Murderer.
Stop.
Finishing the last delectable bite of his sandwich he took a few moments and buried his head in his hands.
How did things get so out of hand?
What had he become?
Liz had the cutest expression, a playfully droll turn of phrase that she liked to spring on Montgomery whenever he clumsily dropped something or said something stupid or dorked out a bit too much. She’d lower her voice an octave or so, drop her chin down, regard him with upturned eyes and then say in a monotonous voice, “What happened to you, Montgomery?” She got it from some stupid television show he hadn’t seen before and used it as a light-hearted term of endearment from time to time.
As Montgomery crumbled up his lunch bag and readied to get back to work inventorying the walk-in freezer, the phrase danced and teased from the recesses of his mind: “What happened to you, Montgomery?”
What happened to you Montgomery?
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
Then why are you so fucked up?
Childhood out of a flipping storybook.
Well-to-do parents.
What happened to you, Montgomery?
Loving family.
Ambition from a young age and success early in life.
What happened to you, Montgomery?
Why do you eat motherfucking people, Montgomery?
What happened to you, Montgomery?
Believe it or not, the cannibal thing started completely innocuously. In college Montgomery became good friends with an exchange student from France named Michel. After graduation he invited Montgomery to come visit him. Now, any self-respecting chef-in-training owed it to themselves to go to Paris. No real chef could call themselves such until they visited the city of lights and experienced its culinary splendor first hand.
Michel lived in Quartier Latin, a major educational center in the city of Paris that was home to several universities and an attractive array of accompanying campus life accoutrements – bars, females, art galleries, females, bars. Professionally, personally, fundamentally, there was no way Montgomery could pass up such a tremendous opportunity. He immediately borrowed the money from his dad (paid in full soon after) and caught a flight out the very next week.
Michel and his cousin Rene lived in a small apartment above one of the many bars and bistros that made up a large portion of the Quartier Latin. Upon Montgomery’s arrival the three of them stayed up drinking in various bars for what seemed to be days. It hadn’t occurred to Montgomery then, but when he thought back on it he wondered what exactly the roommates did for money. During his four week visit there was never any mention of work or any pesky schedules to intrude on the fun. They stayed out as late as they desired, woke up as late as they wanted, and structured their days around the pursuit of entertainment.
On one particular morning early into the visit Michel cooked a wonderful breakfast. With Montgomery as his guest, Michel went to great lengths to show off his culinary skills and the resulting meal was phenomenal. As he savored each bite Montgomery couldn’t seem to place the meat. This was perplexing as he learned much in school and was an avid connoisseur of meats in particular – their preparative properties and varied banks of flavor. Michel had prepared the mystery meat with scrambled eggs and spices chorizo style (the Frenchmen seemed particularly taken by Mexican food during his sojourn to the states) and it danced upon the pallet like nothing Montgomery had ever experienced before. He begged Michel to divulge his secrets, but alas, the Frenchman was tight-lipped and simply gave a sly smile, a grand sweeping gesture of the hand, and nothing more than an obvious descriptor of the food, “French cooking meets Mexican cuisine.”
Montgomery pushed a little more, but Michel only offered the same explanation. When he said the word ‘Mexican’ his French accent murdered it - Montgomery and Rene practically died with laughter. Cest la vie. Chefs could be a secretive lot. Montgomery resigned himself to this and concentrated on enjoying what was left of the exotic dish.
The nightly drinking continued.
And continued.
And continued.
By day Montgomery would drag himself from the couch he slept on to venture out (alone, his hosts usually slept all day) to see the sights. When he returned Michel, more times than not, had another incredible dish ready for supper.
This went on swimmingly until the fourteenth night of the trip when all hell broke loose.
It was getting very late, almost time to retire, but Montgomery stuck around at a bar called Mon Petite Cho trying to chat with a local girl who appeared to be hitting on him. It was difficult to tell as she spoke little to no English, but her eyes danced and sparkled with inviting allure and her cute little mouth was locked in a perpetual smile. Michel and Rene, not so lucky, were done for the evening, so they bid their adieu and returned to their apartment.
Montgomery’s hunch about the French girl, ‘Sophie,’ who whispered into his ear and raised the little hairs on the back of his neck, was correct. They drank and drank and after another hour or so she planted a few kisses on him and sat close, her thigh touching his, her perfume intoxicating, and hinted with longing glances at the door. Slow to put the pieces together, Montgomery finally caught on and he invited the pretty girl back to Michel’s. She accepted and the two of them, after two more shots of good old American whiskey, locked hands and stumbled out of the bar.
Upon entering the tiny apartment the potential for amour dissipated instantly. The giddy, buzz-high giggling that seemed to float them through the damp, night streets, soured in the span of a millisecond. Appropriately, Sophie let out a blood curdling scream and disgustingly, Montgomery, one, two, three, threw up all over his shoes.
The love killer: Michel and Rene were savaging, no, dissecting, no, dismembering a woman’s corpse on the kitchen table. The image was powerful and overwhelming, the too red blood, the too slimy too squishy entrails, Michel reaching into the dead woman’s abdomen and pulling out a grayish, yellowish, bag like organ, Rene hacking away the flesh from her leg with a large serrated knife, so much so that the instant Montgomery puked, his eyes rolled back and he fainted right then and there, half in the doorway half out, prone and unconscious, prostrate in a steaming, congealing puddle of his own vomit.
