#my favorite thing is Jr just being like oh time to hang out with Mama Peach yay đ and everyones like omg he's been kidnapped again đ¨
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Ok so @tiny-prom and @casual-derg 's Player One Luigi AUs has had in a chokehold for a minute and I had to write a little thing for Villainess Peach....cause I love her đđžđđžđđž and this little Idea has been on brain for a minute.
The final Hammer bro clutched its right arm and its trembling legs ultimately gave out collapsing on the ground. Struggling to maintain consciousness, it summoned what little strength was left to glance from the red boot to her blue.
"You ..won't get away... with this...LuigiâŚHe'll stop you like always," it stammered out every word.
Princess Peach snorted with glee reverting her wand back to its battle axed state. She gave it a smirk and then her back before making her way to the throne room.
"Tell him I look forward to it." She said confidently.
Opening the doors to the chamber, as expected, she was met with an empty, bigger throne and a much smaller one beside it. Bowser made storming the place way too easy sometimes between leaving these goons he called as a defense and following his daily routine to a T. She might as well make herself comfortable for a bit, seeing as he wouldn't be back from his morning stroll for another hour. This Kingdom's so-called heroes must be out as well, seeing as no one came to the aid of the soldiers earlier. It was a special day, however, so it made some sense why they weren't around, she thought as she readjusted herself on the bigger throne. No more than ten minutes later did she hear the sound of footsteps approach the chamber, and in front of the opened door appeared her pride and joy.
"Dad, were you guys training the army again? I think you all went a little overboard." The prince commented in the direction of several laid out soldiers before letting out a surprise gasp."Mama Peach, " he yelled in excitement, running towards and jumping into her open arms as she stood up.
"Surprise," she said, pulling the koopaling into a tighter embrace. "Didn't I promise I'd come see you on your birthday?" She reminded him, smiling when she felt him nod in her neck.
"Thank you. Oh, Mama, " he pulled away to look at her."Were you the one who did that to everyone in the hallway? You should go easier on them next time, " Junior advised, looking back at the area once more.
"If I hold back, they'll never get stronger now, will they?" She asked, placing him down on the floor, giving him another smile as he sort of agreed. "I tell your dad that all the time, but I guess he's become rather complacent with those guys always around. Yes." Peach stated it as a fact more than a question.
"Luigi and Mario" The prince felt the need to clarify their names as he would always do. "They're the best fighters in the whole wide world," he praised, and she had to stop herself from outwardly grimacing.
"Yeah? Do you think they're even better than Mama?" She asked and giggled when he immediately went silent as he seemed to be thinking about it hard.
"Hmm, I can't decide who would win in a fight between you guys. Maybe a tie?" He concluded, not reaching a clear answer nor wanting to give it any more thought.
"A tie, huh? I'm glad you think so, son. " The Princess struggled a bit to maintain the calm and sweet demeanor in the presence of her child as she said that. It took her a few seconds to push the images of her losses to them into the back of her mind. "Well, you know mommy's can do anything, right? Even beat the best fighters in the world, " she told him, kneeling down to his eye level, and he nodded again.
The outcome would be different this time. Peach just knew that what she had planned would put an end to those guys once and for all. With them out of her way, Bowser would have no choice but to give into her demands. Finally, she would be able to raise her child how she wanted so that he could serve his purpose for the people. Letting her thoughts get ahead of her, she could feel a laugh undignified for a lady creeping up. Glancing at the clock, it appeared she only had about twenty minutes left till his Majesty would return if word hadn't reached him already about what went on not too long ago. If she didn't want her plans thwarted before having a chance to execute it, then it was probably best to get a move on.
"Junior, how about we -" she started and gasped, looking in every direction as if he had just vanished in thin air from where he was seconds ago. Switching from panic mode real quick, she once again reverted the battle axe to her wand mode just in case she ran into some minions daring to challenge her should they regain consciousness along her way.
Just as expected, Junior was in his mess of a room. Toys, crumpled up pieces of paper, bandana's, and art materials were scattered all over the floor while he was in the closet desperately searching for something. All she heard from him were "no's' ' , "not that", "how did this get in here" and saw the items being tossed out one after the other, She was starting to get antsy at Bowser returning and with those guys as well.
"Honey you shouldn't walk away when mama's deep in thought it's a little rude" she lectured "Oh but we simply must get going, I have a bunch of festivities planned for you back at the mushroom kingdom" Peach told him walking up to him at the closet.
"Found it!" He yelled in triumph, showing her a piece of paper with a drawing on it. Ignoring what she had just said, he pulled her arm so she'd lean down to look closer at the picture as he pointed to each figure. "That's Dad watching everyone from his seat, and that's Papa Luigi with huge muscles showing off his cool hammer. Right here, Kammy's fussing at Mario about something, I think he called her a funny name or something. Finally, me and you are over here holding hands and smiling. Do you like it?" He finished.
Peach focused on the image of the two of them for a little minute. She couldn't put a finger on it, but something was a little off about it. Then she caught it.
"Oh, what's that little thing on your head here?" She pointed to the picture of himself.
"That's your crown, can't you tell? You're not wearing it in the picture cause it's on me, " He told her as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "It reminds me of you since I don't see you all the time. At least on paper, I get to wear it just like you, Mama. Do you like it?" He repeated his question.
It took everything she had to hold back the tears of joy pricking at the corners of her eye. A son should never see his mother break down crying even if it is the happy sort. Winning the fight against her emotions, she took a deep breath before answering him.
"I love it. I'm happy to know you want to be just like mama sometimes. " She finished and started standing up before Juniors voice caught her attention midstand.
"You can have it. So whenever you miss me, you can look at the picture. " he handed it to her.
Peach held onto the paper with great care not to crease any of the already existing creases. Even with the addition of the four extra figures, Junior's art was perfect. So perfect, the thought of desecrating the portrait by cutting out the extra people as soon as she was alone with it exited her mind as soon as it entered. Yes, they could stay in pictured form she figured it'd be a good source to turn to should he find it difficult to produce some tears. Again, this plan is full proof, so he'd need many things to help him for the future.
"You're the sweetest." she placed her hand on top of his red hair and rubbed it softly. "But Mama's supposed to give you presents on your birthday." With a giggle, she stood up and reached for his hand. The boy took it, and she led him out of the room.
They walked a little ways outside the castle to the pipe she entered from. All while she promised him the best birthday cake and gifts he could dream of. The best part, though she reminded him, was that he was spending this special day with his mama.
#Super mario#Key posting#I'm so in love with this AU đ¤đ¤ I can't wait to see more of it đđđ#I hope I did the dynamics justice I kept looking back and forth at the concept art to make sure it felt just right#my favorite thing is Jr just being like oh time to hang out with Mama Peach yay đ and everyones like omg he's been kidnapped again đ¨#anyways hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it and thank you for sharing your art and ideas with us
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Happy FIRST Birthday!!
