by Strand, Jeff
If the man took his business elsewhere, fine. Klaus could live with that. He would not compromise his deep-rooted morals. When he looked in the mirror, he would gaze into the eyes of somebody who refused to make cannibalism accessible to his customers.
Klaus pushed through the swinging door, prepared to offer the man fifty regular sausages for the price of forty-two.
The man lay facedown on the floor. Stefan pulled a knife out of the back of the man's head.
"Don't be mad," said Stefan, standing up.
"What have you done?"
"It was an accident."
"You stabbed him in the back of the head by accident?"
"Well, no, I stabbed him on purpose. But I didn't think he'd die, so that part was an accident."
"Why would you murder a customer?"
"He was rude! Oh, so very rude! Do you know what he said after you left?"
"What?"
"I can't say it. It's too rude."
"Say it!"
"He said..." Stefan frowned. "Now that I'm replaying the conversation in my mind, it may not have been as rude as I thought. His words are irrelevant. What matters is that he's dead."
"Oh, God!"
"We should probably lock the front door."
Klaus locked the door and drew the curtains. "Why would you do this, Stefan? Why? You'll be the end of us!"
"It was a moment of rage! You can't help moments of rage! If you'd been in the room when he said those innocuous things, you might have violently overreacted just like me!"
"This is disastrous!"
"It's not my fault that a knife was lying on the counter, waiting to be slammed into his skull. How could I resist? I'm not a monk!"
"But there was no knife on the counter. I keep them all in the back room. No reputable place of business would leave knives on their front counter. That's where the customers lean!"
Stefan scratched uncomfortably at the back of his neck. "Oh? I'm pretty sure that's where the knife was."
"Are you lying to me?"
"Never."
"Did you bring a knife into the shop with you?"
"Of course not. Where would I hide it?"
"Why are you wearing that jacket when it's so warm outside?"
"Exactly what are you accusing me of, sir?"
"I'm accusing you of sneaking a knife into my shop for the express purpose of stabbing a customer to death!"
Stefan let out a nervous chuckle. "That's silly. What happened, I assume, is that I was so dedicated to my work that I brought home a knife without even realizing it. Why, I probably had it with me all night. I'm lucky I didn't poke myself with it. Or maybe I did and was blaming the leg pain on ant bites."
"And your explanation for the jacket?"
"I have a hideous rash, sir. A rash far too hideous to be hidden by clothing alone. Without a jacket to cover it, you would have gasped in revulsion and sent me home to apply a balm to my skin, but I'm too loyal of an employee to abandon you like that."
"Just admit that you brought in a knife and stabbed him on purpose!"
"Okay. That's what I did. Sorry."
"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."
Stefan knelt back down next to the corpse. "My apologies."
"That was kind of weird," said Klaus. "I shouldn't have asked you to do it. But I'm in a state of shock! You have committed the heinous act of murder right here in my shop!"
"May I explain?"
"Please do."
"I truly believe that the only way to save Prechtel's Bratwurst is to make your product out of humans. People want to try cannibalism. It has replaced body piercing as the hot new fad. I knew that you'd never actually kill somebody, nor would you ever be so fortunate as to come into possession of a dead body by pure coincidence, so I killed that rude customer while you weren't looking. Now that he's dead, why not make bratwurst out of him? Seriously, why not? Can you give me one good reason?"
"I've never heard of that fad."
"Well, you are, as I said before, fairly old."
"Murderer!"
"One reason. Give me one good reason and I'll take it all back."
"How can you take it all back? He's dead!"
"That's how confident I am that you can't give me even one good reason."
"Here's a reason: it's against the law."
"Yes," said Stefan. "All right, that is indeed one good reason, and I'll also concede that you were correct in saying that I can't take back my act of violence. But isn't there also a law against serving bratwurst that's mostly rat hair?"
"Yes. There is."
"And...?"
"And I don't serve bratwurst that's mostly rat hair."
"You don't?"
"Of course not."
"What about that one time?"
"What one time?"
"No, wait, I'm thinking of a different bratwurst place. Oh, it was gross to bite into that one, believe me. But are you saying that you've never broken the law? What about speeding?"
"Are you comparing speeding to cannibalism?"
"No, but it's a crime, right?"
"Yes."
"So there's precedent. But you wouldn't even be the cannibal here. If somebody gets pulled over for speeding, is it the fault of the automobile manufacturer?"
"No."
"Then if you're making bratwurst out of dead humans, it's not your fault if people purchase and eat them, is it?"
"Are you suggesting," Klaus asked, "that I would sell bratwurst that I had not tasted for myself?"
"Well..."
"How dare you? You have to taste your own product to make sure that the texture and the blend of seasonings is correct! Do you truly believe that I would take no measures to ensure quality control? If I'm going to have so little pride in my craft, why not just saw off somebody's arm and put it in the display case?"
"An arm is not a bratwurst," said Stefan.
"You are a disgrace to the profession. The very idea! Of course I'd eat a human flesh bratwurst if I were selling it to the public!"
"Does this mean you're considering the idea?"