When he awoke the next afternoon he was bound to a chair and gagged.
The apartment was clean, no more blood and guts, no puke and everything was as it was before the nightmare scene. Michel was sleeping on the couch a few feet away and Rene was in the kitchen making coffee.
Montgomery fought against his bonds but to no avail.
Rene came into the room and addressed him in broken English, “Chill. Chill, eh? No trouble?”
Taking a deep breath Montgomery nodded and stared at his captor with pleading eyes. He couldn’t help thinking that he was done for. He had watched tons of horror movies and he knew what generally happened next.
Or at least he thought he did.
Rene nodded and went about his business, eventually leaving to do some “Erranns” or something that was supposed to come out “Errands.” An hour or so later, though it felt like much, much longer with all of the sitting and thinking and useless struggling against unbreakable restraints, Michel woke and untied Montgomery’s gag. He spoke much better English than Rene and seemed eager to explain the situation to his American friend.
He motioned for Montgomery to be quiet with the international sign, finger to mouth, and then ripped away the gag.
“What you saw, is not what you think you saw,” he began as he walked across the room to the adjoined kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a large hunk of meat wrapped in saran wrap. “We are not scoundrels, Montgomery.” Michel unwrapped the meat, placed it on a dish and began slicing it into long thin strips.
Montgomery remained silent. His brain was trying to process, but passing out and hitting his head (?) had dulled his senses to the point of near inoperability. He stared dumbly and trie
d to resuscitate cognition so he could make a move of some sort.
“You see, we live by, how do you say? Desperation means?” Michel greased a pan with olive oil and then began to cook the meat. “But we are still friends, Montgomery, and friends, Mon ami, protect one another, yes?”
An incredible smell began to fill the cracker box sized apartment. Michel kept quiet while he finished preparing the meat. He then plated it, and ever the chef, finished the aromatic dish with a to-die-for béarnaise sauce and garnished it with a sprig of mint. Pulling up a folding chair he sat facing Montgomery and whiffed the plate under his nose. Traitorous salivary glands responded immediately.
“You are not a prisoner here.” Michel cut a piece of the meat and took a bite. His eyes closed and his whole body seemed to shudder slightly. He then gestured to the ropes that held Montgomery to the chair, “These are merely for… caution? Yes, caution.” Cutting another piece he brought a morsel to Montgomery’s lips.
Though it was a hard thing to accept, Montgomery began putting two and two together and was pretty sure he knew what the mystery meat was. He didn’t want this horrific scenario to be true, but as Michel said, “We live by desperation means.”
Indeed.
Montgomery held firm as Michel jabbed the meat at his lips until he reluctantly opened wide and took the bite. His mind wanted to reject it, but the physical response was incredible. It was repulsive to be sure, the very idea, forbidden, taboo, but the flavor was so Goddamn freaking good. All of those extraordinary meals Michel had been cooking for him had a similar quality. Montgomery felt sick and sated, mortified and seduced, all at the same time.
The next two weeks were perhaps the strangest of his life. After their weird meal, the two of them finishing the plate together in silence, Michel untied him and told him he was free to go, or if he liked he could stay and they could continue their visit. Montgomery’s first instinct was to bolt and find the authorities, but Michel had ‘cautioned’ him that if he reported either him or Rene, they would bring him down with them – after all, they were such good friends. When Montgomery had passed out they made sure to smear his fingerprints over everything – knives, the dead hooker they were filleting when he came in, Sophie, who was now dead and portioned and awaiting consumption in their freezer, everything.
He didn’t much like being threatened, but his fear of American prisons was nothing compared to his fear of French prisons, so Montgomery did the only thing he could, he rolled with the punches and counted the days until his flight back to the states – assuming he would live that long. No more partying or sight seeing or delightful company. Instead he stayed in all day, all night and kept a knife he pilfered from a kitchen drawer close by.
Michel snickered at his defensive nature, “Paranoid Americans, always ready for war, eh? You are among friends here,” and continued to be the most cordial of hosts. He cooked for Montgomery (forcing him to eat the glorious meat, but not really) and kept him company when he refused to go anywhere save for the bathroom. With no threats or intimidation of any kind, on the day of his departure, Montgomery was allowed to leave. Both Michel and Rene apologized for any inconveniences and wished him well. When Montgomery got back to the states he thought about the ordeal every day. He wanted to report the French duo, but being young and impressionable he feared implication or retaliation. In time the memory began to disappear into the whirlpool of everyday thought until it became more of an anecdotal afterthought than a life changing experience of horror. The taste however, stayed with him always.
All of this happened a little over twelve years ago. In the interim, Montgomery heard from Michel via postcard once a year for the first three years. Was it a gesture of friendship? Was it intimidation? There was no telling for sure, but during the fourth year he received a letter from Rene (in French) that indicated Michel had been killed in a motorcycle accident. After that nothing. End of story. Fin.
So what drove Montgomery to follow in Michel’s footsteps?