My Dear Baby Emmy,
Happy FIRST Birthday, my sweet girl! Â You are ONE today! Â I can hardly believe it! Â
This has been the very best year of my life, and your Daddy would say the same. Â You've helped us grow in ways we never imagined possible. Â In a way, we both grew together over the past year. Â You learned many things, and I learned many things. Â You ebbed and I flowed, and in many ways, you taught me more than I taught you. Â
And here you are, one year old already -- a lively, beautiful baby girl and you're bigger than life, darling. Â You're curious, super smart, persistent you know what you want, fearless (your Daddy calls you "wild child"), strong and so happy. Â
I still remember the first day you were born. Â Family members were in and out of our hospital room all day, it felt like such a whirlwind. Â That evening, the nurse took you to the nursery so you and I could both get some sleep. Â When she returned with you a few hours later I was so excited to see you. Â It was the middle of the night and quiet in our hospital room. Â Only you and I were awake. Â You opened your eyes and gazed at me. Â I had never seen anyone or anything more beautiful. Â And in that second, I learned what unconditional love meant. Â To this day, each morning I stare at you in the baby monitor as you sleep, so peacefully. Â The best part of my day is when you wake up. Â I come into your room and get you out of your crib, look in your eyes and I'm reminded of that love and this amazing adventure we get to go on together. Â
I asked your family members to put together some thoughts for you on your birthday, and here's what everyone had to say:
What do you remember about the day Emmy was born? ⢠Daddy: I remember a lot about the day Emilie was born. Mommy and I woke up early and got the hospital first thing in the morning. I think it was about 5:30 in the morning. I remember being so excited and nervous about what was going to happen. I thought I had prepared myself for what was going to happen, but when it all started I could believe how fast it all went. They wheeled Mommy down to the operating room to perform the c-section. There were massive bright lights and a large team of about 10 people there to deliver Emmy. Once the Doctors started Emmy showed up in what seemed like only moments. Mommy was comfortable and happy and we both cried with joy when we first met Emilie. Emmy cried too and we very excited we had a happy and healthy baby girl. The grandparents waited outside and couldnât wait to meet their new granddaughter. I also remember when we brought Emmy home. She hated her carseat and was the first true meltdown she had. It was the âoh shit, can we handle this?â moment. ⢠Uncle Brad: It was election season. ⢠Papa & Gigi: Today is your First Birthday!!  HAPPY BIRTHDAY PRECIOUS LITTLE ONE!!  One year ago, we were at the hospital around 8 a.m., with your other grandparents, cell phones in hand, waiting to hear from your daddy announcing your birth.  We kept waiting and wondering what was happening, because to us, it was taking so long.  Soon we got the word that indeed you were born, healthy and perfect.  We all hugged, cried with joy  and breathed a sigh of relief, thanking God for this precious little miracle he had blessed us all with.  Then we started to get some pictures, and heard your name, for the first time...."Emilie Harper Eckard"!!  After some special time with your mama and daddy we were allowed to come see you .  We all hugged and cried again and took turns holding and cuddling you with sheer amazement and delight. That day all our lives changed ,( for the better) for you had been born into our family and forever nothing would be the same! We love you with all our hearts, Papa and Gigi ⢠Maria: When I met you, Angela, for the first time, I felt a happiness and elation that was beyond measure. It was as if a huge puzzle piece had slid into place and I was finally complete. But the day I met Emmy, and held her in my arms for the very first time, the emotions I felt are simply unnamable. Here was this stunningly beautiful creature that was here because of me. And for reasons I can't begin to explain or understand, I was blessed beyond measure to have the privilege of holding her, the honor of being in her life and getting to watch her grow up! Words just can't do justice to the depth of emotions I felt that day, but it's a day that I will remember for the rest of my life!! Describe a fun or favorite memory you have of Emmy's first year ⢠Daddy: So many memories. Iâll never forget the first steps you took on July 10th, 2017. We were playing in your new playroom and you were hanging on the baby swing. You turned around and walked straight to me! Iâll also remember the first time you rolled over and Mommy and I got too excited and you started balling. ⢠Uncle Brad: Cheeks, very large cheeks. ⢠Mommy:  Daddy and I are always so excited when do you do something for the first time.  The first time you said Dada, the first time you said Mama, the first time you crawled, your first bite of ice cream, but one of my favorite "firsts" was the time you rolled over.  We knew it was coming for a few days so Daddy had his Go Pro camera out and ready while you two were practicing.  Before we knew it, you had slowly rolled over!  Daddy and I let out a squeal of excitement so loud that it scared you, you rolled back and started crying!  Another favorite memory I'll always cherish was our first family trip to Florida!  I was so excited to take you to the beach, and it was every bit as fun as I imagined.  We walked on the beach and you felt the sand between your toes.  You watched as the waves came crashing in on the shore.  We swam in the pool and had the best time just the three of us. What do you think Emmy will be when she grows up? ⢠Daddy: Emmy is going to be very smart, hardworking and travel the world. I think sheâll be a successful business person. Maybe in marketing â selling as seen on TV products just like her dad wants to! Or maybe sheâll be in the fashion industry introducing the latest trends to the world. ⢠Uncle Brad: a pilot ⢠Gigi & Papa: Emmy, I don't know what you will be when you grow up, but whatever you CHOOSE to be, YOU CAN BE .  Never let anyone or anything stifle your dreams. You may fail or have set backs but try try again. Our short comings make us stronger, fighters for our beliefs, and firm in our commitments.  I know your mom and dad will instill the virtues of honesty, trust, belief in oneself, belief in God, love of family, and so many more moral and life lessons.  Listen to your heart and treat others fairly.  With your mom and dad guiding you, and with God always by your side, you will succeed.  So DREAM BIG little one⌠I hope I will be around to hug, kiss and congratulate you on your accomplishments!!  I know you will make us proud! ⢠Mommy:  When we're out and about, you love people watching.  You give even strangers the biggest, gummy smiles and giggles.  Your favorite thing is to engage with other people and make them smile :)  When you grow up, I think you'll be into theatre or acting, or maybe a doctor or nurse. ⢠Maria: A leader. In what field I can't say yet, but Emmy already has such charisma!! She has such an exuberant way about her that people will just naturally follow her. I can't wait to watch where she goes in life!!!  Describe what the world is like when Emmy turns 21 ⢠Daddy: Itâs hard to think that 2038 will be here soon. People will have landed on Mars. Cars drive themselves and no one remembers when phones had actual buttons. Kids get cell phones (or whatever the next type of device is) in kindergarten and learn how to code instead of foreign languages. Paper money is rarely used and a fingerprint can be used to pay almost everywhere. ⢠Uncle Brad: The Cubs had their title revoked due to a pine tar jar found in the mayor's car.  The Blues are still not getting past the 2nd round.  No one's shirt is untucked, ever⌠Trump Jr. is President and about 10% of the human race is living on Mars where Canada now resides. ⢠Gigi & Papa: Dear Emmy, When you turn "21", I am certain the world will be very different than when I grew up and even more so than even today.  Technology is taking over.  Lots of things I grew up using are now obsolete.  Some things are for the best, but I cannot say that for everything.  Everything will be ordered on line.  Cars will drive and park themselves.  Fingerprints will  be the chosen form of identification.  Maybe you will live on the moon or at least travel there!  That sounds pretty cool.  As you get older, it's hard to accept change.  Us senior citizens dwell in the past and sometimes shun progress.  Life is what YOU make it! Kudos to you young folk who see the world differently and challenging .  How ever the world is,  Make it the best it can be for you and your loved ones and be happy!  Love you "21 year old" ⢠Mommy: There are driverless cars, we are traveling and vacationing in space, cancer will be cured, computers will surpass human intelligence, cable tv will be gone and replaced by on-demand tv, virtual reality gaming will allow for multiple people across the world to play games in real life, health treatments are genetically tailored, healthcare will  be a team effort between you and your Dr, with education playing a big role, technology will keep your Dr updated on your health in between office visits.  First Birthday wishes for Emmy ⢠Daddy: I wish that Emmy has another great year of learning, fun and happiness. I canât wait to hear the words you learn next and playing with you gets more fun every day. I love you! ⢠Uncle Brad: Happy Birthday Emmy!  Can't wait to watch you grow up and fly our space craft to Mars! ⢠Auntie Jocelyn:  Emmy, I cannot believe you are turning one! You have been such a blessing to all of us.  Seeing your Mom become your Mommy has truly been one of the most beautiful things to witness.  I wish I lived closer to you, but I know things will change soon and we will be able to see you more! I hope this next year brings you all the love and happiness in the world.  You are the most beautiful little baby and I could not be more blessed to be your auntie!  Happy Birthday baby girl!  I love you! ⢠Mommy:  Dear Emmy, On your first Birthday and each of your coming Birthdays, I wish you all the wonderful things that life has to offer: love, laughter, cake (and ice cream), adventures,  great friendships, passion, hopes and dreams that are realized. I love you so much! ⢠Maria: Emmy, may you always know how much you are loved by so many! Happy birthday, sweetest girl ever!!!