"No!"
"A man lies dead at our feet. He probably had a wife and multiple children. Shouldn't their loss mean something?"
"If I stabbed your mother to death, would it make you feel better if I ate her?"
"Don't threaten my mother!"
"This was hypothetical."
"Oh. Actually, yes. Yes, it would. I would be angry at you, naturally, but my sorrow would be a fraction of a percentage point less if I knew that she'd at least provided somebody with a fine meal."
"I don't believe you."
"Look, he's dead and there's nothing either of us can do without studying to become a necromancer, so why not take advantage of the situation?"
"You killed him for nothing!"
"I killed him for our business!"
"Our business didn't need him!"
"How can you say that?"
"Because there were already two dead bodies in the refrigerator!"
"Oh, shit," said Stefan.
"Two men died in here last night. I ground up their bodies and stored them in plastic tubs."
Stefan was silent for a long moment before he spoke. "I wish I'd known that. I wouldn't have stabbed the other man in the head."
"You're a monster!"
Stefan shook his head. "No, a monster would have killed him just to watch him bleed, or to receive orgasmic pleasure from the sound of his shrieks. I did it to help you. Why didn't you tell me you had human meat in the refrigerator?"
"You would have pressured me to make it into bratwurst!"
"So?"
"What do you mean, so? How many times have I said that I don't want to make bratwurst out of human flesh?"
"A lot. Far more than most people would say that sort of thing."
"Then leave me alone!"
"This is for your own good!"
"I can't take it anymore!" shouted Klaus, grabbing the knife. "Everywhe
re I turn it's 'cannibal' this and 'cannibal' that! If I wanted that lifestyle I'd have moved to South America to live in the jungle with some cannibals! I can't take it anymore!"
"Just to clarify," said Stefan, backing away, "you're swinging that knife to punctuate your points and not because you mean to stab me, right?"
"I'm swinging this knife because I've gone mad!"
"Homicidal mad, or twitchy mad?"
"I don't know yet! Did you know that I used to be a miner? And one time there was a cave-in, and six of us were trapped down there for days, and we began to starve, and we drew straws to see who would donate his arm to sate our hunger, and Frank lost, and we removed his arm with a pickaxe, and, yes, it took far more swings to get the job done than it should have, but we were exhausted and the pickaxe was dull, but when the other men cooked that arm with a lighter, do you know what I did?"
"Ate it?"
"No! I did the exact opposite. I refused to eat it. Even while I was starving and watching everybody else cheerfully gnaw away, and even while Frank was assuring me that he was okay with it and having a couple of nibbles himself, I knew deep in my heart that it was disgusting. And at that moment I vowed that I would neither eat nor sell food that is disgusting."
Stefan nodded. "I see your point, sir. And I'm sorry that I tried to steer you off the path you'd chosen. It will never happen again."
"Thank you."
"No more pressure."
"I appreciate that."
"Not even a bit."
"I am grateful."
"I keep emphasizing that point in hopes that you'll stop swinging the knife."
"Such things are out of my control now."
"Could you at least swing it a bit less wildly?"
"Sadly, no."
The blade slashed across Stefan's neck. His eyes widened and he clutched at his throat as blood squirted between his fingers. He dropped to his knees.
"I am sorry," said Klaus. "You were a hard working employee. In the end, though, I cannot forgive you for stabbing a customer in the head. How do you know he wouldn't have eventually changed his mind and decided to buy fifty standard sausages?"
"If you...sell my...meat...I'll know...you're...a..." Stefan fell onto his side. "...hypocrite."
Klaus placed two fingers on Stefan's neck to check his pulse.
"I'm still...moving around..." said Stefan.
"I know. Just getting my fingers in place."
Soon there was no pulse. Stefan was dead.
Klaus wept.
"All my life I've tried to do the right thing," he said, wiping away his tears as he dismembered the bodies. "I've never harmed anyone except cattle and swine, and always followed the path of peace and kindness. But if the circumstances of my life keep leading me toward the sale of bratwurst made from my fellow man, is it wrong to deny my destiny? Is God sending me a sign?"
And God spoke to Klaus.
"None of this was me," He said. "If you want to start selling human flesh in your shop, that's your free will, but it's all on you."
Klaus wasn't sure if he was really hearing God or if it was just a voice in his head since he'd gone insane. Probably a voice. It didn't matter; it hadn't been very helpful.
What should he do?
There was a knock at the door.
"Go away!" Klaus shouted. "We're closed!"
"But I'm here to talk to you about the importance of reusing our natural resources!"
"Come back tomorrow!"
Klaus sat on the floor for a while, lost in thought. Then he decided that his time spent lost in thought would be more productive if he worked while he was thinking, so he carried the body parts into the back room and began to grind up the flesh and bones.
The meat did not smell good.
What seasoning would one use on human flesh?
Pepper, certainly. Perhaps some garlic. Maybe a dash of cinnamon.
What was he thinking?
Certainly he wasn't actually considering this, was he?
Was he...?
