. I was scared of people, and flinched at every sudden movement. I had no friends, and nobody ever wanted anything to do with me.  I sat in the back of my every classroom, to hide from peoples attention.

         My first encounter of tasting human flesh was very brief. It was in the sixth grade, and it was a bully named Gunner. He was a tad taller than me, though he had the wits of a corpse. It was during passing time, in between classes, when he knocked my books from my hands. As he did so, he mumbled “faggot”, a name which I heard quite often during my younger years.

         I took said books, and slammed them down on his thick skull. He stumbled to the side of the hall, away from passing students. I followed him, and punched him in his blubbery, fat face. The skin (or fat, if you will) seemed to cave in, and I seemed to have punched right into his cheekbone. He recoiled, and I kicked him in the stomach. 

         I was absolutely sick of the kid constantly heckling me, and I was getting my revenge. By now, he was on his back, warbling and crying. By now, students have gathered in a circle around us. I kicked him again, and again. I kneeled down, and punched his face repetitively. By now, he was practically a bloody mess. A male teacher came up to us, and peeled me off of him. We were then transported to the principles office, where we were sat in opposite sides of the room. After a long conversation with the principle,  we came to the conclusion that I was to be suspended a week, and he was to have detention after school for a week. Before we were picked up by our parents, we were forced to “reconsile” and shake hands. As I shook his hand, I pulled him closer to a sort of hug. I leaned my head forward, and took a chunk of his left ear. I then spat it out at him. 

         That night I didnt get beat. Or at least, I didnt get beat for what I did to gunner. I did, however, get a whipping for getting expelled for biting gunners ear off. I had to go court over the whole affair, and the judge ordered me to see a therapist for an entire year. I was eleven, and I had already been to court and put in therapy.

         Instead of being put back in school, I was home schooled. Luckily, it wasn't my father who “taught” me. The man who did, however, was a tall, thin man, with large glasses. Father called him a “no-good jew” behind his back, though he seemed to be somewhat useful. His name was Mr. Steinman, and he was ordered to tutor me until I was older.

         Mr Steinman tutored me Monday through Friday, for two hours every day. I did assignments, read textbooks, and most of the regular things a “normal” student might do. He sometimes stayed for lunch, regularly when my father wasnt home. He often brought me some small snacks, because he knew my father spent more money on alcohol than he did on me. Mr. Steinman was a Jew, but he wasn't a penny pinching, mercedes benz riding theif like my father made out all jews to be.

         Mr. Steinman was to tutor me until I was eighteen. He stopped tutoring me when I was sixteen. I remember the day he ceased tutoring me as if it were yesterday. Most likely because it was the day he ceased living.

         It was a normal tutoring day, a friday, I believe, and father was working at the factory. Mr. Steinman brought peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and we were eating them in the kitchen. We were  chatting there, eating our sandwiches. I excused myself, saying that I was going to use the restroom. I went into my room, and grabbed a small pocket knife I had ound when I was younger.i opened it, and carefully slid it into my pocket, blade down. I walked out into the kitchen, sat down next to Mr. Steinman, and picked up my half eaten sandwich. We continued chatting for a while, then eventually we stood up, to put our dishes in the sink. He began walking to my bedroom, to get the textbooks, but as he did, I pulled the knife from my pocket.

         As he walked, I quietly followed. When he got to my doorway,i dug the knife as deep into his neck as possible. He fell against the doorway, and slid to the floor. I kneed his glasses into his face, shattering one lens, thus cutting his eye up. I retrieved the knife from his neck, and slid the blade across his throat. His throat gushed blood, and I watched his life drain, laughing as it went. I dragged my hands across his neck, and licked the blood off of my hands. I cut out a large chunk of his left cheek, and chewed on it slowly.

         I really dont know why I did all this, but I do know that I was pretending that I was killing my father as I did so.  I left the house, and began walking. I wasnt walking fast at all, in fact, I was walking quite slow. My father was due home soon, and I knew he would be calling the police as soon as he saw the corpse of the “no- good Jew”.