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The Butcherâs Duty
"Never forget what you do. Never forget that when you stand on the border of life and death, on the border of animal and meat, you have a duty. Have a duty. Damn, that always was Big Cassâs favorite phrase."Â
This was written for @bogleech âs CreepyPasta Cook-off last year, but didnât make it in time to be entered.Â
The struggle of writing a butcher character that could be sympathetic, even to those who don't believe in meat, gave rise to something far different from what I originally intended (and is one hundred percent why I couldnât finish it in time). Heredity, rules, and, of course, duty, are the themes of this horror piece.Â
WARNING: it's about a slaughterhouse, so animal death, slaughter, and loads of gore await.
(((Reposted from my main website, ��https://dionovertoun.com/ )))
There used to be a guy at my dadâs slaughterhouse, name of Cassius âBig Cassâ Bigsby. People are real jokers, I guess, but it was one of those rare nicknames that perfectly fit him. Big Cass wasnât a tall man, but he was solid, muscles like steel and a neck like a bull. He was my dadâs only black employee, and he worked a job most would call gruesome.
Big Cass had a big hammer that he used to stun the animals before they were stuck. Every animal that came through my dadâs slaughterhouse met Big Cass, then they met God. They never even saw the sticker, or the knives, or whatever. Just Big Cass and his hammer, then nothing. Big Cass would never let an animal pass him by that was still conscious, still kicking, still frightened. He didnât care how much it slowed production, how long the line behind them was. If they were still conscious, he brought that hammer down until they wasnât.
He said it was his duty to them. Before anyone has to face a knife, he said, they deserved to be asleep. Forcing anyone to confront their death? Thatâs too cruel, he used to tell me, cleaning that hammer off, blood on our rubber boots. If thereâs no way around death, and there isnât, then those alive, those humans who are good as God to animals, have a duty.
Have a duty. That was Big Cassâs favorite phrase.
Growing up, Big Cass was my hero. You know those little papers teachers have you write, about your personal hero? I wrote my paper on Big Cass, marched right up to the front of the classroom with my pigtails and gingham dress, told those kids that my hero was a big black man with a big hammer that stunned animals for a living.
It was 1970âs America in a Deep South small town. You can only imagine how well that went over.
And I didnât understand, either. Didnât understand how nobody could see that Big Cass was an angel of mercy, good and Godly, practically a saint for butchered animals. My teacher even called my daddy in to have a talk about it. âSomething Bonny wrote really concerned meâŚâ
Daddy told her she was being ridiculous, but in the car on the way home, he did tell me that I ought not to run my mouth so much. I ought to think before I spoke. What did I think was gonna happen, saying something like that?.
Big Cass and his wife liked the paper though. When I went through Mamaâs stuff after she passed on, me and her daughter Nevaeh, we found it in a box with some other letters and pictures. There were stains on the corners where  someone, over and over, with dirt and grease and whatever else on their thumbs, had turned the pages.
âOh, Bonny Joy,â Nevaeh said, shaking her head. âYou and that damn slaughterhouse!â
We all inherit things from our parents. Nevaeh inherited Big Cassâs solid build and Mamaâs good spirit. Me? I inherited sharp eyes and the slaughterhouse, and all the responsibilities associated with it.
In all my life, that slaughterhouse is the only constant. Even roads change, even their names get switched as different municipal councils rise and fall from power. The land itself buckles and warps to fit the whims of the men with the money. They bulldozed the neighborhood I grew up in, replaced it with a suburban labyrinth and strip malls, but that was fine because by that time Iâd gotten Mama a real nice house like the one sheâd always deserved, in a much nicer part of town.
Big Cass left me. Daddy left me. Nevi and I became women, Cassius Junior became a man. Mama became an old woman, and eventually she had to leave me, too.
But the slaughterhouse stands there among it all, unchanging in all these years. The same paint colors. The same layout. The only thing that changes there are the people within, and the carcasses in the freezer.
In a world of change, itâs nice to have something you know you can cling to. A little bit of flotsam. Time is always a-tricklinâ on, yâknow, but in the slaughterhouse, there is no time. Thereâs only the work, only the stream of animals into meat, only money into meat into money. Only the work, and the abattoirs and freezers, only the walls and the floors and the drains all swollen full of blood.
In the slaughterhouse, there is only the slaughterhouse is only the slaughterhouse is only the slaughterhouse, for as long as you stand within its boundaries.
My real mother run off when I was only about four. Daddy said it was probably his fault, on account of his odious personality, one time when he was very drunk and putting sausages in the smoker. Probably his fault. I always figured that his personality may have needed work, but that a real mother woulda stayed for her child, or at least taken her with her.
Iâm glad she didnât, of course. I have my family here, and my slaughterhouse. My whole life is here. I just wish my daddy didnât take all the blame onto himself.
One of my first memories is in the house I grew up in. Mamaâs got me in her lap, patting my hair with those smooth hands that smell like cold cream, and Iâm eating fried chittlins hand over fist from a plate balanced on my knees. Neviâs sitting at Mamaâs feet, playing with her doll but keeping an ear on the proceedings. Occasionally, she reaches up, and I drop some chittlins into her waiting palm. We recently traded places, see. Before, Nevi had been in Mamaâs lap, getting her hair braided. But now sheâs on the floor, and I have to ensure she gets her chittlins. I take this duty very seriously, I recall, serious as a heart-attack.
Daddyâs counting out a big pile of cash while Big Cass looks on, drinking a soda pop. Daddy sits up and sighs, leans back and pushes hair out of his face.