* * *
"I'm bored with plain and ordinary bratwurst," said the first customer of the day. "Do you have anything new and exciting?"
Klaus smiled. "I have a brand new recipe that I'm sure you'll enjoy. Would you like a sample?"
The customer nodded with great enthusiasm.
Klaus handed him a slice of bratwurst on a toothpick. The customer popped it into his mouth and chewed.
"What do you think?" Klaus asked.
The customer began to chew more slowly. "What...what is this?"
"Do you like the flavor?"
"It's like nothing I've ever...it's...I'm sorry, it's really, really bad. I don't even want to swallow it. Is there somewhere I can spit? Please? It's an emergency."
"But it's the newest fad! It's human flesh!"
"Human flesh?" The customer spat it out onto the display case and began scraping his tongue with his index finger.
"That's impolite."
"Argh! Ugh! How could you do such a thing? Why would you offer me such an abomination? Argh! Ugh! I never imagined when I woke up this morning that today I'd become a cannibal! Argh! Ugh! Why, God, why? This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me! Argh! Ugh! I'll never visit this store again! Human flesh! I've tasted human flesh! I'll never be the same!"
The customer ran screaming out of the shop.
Klaus smiled. He'd been kidding. The bratwurst he'd given to the customer was not made from any of his victims. It was simply regular bratwurst with too much salt.
He'd flushed all of the human meat down the toilet. Not a single sausage was made from it.
He was an insane murderer, and his business was doomed, and the police would probably come looking for at least one of the four corpses, and his back hurt. But Klaus had not promoted cannibalism, and for now, that was enough.
STORY NOTES
"The Tipping Point"
I had to start this collection off with some crazy violence, right? I didn't want to make too blatant of a social/political point with this story, so while I'm not a huge fan of "What do YOU, the reader, think is happening?" I tried to leave it open to interpretation. I'm also more optimistic than the story; though we're seeing a lot of truly wretched behavior without consequences, I think that if the Tipping Point happened right now, it would be on the side of the good guys. My collections Gleefully Macabre Tales and Dead Clown Barbecue both opened with tales involving bad things happening to animals, so I hope the animal lovers appreciate that this time I only endangered a human baby.
"Nails"
When I was a kid, I was fascinated by this old picture of a guy who held the world record for the longest fingernails. I loved the way they curled around, and had my own ambition to have nails of such magnificent length. My mom, being a total killjoy, forbid me to spend the next several years growing fingernails that would essentially prevent me from using my hands for any constructive purpose. But she told me that when she was a kid, she'd heard about a guy whose fingernails grew right through his hand, and to emulate his glory, she'd kept her fingernails pressed against her palm. (It didn't work.) Somehow, the idea of fingernails growing out of control stuck with me for about four decades before finally becoming this story.
"Stumps"
I have to admit, if I were offered a shot at eternal life with the disclaimer that there was no magical healing, I'd probably take it and just try to be very, very, very careful. I would not, however, sacrifice somebody else to gain my eternal life, because that's a dick move.
"John Henry, The Steel Drivin' Man"
This story was written for an anthology called Out of Tune, edited by Jonathan Maberry, where authors picked a folk ballad and wrote a dark tale based on it. It took a lot of Internet research to settle on the actual song, but once I selected "The Ballad of John Henry" and came up with the central joke of the story, the words flowed like molten steel. However, when I write something that's on the high end of my silliness scale, there's always the wo
rry that the editor is going to respond with "What the hell were you thinking?!? This anthology pays professional rates and THIS is what you're sending me?!?" Fortunately, Jonathan Maberry either loved the story or fears me enough to say that he loved it.
"Fair Trade"
This is sort of a weird companion piece to my story "A Flawed Fantasy." I'd make a lot more money if I'd write stories where this sort of behavior worked out well for all of the participants.
"Chiggers"
I started writing this as a fairly standard "nature on a rampage" story, where a group of characters were trapped inside a small building while vicious blood-sucking chiggers tried to kill them. I liked the characters, but decided that I didn't really have any good ideas for how they'd stay in danger throughout a longer piece. So I got rid of the supporting characters and changed the nature of the chigger threat. Yes, the setup was always meant to be the beginning of a bug story, even though it could've been the start of an awesome crime novel.
"Cry"
I can't remember why I started to write about a guy rubbing habanero peppers into his eyes to make himself cry, and from paragraph to paragraph I had no idea where this story was headed. Sometimes that leads to dead ends (I am most definitely not one of those authors who finishes everything he starts), and sometimes, as with this story, it leads to very odd places.
"The Fierce Stabbing and Subsequent Post-Death Vengeance of Scooter Brown"
I have a fondness for writing jokes that are stretched out to the breaking point. (Ask the editor of my young adult novels.) This story has the rhythm of sketch comedy, which made it a lot of fun to write, though it was indeed meant to be a short story and not a performance piece. Would it work as well with actors reading it out loud? I dunno. It's been a looooooong time since I was in a creative writing class, but I enjoy knowing that somebody would have complained about it being told entirely through dialogue.
"It's Bath Time!"