God’s Own Butcher

flash fiction

Flash fiction from Black Tarn Publishing

God's Own Butcher

We’re in the back room, seedy and low lit, Ducasse sittin by the table and me leanin against the wall by the door. No one’s talkin. We’re watchin Hugo at work, Hugo the meatmeister, arms like marine rope, like you see holdin ferries to their moorings, that’s his arms. The cleaver rises — the knots of his arms tense — and drops with a sick thud, the limbs of the carcass on the table cleaved clean from the torso. One stroke, that’s all he needs, maybe two on the thighs, and the sweat is now gatherin at his neck, a dark trail now formin on the back of his shirt from his hairline all the way down the middle of his back. This is the third carcass he’s gone to work on, there’s no stopping the man. Ducasse gets up and steps over to the back wall, where there’s some kinda sexual torture device, all pulleys and leather, and Ducasse starts pullin at things tryin to suss it out, cunt even tries to strap his own leg into it. But I’m just watchin Hugo, the rise and fall of the cleaver like the run of time, the movement of his arm godlike and diabolical, God’s butcher he is, no man like him for choppin and cuttin. Hugo takes off the two arms and two legs, lays the cleaver by the head and turns to me.

Help me here, will ya? he says.

So I get up and we lift the two ends of the torso, me at the head — like, ever tried to lift a body with no arms? Fuck sake. We drop it on the back table.

Know what? Hugo says. I don’t like eatin Asian.

Don’t blame ya, Hugo, I say.

Too much salt in the diet. Fucks with the meat. There’s seasoning, and there’s over-seasoning. Enough with the fucken soy sauce, he says.

Well, you’d know, I say. I’ve never eaten one.

Stick to European, he says.  

Note: flash fiction and all other content is the sole work of Black Tarn. Ask before republishing.

Ducasse on the Ropes

ultan banan

Flash fiction from Black Tarn Publishing

Ducasse on the Ropes

Ducasse on the ropes, man-about-town, comes in all bluster n’blow, all over the show. Some man. Headcracked and jacket torn he wanders back in the bar, and the cunts in there wonderin where Big Mickey is, the one who dragged Ducasse out back only moments before, one of their own, hardest cunt among em. Big Mickey, Jagger Mick, Boulder Mickey, never been floored in a fight. Now this cunt, man of the road, comes in nosebleedin, jacket sliced up but no cuts on him. Mickey’s been swingin knives, and it’s just dawnin on em, I know it already but they’re just gettin it, if Big Mickey’s been swingin knives and Ducasse is still standin, then their man’s throat’s been cut. Bartender goes out back, slips outside, comes back in all pasty white like, seen something he has and we all know what it is — Dead Mickey’s what it is, and now they know it. I’m lookin at Ducasse, his jacket tattered, the black leather jacket of a rapist and maniac, and he goes over and sticks a tune on the jukebox, Iggy Pop he puts on, that’s what he plays, cause now he’s pumped. Goes and plants two fists on the bar, bloody fists and broken, looks at the barman, doesn’t need to say anything, the drink is set right up for him. Nobody’s fuckin with him now. Fucken Ducasse. Just wired and pumpin and sweatin.  

Ducasse takes a hard pull on his bottle and puts it back on the bar all controlled like, turns his attention back to the barman. ‘Know where I can get a ride round here?’ he says.

Note: flash fiction and all other content is the sole work of Black Tarn. Ask before republishing.