Something about a new, open-air abattoir. Something about rent. Big Cass scoffs and dismisses the whole notion. Why would he make Daddy pay rent? So long as he contributes to the household and doesnât start trying to mooch. Ainât they best friends? Maybe put that money towards college for the kids, though, and that abattoirâs a good idea. You donât have to worry âbout all that yet. Just let yourself feel better first, Jim.
Just let yourself heal. Youâll be over Becka before you know it.
âMiss Bigsby, I want ketchup!â I said. Back then I didnât call her Mama, not yet.
âMe too, me too!â Nevi said.
So we went to the kitchen and finished off the chitlins, and then I brushed my teeth with Nevi and we went to sleep. It wouldnât be until later, with more context, that I realized what had happened.
From since I can remember, my daddy has slept in the spare room of the Bigsby household, and me in Nevaehâs. I donât remember the inside of the house they had me in. When my mother left him, Daddy sold that house away and moved in with Big Cass.
It was crowded as all Hell, six people in that little house, always trippinâ on each other. But we all got real close. Well, I got real close with everyone, that is, and they got close with me. Daddy? He stayed distant.
He and Big Cass were a lot alike, but I could tell that Big Cass made the effort to reach his children, to reach me. My daddy was content in his solitary orbit, and never reached out. He put meat on his block, put money in the bank, and showed up when it was required of him.
The closest we ever was, was in that slaughterhouse. There, me and Daddy werenât child and parent; we were co-workers, an employee and their boss, and amongst the hanging carcasses and the constant need for cleanup, we were together.
âBonny, boil these knives. Bonny, mop the floor, that fucking Sanders tracked his boots all over my tile floor again. Bonny, check the chutes, fix the joists. BonnyâŚâ
All my life, my daddy only ever told me he loved me just a handful of times. But in that slaughterhouse, a clap on the shoulder and a âjob well done, Bonny,â was far sweeter, far more heartfelt, than any âI love youâ could ever be.
My dad never told me how to deal with boys, with bullies, never did anything like that. Instead, I had Mama, and, when he could manage it, Big Cass.
There was always something on his mind. I could see it, even then, and so could everyone else. It was eating him alive. But he never said nothing. I did my best to be a good guest and a good friend, and Nevaeh bent over backwards making life easier for him.
We knew that whatever it was, Big Cass would never tell us. He would let it eat him hollow, and take it to his grave. Something that bad, heâd never put on little girls, not even his own son or his wife. He kept it inside, let it ferment, and did the best he could. All me and Nevaeh could do was try to lighten the rest of his burdens.
Me and Nevaeh, we were real close, from day one. Same age, same interests (outside of the slaughterhouse, which Nevaeh was terrified of). We had our doll family and played house in the front yard every day, slept in the same bed until we were teenagers. Cassius Jr pulled my pigtails and put my doll where I couldnât reach her, but I suspect if I had a biological brother, heâdâve done the same thing, so once I grew up I didnât mind that too much.
We was a family. A family with two broken add-ons nailed to it, sure, but we was family. I inherited everything I am from them. And even when things got real bad, they were there for me. Through thick, through thin. Like a real family should.
I musta been about thirteen. Night had fallen a while ago. But I was busy cleaning the open-air abattoir. Deer season had just opened up, so we were doing a lot of processing. Cherry-red blood from over a dozen bucks and a handful of does slicked the floor, and there were buckets of offal and severed legs to be sorted, sanitized, and put away for tomorrow.
We do good business selling waste product to a rendering plant upstate. I was sorting it into shipping containers and hauling those into the front cooler. It was old, from when the building was brand new way back when, and currently full of deer carcasses.
Heads with the pelts hanging from them dangled on one side, and the skinned carcasses that were to be turned into venison on the other. Between them, naked heads, ready to be European-style mounted. You always think of the full shoulder mounts when you think of deadheads, but Euro mounts are way cheaper, and Daddy had me and Junior do them, since all you gotta do is boil and scrub off the meat. We had a man that did the real deadheads, the stuffed ones, but Daddy had his kids to do the Euro mounts. Didnât even have to pay us extra.
He tried to get Nevaeh to do it, too, but she refused, and Mama said that if her girl didnât wanna boil no damn deer head, she didnât have to. Growing up, I teased Nevi for being a weenie, but now that Iâm older I feel pretty bad about it.
Itâs amazing, how growing up with something desensitizes you to it. Took me years to realize just how freaky people found my job. I mean, I thought it was a little gross sometimes, like when we prepared chitlins, but I didnât realize how bad slaughterhouses freak people out.
So Iâm hauling the containers, putting them up against the back wall. One of the coolers has been putting up a hell of a racket recently, but I been putting off actually fixing it and buying the replacement. Thatâs what I get, I suppose.
There was a horrible, mechanical stink coming from it, and, as I straightened up, popping my back, a crash. And the fucker started blowing hot air. I shouldnât have to explain why thatâs a disaster waiting to happen.
âOh no oh no oh no oh noââ I climbed up on the lid of one of the containers and just stared at the cooler, not knowing what the Hell to do. âPlease, please, donât do thatââ
The hot air was thick as fog in my mouth, in my throat. Already, in what I assumed was my panic, the meat and blood smell was stronger, already spoiling.
I slammed my hand on the cooler a few times, but, shockingly, this failed to have any effect. And I burned my hand.
I jumped down, and started to pace. It was late at night, I doubted any place was open. We had a replacement, of course, still in its box in the side storage unit, but I didnât think I could get it lifted by myself, let alone install it. Hell, I couldnât even uninstall the one that was in. Daddy was gonna be pissed if I woke him up for this.
All I could do was call the house, though, and pray that he wasnât the one that answered. I unplugged the broken AC and shut the cooler door, hoping that would preserve as much of the cold as possible.
After a few rings, during which I swear I aged twenty years, someone picked up.
âHello?â
âBig Cass!â I gasped, more relief than shock. âBig Cass, can you come to the shop? One of the coolers just blew, I need help, please donât wake my daddyââ
âCalm down, Bonny Joy.â My teeth clacked together. âYou just wait in your daddyâs office for me. MeânâJunior will be there soon as we can.â
âYes, sir.â
âIn the office. Wait in the office.â
Well, I tried. But it was twenty minutes from their house to the shop, nevermind whatever tools heâd wanna pick up or how long it would take him and Junior to get ready. I couldnât sit still. I just couldnât.
I paced for a little bit, but Daddyâs office was way too cramped for that. Finally, throwing my hands up, I went to the back abattoir, flicked on all the lights, and started pacing from end to end, almost sprinting in my nervousness.
My footsteps and the buzz of fluorescent lights were sort of a music in my ears as I ran. A snare drum and a timpani. I wanted to go look at the cooler, but I was scared of letting out the cold. Spoiling the meat.
âShoulda just put in the new cooler, shoulda just, shoulda justââ
The air was thick in my throat. Humid, though it was autumn and getting pretty nippy out in the world. Ragged with the iron-rich stink of blood and meat. Rotting, rotting, rotting because Iâd been cheap and lazy. The lights flickered, and I was thinking, great, those are gonna go out too. Great. I done really fucked up now, ainât I?