He really couldn’t tell you. Perhaps it was the Frenchman’s nonchalance, his trust, his uncanny normality in the face of such extremely sanguine behaviors.
More than likely it was that unforgettable taste.
Whatever the cause, Michel’s death sparked something and Montgomery felt compelled to act.
His first victim was felled and eaten a year later.
Once everything was in order at Maize, Montgomery headed for home. Generally he ran the dinner kitchen Wednesday thru Sunday. This week he took Thursday thru Sunday off to give him some breathing room while selecting and destroying a victim for re-supply. Though it was only Sunday, the end of his little mini-vacation, but the beginning of his standard two days off (he wasn’t due into work until Wednesday), after the murder and then the prolonged fight with Liz he needed to keep his mind occupied.
And what better way to do so than to suit up, take stock of the walk-ins and make sure his staff were doing their jobs properly?
Needless to say the daytime kitchen staff was surprised to see him with their darting eyes and nervous glances, and though they tried to hide it they were ecstatic to see him go. When the cat’s away. Montgomery winced at his weak figure of speech. It probably wasn’t the best analogy to use when referring to a soon-to-be five-starred restaurant.
Home then, where the plan was to whip Liz up a fabulous dinner. They were supposed to ration the meat, but he needed to reopen the lines of communication and make-up with her, so tonight was an exception. They had to stop fighting and start looking to the future.
No more killing, which of course meant no more enchanted meat.
After stopping at Gelson’s and getting the ingredients he needed for dinner, Montgomery swung by the mall. His stomach dropped when he saw a tow truck and a police car at the scene. The cop was writing something in a notepad and the tow driver was hooking Heather’s little car to his truck.
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck nothing.
Of course the cops were going to tow her car. Of course she was going to be reported missing. It happened every time. After all of these years Montgomery figured he should be used to it by now.
Nope.
His nerves still jangled, his stomach still turned, guilt and worry still followed.
When Montgomery got home he did a little freaking out and scanned the local paper, searched the Internet and then watched a bit of news. Fortunately, there was nothing new to further twist his stomach into a pretzel. He called Liz and asked her if she would join him for a late night dinner date after her shift at the hospital. She accepted (coldly) and then Montgomery took a long nap in anticipation of their rendezvous. He awoke from dreamless sleep a few hours before their meeting time and began cooking.
Reminiscing got him thinking about the chorizo style dish Michel had made for him oh so many years ago. Chorizo stateside was usually made with ground pork and was a bit of a mystery meat itself. He could probably get the meat to the right consistency if he chopped the hell out of it, but since this was the good stuff - Heather was grade A, choice meat, no fillers or additives or bad living to taint the flavor or toughen it up – he would make something in the spirit of chorizo.
A variant then.
He carefully cubed then finely diced up a pound and a half of superb quality Heather meat, creating a sort of delicate, faux chorizo ground mixture. In a large skillet he drizzled enough olive oil to coat the pan and then added chopped red onions and garlic. He let this cook until it caramelized and then added the faux chorizo. Once the meat browned and gave off a considerable amount of juice he added some sliced carrots and an equal amount of diced red and orange peppers. The dish simmered for a time to fully coalesce while Montgomery prepared some jasmine rice and a side of steamed cauliflower. When everything was just right he added a few eggs to the chorizo mixture and scrambled it all up
The dinner smells made his head swim with delight and his mouth watered so full with saliva that he had to swallow repeatedly to keep from drooling (
gross, but true).
He was just about finished around three a.m. when Liz got home from work. The timing couldn’t have been better. Montgomery greeted her with a rose, kissed her cheek and was pleased to see the ice from last night’s fight beginning to thaw. She took a shower and spent about thirty minutes getting ready while he added a few finishing touches and plated the delectable dish. He finished each serving with some cilantro and they finally sat down together just before four for a nice meal and (hopefully) some decisive conversation.
“This is quite lovely, Monty.” Liz closed her eyes and let her first bite go to work on her taste buds.
“It’s a variation on a friend’s dish.”
They ate and small talked about their day – Liz too tired for words, her residency killing her – Montgomery being a bit dramatic about his paranoia issue, barely able to hold it together, feeling worse for the wear over the guilt that ate at his insides.
Liz seemed to understand his worry a bit, she wrinkled her brow and squinted her eyes a little and nodded a lot, but it didn’t seem as if she was going to give in and admit defeat just yet. He really wanted her to say ‘I understand, Montgomery. No more killing. This is the last one. Let’s just enjoy it and move on,’ but she wasn’t ready to quit eating human flesh.
She commiserated a teeny bit and then quickly changed the subject. She didn’t want to start a fight. Montgomery wanted her to bend, but she was simply holding firm and he could appreciate her tact. They both understood that this was a battle of wills and he knew (and suspected she did as well) that in time he would win, reason was on his side – they couldn’t kill people any longer, enough damage had been done. They had to quit while they were ahead and keep a low profile. Liz had to know this deep inside, and Montgomery had the right to put his foot down and end their dangerous habit, he got her hooked and, as a courtesy, out of respect and love he had to exercise patience throughout the weaning process. It was going to be the hardest thing ever.
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