         About thirty minutes after leaving, a police car pulled up behind me, and made me stop walking. They got out of their car, and held up their pistols. I stopped, and held up my hands. They escorted me to the back of their car, and we rode to the courthouse. I was given my own cell. I stayed there overnight. They put me in a sort of boarding home for boys. I stayed there a month, until the court date. I behaved, so I didnt get any extra attention from the court.

         The Judge sentenced me for 20 years in prison. It was a small prison, and all the prisoners played a part. Some were cooks, laundry boys, etc. After a year of being there, I became the head cook, after working my way up. I was famous around the cells for my “special ingredients”, which the inmates, and even the guards, found delicious. Little did they know, that they had been dining on fellow inmates, that had died of “natural causes” and “disapeered”. I had a connection with the “Cleanup department”, or the custodial inmates. I admit, I killed a few inmates. But believe me, some actually from natural causes, ironically enough. I never got caught for such murders.

         My friends in the janitorial department were very loyal to me, they always helped me out.  Without them, I would never have gotten out of there.

         It was on a regular night, and there were only two guards guarding the doors, and guards at the gate. My janitor friends pushed a cart of “laundry” up to the doors and asked to get out, to easily push the cart to another sector of the prison, regular procedures. The guards let them pass, and they pushed the cart to the main gate, the exit to the outside world.

         The two guards at the gate questioned the janitors, and obviously denied access to the outside. I jumped from the bottom of the cart, where I was hidden by laundry. I stabbed each of them three times in the chest, with homemade knives, one in each hand. They fell over, and I stabbed them a few times again.

         I searched the bodies for the keys. One of them was a bit hard to manuever, given his massive weight. I eventually found the key, and unlocked the gate. I stole both of the guards pistols, and a stungun. I walked along the outside walls, away from view. I eventually came to a creek, which I knew would lead to my old back yard. I walked for hours, alongside the muddy creek. I was covered in mud, and im sure it was hard to tell that I was an inmate. After about three hours of walking, I came to my childhood home. I slowly walked up the backyard, to the back door. I knew it would be unlocked, as it was. I slid the door open, and let myself inside.

         My father was drunk in the living room, which of course, was no surprise to me. He was watching an old episode of Seinfeld, and he looked like he was having a good time, smiling and laughing. I stepped into the doorway behind his chair and said, “Hello, Dad.”

         He jumped from his seat, and yelled. I told him that I escaped, and since I loved him so much, I decided to visit him first. He reached for the baseball bat he always kept next to his chair. When he picked it up, I pulled out a pistol, and shot the top of it, making it fall from his hands. He looked quite shocked. He backed up against a wall, with his arms up. I put the pistol in his mouth. He was crying by now. And I was smiling. He thought I was going to shoot him, so I cut open his stomach with one of the fake knives. He grabbed at his stomach, that was now gushing blood. I told him to raise his hands back up. As he did so, I took the other pistol, and shot both of them, right through the palms.

         He slumped down to the ground, and I took the pistol from his mouth. I looked down, and shot both of his feet. I went into the kitchen, and grabbed the biggest knife possible. It was for cutting meats and such. So, I decided to fulfill its purpose. It was a knife that he had pulled on me many times when I was younger, and now it gets to be pulled on him.

         I took it back to the living room, and I kneeled down by his side. I began sawing at his right hand, until it finally came off. It was his strongest hand. I continued this process with each limb. I believe he was already dead by then, but I kept going.

         I slit his throat with the knife, and licked the blood from the knife. I went into the kitchen, and preheated the oven. I took his hands and feet, and laid them on a cookie sheet, and put them in the oven. While they cooked, I returned to the living room, and stabbed my fathers stomach many times. I cut open his stomach, and removed his entrails. The entrails got another cookie sheet to themselves, he was quite a large man.

         I slowly sawed off his head. This took nearly twenty minutes. I opened up his jaw, and inserted the knife.  I lifted the head and knife, and shoved the knife into the wall, making a new decoration.

By then, my heal had finished cooking. I sat down at the table, and began eating. I ate for about ten minutes, when a pair of cops knocked on the door, and eventually broke down the door.          

         “Good Evening, would you like a bite?”