Something in that empty space caught me around the ankle.
I hit the ground, unable to catch myself. I put my hands out but they slipped on cement far slicker than it ought to have been. The lights flickered wildly, all in a different rhythm, but not for long: they all synched up by the time Iâd rolled over, inspecting my skinned palms.
I heard footsteps behind me. There werenât no doors off in that direction, and Daddy didnât raise no fool. Leastaways, he did his best, and pure terror did the rest. I kept my eyes on my palms.
It was behind me. Huge and sticky. As tall as the ceilings. It was staring down at me. It was angry. It stank of fresh-opened steer, or pig, or deer, or anything, really. That thick, velvety smell, too rich to be called metallic for all the iron spilled. Innards and death.
The smell coats the inside of your nose when you smell it. Thereâs no other smell quite like it, the smell of insides. It coats your nose, your throat, your mind, thereâs no mistaking it when you smell it. You know what youâre smelling, something deep inside and ancient as the seas knows what itâs smelling and it donât like it, not one bit.
The smell of it was in me, and it was on me, too, slimey on my skin, wrapping around me like a wet sheet. Heavy, constricting. The flickering lights faded away. All there was in the whole world was that smell.
I donât recall if I was shaking or not. My first instinct is to say I wasnât. I was past the point of trembling. I was waiting for it to nab me.
It didnât. It stayed behind me, impossibly massive and reeking. It didnât move and neither did I. There was no breath on my neck but Iâd have preferred if there was, I think. Iâd have been able to run, if there was. If it needs to breathe, you can outrun it. You can outrun, outmaneuver, anything what lives.
If it werenât breathing, it werenât alive, and who knows what the dead or never-living are capable of? I kept myself parked right where I was until Big Cass showed up, hands in front of my face, elbows wobbling with the effort of keeping them in place.
The front door opened, and the lights all came back on, the buzz filling the once-again empty space. That smell, though, it was slower to leave, and still present when Big Cass came into the back abattoir.
âBonny!â That was Junior. He hustled forward and picked me up by both elbows. âDone tripped over them big feet, didnât you?â
âI told you to wait in the office,â Big Cass said.
There wasnât a trace of anger in his voice, and that was how I knew Iâd really pissed him off. Heâd sprinted past anger and into concern, past his disobeyed orders and right to my wellbeing.
I wanted to apologize. I did. I opened my mouth to do it and everything. When I did, though, all that came out was my dinner, all over Juniorâs front. Junior flung himself back and swore, and I tried to apologize to him, too. More vomit. More vomit than I thought I had in my whole body.
âYou lay down, Bonny Joy Cook, and it better be in the office this time,â Big Cass warned.
I wasnât gonna argue after that. I curled into the loveseat crammed into the corner and listened to them installing the new AC. My head was swimming, my throat still raw, the smell of puke and offal swirling together into one misty odor that pulsed with my heartbeat. Throbbed with every hammer blow and indistinct word between father and son.
Whatever had been in that abattoir, it was angry. And I would do my best to make sure it never had cause to be angry with me ever again. Some lessons you only gotta learn once.
Now you might be sayinâ about here: Bonny, why didnât you just leave? Surely you coulda. Daddy and Big Cass woulda understood. And if they didnât, Mama definitely would have, Mama and Nevaeh, theyâd have been on your side.
But that slaughterhouse has been in my family for generations, ever since the town was founded thatâs been my familyâs slaughterhouse. My Daddy never even talked about college, about other careers, and it wasnât until I was well into adulthood that I started to wonder myself.
There was never any question. That slaughterhouse would one day be mine, the way it had been his. And then it would go to my firstborn, too, or more likely whoever didnât have a choice. Itâs a different day and age today from the one I grew up in.
I couldnât leave it. To do something, first you gotta realize you have the choice.
And itâs a damn good thing I stayed for it, too. I grew up there, I knew that place inside and out. I knew the rules. No animal gets killed while it still knows how to fear death, no man who bleeds on the job gets put back on the floor. The owner is the first one to come into work, and the last one to leave. No man whose job it is to kill drinks or does drugs, and if his wife says he hit her, he loses his job and he loses his wife and kids.
Never forget what you do. Never forget that when you stand on the border of life and death, on the border of animal and meat, you have a duty. Have a duty. Damn, that always was Big Cassâs favorite phrase.
If that slaughterhouse went to someone who didnât realize they had a duty, the Good Lord only know what trouble they could have caused. Not even their fault, not really, because if you donât realize⌠but it would have been trouble. Real trouble.
This other time, when I was maybe six but mostly likely five, I reckon, I was cleaning the lobby. I had swept the floor, mopped it, shaken out all the rugs, and now I was cleaning all the windows. My daddyâs slaughterhouse had the cleanest lobby you ever saw, because he believed God gave people children to do manual labor until they moved out and had their own kids to do the same. Very old-fashioned type of guy, my daddy was.
I tossed paper towels at the garbage basket as I used them up, pretending I was a basketball superstar, as one does. Of course, after a bit, as I got further and further and the angle got weirder, I missed. Bounced that sucker off the rim and into the back, where the freezers were.
I just figured I was getting a bit funny-headed from the smell of Windex and tottled off to pick it up. Well, it had gone a ways back there past the freezers and into the back abattoir, soaking up blood and stuff and getting real nasty.
Daddy didnât like me wandering around in the back abattoir all willy-nilly. It was a dangerous place and the work was especially gorey, and back then he made an exception because he didnât want to turn me into some sort of disturbed child. The boys were hanging up hogs (it was winter, then, winter is hog season, and all the colder in the back for the coldness outside) and Big Cass was standing by the chute, raising that hammer for the stunning blow.
It was full of noise and chaos, clattering boots and squealing hogs and men shouting. I waited for someone to notice me, or the trash, and get it taken care of. Watched the work with the mild interest of a child, feeling a little thrill at having seen what Daddy said I wasnât allowed to.
A worker came up and fetched the crumpled-up towel for me. He was wearing a jacket with the hood up and drawn tight under the usual equipment, and sunglasses and a face mask so I couldnât recognize him, couldnât hardly see his face. If Iâd been a bit older that might have given me a scare, but as it was, I just chalked it up to someone being sick, or really, really not wanting to inhale pig blood.
âThank you, sir,â I said, because if I didnât tack on âsirâ or âmaâamâ Mama used to give me a pinch.
He said nothing, but put his hand on my shoulder and urged me forward. We passed the freezers and went into the office, and I put the paper towel in the trash like a good little worker.
I turned back to the worker. He was standing there, silent, no emotion visible past his concealing clothes.
âYou sick?â I asked.
He shook his head âno.â I nodded, and went to sit down. I thought it would be rude to go back to cleaning while I was talking to someone. When he had to go back to work, he would, and I would as well, but for now, small talk was required.
âYou work for my daddy a long time?â
âYes.â He nodded vigorously. It was odd to see it, because the rest of his body was stock-still and relaxed-looking (hard to tell exactly past all the protective gear and with only a five-year-oldâs reckoning of the world), so it was like it was bouncing on a spring. I giggled, hoping he didnât know it was at him or heâd tell Daddy and Iâd get in big trouble for being rude.
