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An Old Friend For Dinner
Photo Courtesy: IWKing
Phil A. McGutt let out a gutturally contented sigh, inhaling deeply, the familiar fragrance of freshly flecked flesh. He was jostled awake by an unmistakable odour wafting through his nostrils. Yet fitful sleep deprived Phil of physical rest, but more offensively, of mental refreshment. Phil's eyes fluttered open, contentedly taking in his dimly-lit chamber. The only source of guiding light, a single flickering candle, had cast eerie shadowy shapes across the unkempt parquet linoleum floor, and spackled tile walls. The air was thick, with a dank musty odor of tattered cookbooks, and frightful macabre trophies. Even so, the savory scents that jostled Phil were calling to him, urging his waking.
As Phil stretched his chiseled arms above his head, he let out a long, satisfied cry; a decrepitly trite yawn, as if hailing the oncoming day's events. He felt an insatiable hunger welling inside himself; a pang that could only be sated by the taste of warm, succulent flesh. Phil snorted, climbed to his bare and calloused feet, and dusted off the well-worn wrinkles in his favorite flannel pajamas. Phil then made his way, over and upon the creaky floorboards, into the cramped kitchen, ignoring for now, the bits of gristly grit and slick sinew that clung to the cabinetry like a symbiotic slime. An unmistakable yet palatable odor, one that caught his now flaring nostrils earlier, and the reason for his untimely rise, was quite strong here, taunting him mercilessly.
He reached for the handle of the rusted and warped fridge, yanked it open; and before him lay a morose collection of earthenware, filled to the brim, with various odds and ends. Phil's searching eyes revealed a small stash of carefully preserved packages, brim-full of organs wrapped in bulging bags. They each and every one were labeled with quaint, meticulous scribbles and scratches; no doubt, decipherable by Phil alone. He reached in, grabbed a package, and slid it across the counter; upon which had lain a gleaming, razor-sharp butchering knife.
With practiced ease, Phil sliced through the taut twine that bound the package; revealing its precious contents within. He picked up a heart, still warm, and oddly pulsing. Phil then raised the meat to his lips, closed his eyes, and savored the delicious, life-giving nectar, as juice flowed down his gullet. Phil moaned in delight; relishing, the feeling of life itself, coursing through him, once more. He tossed the now lifeless heart aside, and reached for a liver: Phil's hands deftly unwrapping the yielding package, eager to taste the next morsel, however minuscule.
After each successive bite, Phil felt a surge of energy coursing through his veins: his senses sharpening, his muscles tensing, and his mind focusing. He was now wide awake and alert, yearning to begin his day, unabated. The afternoon sun peeked into Phil's home, cast its harsh, glinted glow through the kitchen window slats; and, bathed the room in a hard, uninviting light. Phil wiped his mouth clean with the back of his sleeve, and looked upwards toward his blood-smattered ceiling; then, out-stretched his lithe, and strong, arms once more.
Thereafter, in the kitchen, Phil cleaned up the mess, which he had made; and, had been there for quite some time: washed the remaining crimson, and grim gore, from the countertops, the cabinets; and, the walls and flooring. As he worked diligently, he hummed a soft, haunting dirge (a lullaby of sorts) the melody eerily at odds with the grisly task at hand. Finally, when everything was near spotless (but for faint wisps of flecked-flesh) Phil gathered up the empty packages and bag ties, toddled outside; and, deposited the refuse into a nearby garbage can. He paused (and but for a brief moment) allowed himself to forget his dark deeds of the day; to imagine that he was just an ordinary man, leading an extraordinary, ordinary life. But, Phil A. McGutt, knew better. A smile crept across his weathered face --- for upon this day, he knew that he had, most assuredly (and whole heartedly) just enjoyed, having an old friend ... for dinner.
© Travis Allen King aka DTH
Phil A. McGutt let out a gutturally contented sigh, inhaling deeply, the familiar fragrance of freshly flecked flesh. He was jostled awake by an unmistakable odour wafting through his nostrils. Yet fitful sleep deprived Phil of physical rest, but more offensively, of mental refreshment. Phil's eyes fluttered open, contentedly taking in his dimly-lit chamber. The only source of guiding light, a single flickering candle, had cast eerie shadowy shapes across the unkempt parquet linoleum floor, and spackled tile walls. The air was thick, with a dank musty odor of tattered cookbooks, and frightful macabre trophies. Even so, the savory scents that jostled Phil were calling to him, urging his waking.
As Phil stretched his chiseled arms above his head, he let out a long, satisfied cry; a decrepitly trite yawn, as if hailing the oncoming day's events. He felt an insatiable hunger welling inside himself; a pang that could only be sated by the taste of warm, succulent flesh. Phil snorted, climbed to his bare and calloused feet, and dusted off the well-worn wrinkles in his favorite flannel pajamas. Phil then made his way, over and upon the creaky floorboards, into the cramped kitchen, ignoring for now, the bits of gristly grit and slick sinew that clung to the cabinetry like a symbiotic slime. An unmistakable yet palatable odor, one that caught his now flaring nostrils earlier, and the reason for his untimely rise, was quite strong here, taunting him mercilessly.
He reached for the handle of the rusted and warped fridge, yanked it open; and before him lay a morose collection of earthenware, filled to the brim, with various odds and ends. Phil's searching eyes revealed a small stash of carefully preserved packages, brim-full of organs wrapped in bulging bags. They each and every one were labeled with quaint, meticulous scribbles and scratches; no doubt, decipherable by Phil alone. He reached in, grabbed a package, and slid it across the counter; upon which had lain a gleaming, razor-sharp butchering knife.
With practiced ease, Phil sliced through the taut twine that bound the package; revealing its precious contents within. He picked up a heart, still warm, and oddly pulsing. Phil then raised the meat to his lips, closed his eyes, and savored the delicious, life-giving nectar, as juice flowed down his gullet. Phil moaned in delight; relishing, the feeling of life itself, coursing through him, once more. He tossed the now lifeless heart aside, and reached for a liver: Phil's hands deftly unwrapping the yielding package, eager to taste the next morsel, however minuscule.
After each successive bite, Phil felt a surge of energy coursing through his veins: his senses sharpening, his muscles tensing, and his mind focusing. He was now wide awake and alert, yearning to begin his day, unabated. The afternoon sun peeked into Phil's home, cast its harsh, glinted glow through the kitchen window slats; and, bathed the room in a hard, uninviting light. Phil wiped his mouth clean with the back of his sleeve, and looked upwards toward his blood-smattered ceiling; then, out-stretched his lithe, and strong, arms once more.
Thereafter, in the kitchen, Phil cleaned up the mess, which he had made; and, had been there for quite some time: washed the remaining crimson, and grim gore, from the countertops, the cabinets; and, the walls and flooring. As he worked diligently, he hummed a soft, haunting dirge (a lullaby of sorts) the melody eerily at odds with the grisly task at hand. Finally, when everything was near spotless (but for faint wisps of flecked-flesh) Phil gathered up the empty packages and bag ties, toddled outside; and, deposited the refuse into a nearby garbage can. He paused (and but for a brief moment) allowed himself to forget his dark deeds of the day; to imagine that he was just an ordinary man, leading an extraordinary, ordinary life. But, Phil A. McGutt, knew better. A smile crept across his weathered face --- for upon this day, he knew that he had, most assuredly (and whole heartedly) just enjoyed, having an old friend ... for dinner.
© Travis Allen King aka DTH