âMy nameâs Bonny, whatâs yours?â
The mysterious worker said nothing. I pouted, I recall being very upset that I was going through so much trouble to be polite and he was being so rude. Crossing my arms over my chest, I stomped my feet, bouncing the laces on my shoes, and fixed my sternest look on the worker.
âI said, whatâs your name?â
Still nothing.
âIâm gonna tell my daddy you were mean to me and heâs gonnaââ
As if on cue, Daddy came in from the front, from shaking hands and saying goodbye to one of the customers dropping off the hogs. His eyes fell on the worker, and his face⌠it went through all sorts of interesting changes, from white to red to sweaty, eyes bugging then narrowing in turn, and finally to normal. He put his shoulders back, and gave me a such a look.
âBonny Joy Cook, didnât I tell you to wash these windows?â he rumbled.
âDaddy, heâs being mean to me!â I declared, with maximum dramatic effect. Lord, I was a brat about it. âHe wonât tell me his name!â
He transferred his look from me to the worker.
âI donât pay you to bug my daughter, I pay you to butcher hogs!â he said. âGet back out there.â
The quiet man nodded, and waved at me. I stuck out my tongue at him. Shoulders shaking as though with laughter, but still silent, the man turned on his heel and disappeared out the back door.
âHe was mean,â I complained, the second I thought he was out of earshot.
But Daddy wasnât looking at me. He wasnât even looking at the back door, though his face was pointed that way. I could tell that he wasnât looking at nothing but his own thoughts.
Where the man had been standing, there were bloody boot prints. I said as close to a cuss as my little girl self would let me (âfiddlesticks!â) and went to clean them up. The blood was thick and almost black, more sludge than liquid, and it took a fair bit of scrubbing to get it all the way up.
âGross,â I told the soiled paper towels, as though it was their fault.
âFinish them windows, Bonny Joy,â Daddy murmured.
He ruffled my hair, and went back to his office. The door shut with a very final-sounding crack, and, still miffed at my treatment, I went back to my task. By the time he came out, all the windows were spic and span.
I watched the workers file out that evening, trying to determine which one of them had insulted me. They all said âgoodbye, Bonny Joyâ just as nice as you pleased, and I made a note of all their names. None of them had the hooded jacket Iâd seen before, and all their faces were exposed and, if not smiling, at least relieved to have the workday over.
None of them looked right. The mystery worker was tall, and he had big long arms and big olâ hands. I had figured he was just a big man, the same way Big Cass was. Back then, all big hands were about the same to me; didnât realize the limit on just how big most human hands can get.
When they were all gone, I went looking through all the freezers and rooms. I checked the offal room and the abattoir, every closet and changing room. I even went into the showers and peeked behind all the curtains.
âWho you lookinâ for, Bonny?â Daddy asked, following a few feet behind me.
âThe rude man! He didnât leave.â
âIt was probably just one of the regular guys. Looked like Fred Holland to me,â he said.
âFred got real tall,â I commented. âItâs empty hereâŚâ
He picked me up and took me back to his car, despite my protests that I could walk just fine. He buckled me up, locked up shop, and we drove back home in silence. That night, we had sausage and beans. When I went to sleep, I dreamed about the mystery worker, standing over the bed and staring, lights from outside reflected on his sunglasses.
I thought it might be real, but when I got up, there was nothing. Man, was I pissed that I had such a dream. I probably only remember him at all because of how angry I was that his rude self had disrupted my dreams.
I didnât have too many friends aside from Nevi and Junior. Whether it was living with a black family or being the butcherâs girlâshit, probably bothâthere were a lot of people who didnât want to spend any amount of time anywhere close to me. It didnât bother me much, not until I got into high school and got bit by the socialization bug.
Worse than not having many friends was having a few people who, for better or worse, whatever service I did them and the rest of the community, that I was their enemy. Or at least, a fun punching bag.
Big Cass told me not to let it get me down. That so long as I knew I was in the right, so long as I was the bigger person, it didnât matter what people thought. Mama told me they were just sad little people trying to make themselves feel better. Daddy told me that if it bugged me so much, start fighting people.
I considered taking Daddyâs advice, but, luckily for me, even then it seemed a little spotty.
It was deer season once again, and two boys from school came late with an unimpressively young, few-pointed buck. Daddy was getting dinner at the burger joint on the edge of town, so it was up to me to handle them. I kept my eyes on the floor and filled out all the paperwork, and the boys were just as polite and quiet. I thought it was just awkwardness. I never suspected a thing.
âCan we take a look in the freezer?â one asked.
âSure. Lots of good bucks this year.â
I led them to the freezer. Flicked on the light and undid the latch, forced the heavy steel door open. Didnât have it but wide enough to fit myself before I felt a good, hard shove at my back.
I shoulda suspected something. I really should have.
The door clanged as they yanked it to, and before I could even start pounding, the lights were out. They were laughing, choking on hysteric gouts of cackling. They didnât even say anything. Didnât taunt me or nothing. They just fucking laughed.
I screamed. I wasnât scared, just pissed. Too angry with them to think about the smell of blood and meat, the skinned bodies hanging around me. Anyway, dead bodies werenât scary for me.
âYâall can keep your money and keep your buck!â I remember shrieking. âYâall can just go and never come back!â
I knew my daddy would be there soon to let me out. I knew heâd be furious with them, that their parents would be getting a call and no mistake about it. I wasnât scared of dying in there. I was just soâsoâso angry, so hurt. All Iâd even done was my job. All Iâd even done was my duty.
There was a box with some old knives in it on one of the shelves. They werenât good for cutting anymore, but a good sharpening and theyâd be alright for the kitchen or Goodwill or something like that. Daddy had them in there because most of the time, it was out of the way of everything else, a good storage for the misc things that didnât need to be done right away. I groped for the box and (very carefully, mind!) found one.
It was comfortingly heavy. I felt the blade, long and curved and nearly a quarter-inch thick at the spine. Yup. It would do just nicely. When those fuckers let me out, if they let me out, I was gonna start waving that thing around and telling them to get the fuck out.
As I smiled, grim and sarcastic and just for myself, the air went from freezing cold to heavy. It didnât get hot, no, but there was warmth, and the smell. That familiar smell. I heard the clinking of chains, the groaning of metal, and, under it all, a distant, gentle sloshing. Mostly, though, I breathed the scent of blood and meat.
When I screamed this time, it was terror. The laughter outside picked up, and was at its height as the door opened.
Boy, I was just angry enough, rage edging over fear just enough, that when I saw the light I lunged for it. Didnât even stop to wonder why theyâd decided to open the door for me now. I raised that knife and burst out of the darkness like Nike from the marble slab. Only I didnât have wings, I had two arms and two hands clutched tight around the handle of that cleaver.
âWhich onna you did it?!â I bawled, wild with tears streaming down my cheeks. They were staring at me, bug-eyed and white-faced, and I figured it was the knife in my hands. They were about a yard back from the door, just far enough that Iâd have to start running again to really threaten them with the knife. âWhich onna you?! I swear to God above Iâll bleed you like the pigs you are!â
They didnât answer. They looked at each other, looked back at me, and bolted. Scrambled for the door, pushing each other back in their urgency to escape. I swear one of them was crying as he did.
âFuckers!â I shouted at their backs. They didnât say nothing in return, just fled out the door. I spat, winced (now I was gonna have to clean it up) and turned back to the freezer, thinking to put the knife up.
Every carcass in that freezer was turned on its chain or hook. Every carcass was facing the door. Eyeless faces staring at me.
No, I realized, as I collapsed to the floor, knife still clutched in both white-knuckled hands. Staring through me. Staring in the direction the boys had run. Slowly, they turned as one unit, following the boysâ path down the road. The chains creaked, not especially loud but still enough to fill all the world. I couldnât hear nothing but those chains.
Slow. So slow. Was it hard to move the pounds of chain and meat? Or was it just deliberate, the slowness of the arrogant who know thereâs nothing that can be done to harm them? What can you do to meat already long dead? What can you do to skinless, legless carcasses? What can be done, that the butcher ainât done already?
The door swung shut, ponderously slow, the way it had swung open for me. It didnât bang shut, nothing like that, just swung as slow as Christmas and thunked into its jamb gently.
Daddy came back with burgers to me wearing the spare pants I kept stored in his office, cleaning the pee off the floor with the look of dead determination that comes when you exhaust all your fear. I told him what had happened, and he cussed up a storm, but there was no fire in it.
âYou best,â he said, âsay thank you to whatever let you out.â
Well, what could I do? I was raised with manners. You donât get to be a near grown-up in the South without having âpleaseâ and âthank youâ drilled so deep in your skull itâd take a mining team to get it out. I did it. I said thank you to the cooler door.
âThanks. I owe you one.â
When Big Cass died, my father fell apart.
He didnât eat, he didnât sleep. He just drank and dozed and drank some more. He didnât even go into work. I was so scared that if I left Daddy all alone, I would come back to a corpse. I was so scared, those days, of losing him.
I wouldnât let us become mooches on the Bigsbies, not in their time of need. It was their patriarch what passed away. I took up all the slack he left and then some, determined not to make a mockery of the kindness theyâd shown us. I cooked his supper, I cleaned his messes, I went down to the liquor store and bled my pockets dry to keep the cabinet full.
I dropped out of high school to take care of him, and to run the slaughterhouse while he was laid up. I did the books, bossed the boys, and butchered meat, just like he did. Wrapped the cuts, weighed them, and counted the money. Good Lord did I get good at pinching those pennies, not that anyone blamed me in such hard times.
My arms got strong, my palms calloused. My fingers didnât fit in the grooves on the knivesâ handles, the grooves Daddy grip had worn over the years (and his daddy, and his daddyâs daddy before that), but by God I did my best. Thatâs all anyone can do, in a situation like that.
Nevaeh told me that if I didnât take time for myself, Iâd never move on. I told her that if I didnât keep this damn business afloat, didnât keep my daddy afloat, Iâd never forgive myself.
I wonder if Big Cass was at peace, at last. He died in his home, and in his last moments, with all of us around himâwith Daddy weeping like a little child, and Mama holding his hands, and me and Junior and Nevi at his bedsideâthat dour face uncrinkled. He closed his eyes, and smiled.
No last words. Big Cass was a quiet sort of man. And maybe he couldnât think up nothing fitting. All he did was smile, and shed a decade of time from his face. He looked so much younger there, smiling in his sickbed as he never did out of it. Not a broad smile, not a grin, just a happy little twist. He gave a final sigh, and rather than tired, as heâd sounded for years, that sigh was relieved.
And then he was dead, and when he left, I guess he took a fair part of my dad with him. He took a part of all of us.
The slaughterhouse was colder, those days, though I thought it was only my grief that turned it that way. The lights were dimmer. Everything was quieter. Every freezer door, every piece of equipment, it all felt a little heavier. Sadness weighed it down. But I did my job all the same.
I was the first one in, the one who turned on all the lights. I got into the habit of saying âgood morningâ to every room. It made me feel better, like I was extending a kindness. Mama always said the best cure for sadness was to make others happy. And I didnât have too many friends, so the slaughterhouse and its many rooms would just have to suffice.
I greeted the slaughterhouse and all its workers, and I cut the meat, pinched my pennies. Every evening I was the last to go. I said âgoodnightâ to every room as I flicked off the lights. It was like a little song.
The buzzing of the bulbs. âGoodnight, Freezer A.â The click of the switch, then silence.
Buzzing. âGoodnight, Scalding Tub.â Click. Silence. Buzzing. âGoodnight, Back Abattoir. Click. Silence. Buzzing. âGoodnight, Freezer B.â Click. Silence.
The steadiness of it, the pattern, it made me stronger in those hard days. It made it easier. It made me happy. Maybe it made the slaughterhouse happy, too.
âGoodnight, Slaughterhouse,â Iâd say, as I got in my daddyâs truck to go home.
If a building had a face to smile, I always felt the slaughterhouse would be smiling at my taillights, waiting for me to come back and say âgood morning.â
I gave Big Cassâs job to some doughy-faced white man, and he did it just as well. He knew the rules. God, I missed Big Cass there, though. I didnât think it was right, some white man in his place. I offered the job to Junior, but he said he wanted to finish school. Didnât have the stomach for it, or the strong swinging arm.
I bought a new hammer for the new stunner. I took Big Cassâs and put it in the office that had once been Daddyâs, and now belonged to me. Sometimes, when it was late at night and I was still struggling with the books, all the different things required to keep the place running, Iâd go sit next to that hammer, and Iâd cry.
âWhyâd you hafta go and die like that, Big Cass?â Iâd ask the hammer, knowing Big Cass was in Heaven and not attached to some olâ hammer. I wouldnât wanna bother him with my whining anyway. âWhyâd you hafta go break all our hearts that way?â
One night, musta been eighteen or so, yeah, eighteen years old and a businesswoman already, I had a dream.
The sound of the hammer meeting a skull. The sound of a squeal, cut off. The sound of fear dying. Over and over. I followed it through countless hallways like the ones between all the freezers, and at last came to the back abattoir, or a place like it. A vast, cavernous room, the lights too high up to see. The walls nothing but shadowed suggestions.
Most of the room was in shadow, too. But at the far end, swinging that hammer, was Big Cass. I ran up to him, and stood on the shute panelling nearby, waiting for him to finish. A river of hogs was coming in, crowding each other, squealing, but Big Cass did his job with the same purpose he had his whole life.
âItâd never work in a big industrial slaughterhouse,â Big Cass said. âThatâs where worse things happen. When you treat living things like theyâre car parts or somethinâ. Every man oughta know where his meat comes from.â
A thud. Hot blood hit my face, but I didnât move or flinch. The hog was dragged away by hands I only saw vaguely. I didnât move my face away from Big Cass.
âYou have a duty, Bonny Joy,â he said.
He swung. More blood splattered to hit my face. It never splashed like that in real life. But in the dream, it was a torrent.
âTo me.â
A thud. But the number of hogs never dwindled, and they never got quieter or less pushy.
âTo your Daddy.â
Thud. Splash. The thick smell of blood was getting overpowering.
âTo the slaughterhouse.â
The air was wet. Practically a liquid. But I breathed it anyway, and didnât wipe my face.
âTo your animals.â
âI know, Big Cass. Iâll do my duty. I promise.â
Big Cass dropped his hammer. The hogs disappeared, their squeals abruptly silenced. The abattoir fell away, and wherever I was, it was dark. And even wetter than before. The floor beneath my feet had a lot more give than was even remotely comfortable.
Hot liquid started creeping up my legs as the dark room flooded. I didnât need to look down to know it was blood. Some things, theyâre just too dramatically appropriate to not happen. Dreams is like that.
âYou ainât gotta choice, Bonny Joy Cook,â Big Cass told me.
I woke up, then, choking on the smell of blood and the heat of the dream. I opened my eyes, and felt sticky wetness on my face. Over my bed, the shadowy silhouette of a man. I didnât even bother trying to sit up, I just started hollering.
Nevaeh screamed too when she clicked on her lamp and saw me. The shadow disappeared with the light, of course, but still, I pointed and babbled. How terrified must she have been, knowing she had been laying right there, sound asleep, unknowing, unable to help me?
As scared as she must have been, she was the one who came forward and helped me out of bed while Mama and Junior stood at their doors and stared. She got me by my elbows and walked me to the bathroom, while I blubbered and stammered.
Thick, almost black blood, all over my face and neck. My hair sticking in it. It almost looked like face-paint, so opaque and bright. A few drops of it on my arm from where Iâd pointed.
âIt was standing right there!â I shrieked.
âIt stinks,â Nevi complained. She pushed me away from the sink toward the tub. âGod, what is it?! It stinks like that slaughterhouse! Wash it off!â
I turned the shower on without bothering to take off my clothes, and a good thing too, because Daddy came barrelling in, bleary-eyed and still a bit shaky from his drunken stupor. I was scrubbing my face, struggling to get the sludge off. It stuck something fierce.
âYouâve been kind,â he said, after staring for a long, long time. He crouched down, and patted my back. âYouâve been kind. You ainât done nothing wrong. Itâs not that, Bonny Joy. Itâs not that youâve done wrong. Itâs that youâve been kind.â
âIt was standing right there!â I repeated, water in my mouth and eyes.
âSometimes kindness is keeping to yourself. But not everything understands that, Bonny Joy. Not everything understands how to be kind.â
And that was all I got out of him.
Sometimes, when things were so damn busy I thought there was no way weâd be able to keep up, I saw the man from my childhood. The tall man, the man with his sunglasses and his jacket. As a child, I hadnât feared him, all brazenness and naivety.
Now I saw, and I wondered how Iâd missed it. Those long, long arms. Them big hands.
I see him out among the workers, my real workers. At every station, Iâve seen him working. Chopping meat, sending the cuts to my station, working in packaging. Gutting steer, plucking chickens. I even saw him in the chittlin room, next to three black women working fast as you please, while they talked and pretended nothing was out of the ordinary.
Like some kinda fool, I looked for him in old photos. But he werenât in none of them. Why would he be? Photos, no matter how âcandidâ theyâre supposed to be, are always staged. He wasnât for the world of photos, the world shown to outsiders looking in. That worker belongs to the slaughterhouse. Belongs to the busy work and the carcasses.
Only job I never seen him work was as a stunner or a killer. Once the animals are dead, he comes up to help, but itâs up to us to do the killing. To make sure the animal doesnât know how to fear death.
Itâs the price of meat. To those who stand on the border between life and death, animal and meat, there is the duty. The tall man, that hard worker, helps keep us afloat when things are busy, fills in when thereâs nobody else to do it, but he doesnât take our duty from us.
Is that something I ought to resent? Maybe. But thatâs just another one of the rules.
No one ever complains about the tall worker. I know they see him, and I know that people know thereâs something wrong with him, that he never talks and that he doesnât seem like he belongs. But they never talk about him. Theyâll talk right to him, sometimes, though he can never respond, but they never bring him up.
Itâs not a rule I wrote down, or a rule I enforce. Some lessons, you only gotta learn once. I wonder how they got learned, and when. Which one of my ancestors had to feel that angry stare, breathe that hot, humid smell, or if something more drastic was needed.
Lord knows things can get drastic if they need to. But these days, the lesson is learned, and weâre quiet about him. Not to him, but about him.
I talk to him when I see him. A few times, Iâve touched him, though the jacket is too thick to feel anything beneath. Still, it seems to be tempting fate to get so nosey out in the open, so I only do it when Iâm feeling bold, or if I think heâs doing an especially good job.
âKeep it up,â Iâll tell him.
âHey, good work today.â
âI owe you, man.â
âThank you for all you do, I mean it.â
He never talks. But sometimes, his shoulders heave, like heâs laughing, though he doesnât make a sound. And sometimes, he shrugs and turns away, like heâs embarrassed, but you canât see enough of a face to know for certain.
My Daddy was never like that. But I wasnât raised just by him. I had Big Cass and Mama, and they musta rubbed off on me.
Eventually, I had to do that unpleasant part of the job that comes with being the boss. Jed Barings, one of our killers, he was a sad-faced man and Iâd never known him to have a temper. His daddy didnât get along with mine, but I never had a lick of trouble out of him. Said good morning and good evening nice as you pleased, worked hard, always asked for his wife and sonâs birthdays off to spend with them.
Until one day his son come to me, his little son, and tells me he saw Daddy slap Mommy for back-talking him. Tells me Daddy donât like his job, that Daddy says it makes him miserable. His little son, whoâs waiting for Daddy to finish packing up, while Mommy waits in the truck, comes up and tells me Jed has broken the rules.
Everyone who works for me knows those rules. They all get told, they all get reminded. Theyâre framed and hung up in my office, for Christâs sake.
Any man whose job it is to kill, that man strikes his wife, he loses his job and his wife. Any man who kills must be watched. He canât be allowed to start liking the taste of hurting, to start wanting to do it.
Killing is a hard job. It makes good men suffer, makes bad men go crazy. We go through more killers than any other job, and thatâs good, in my opinion. If you get used to killing, if it stops being⌠I donât wanna say special⌠significant? If you forget that every time you draw that blade, youâre taking a life, you need to step away from it.
So I went to Jedâs house. I brought a casserole and a tupperware full of chitlins, and had dinner with the Barings family. Lo and behold, Meredith had a bruise on her cheek, and Jed was looking nervous. I kept the conversation light, though. No reason to worry the woman and the boy, not anymore than they already were.
After dessert, me and Jed went to the front room to have our private talk.
âAre you feeling alright lately, Jed?â I asked. âYou ainât seemed happy for a while, is everything okay?â
âJust working hard. Got a wife and kid, you know, and thatâs no summer vacation.â
âYeah, so Iâve heard tell.â
Jed bites his lip.
âListen, Jed,â I say. âYou do work hard. And I know youâve got a hard job.â
His knuckles go white, and his knee starts to bounce up and down, real fast, real nervous.
âYou know that we all keep a close eye on yâall.â
A muscle in his jaw goes tight.
âJed, why did you hit Meredith?â
Iâm not sure how else I coulda handled the situation. I thought that maybe giving him an opportunity to speak his piece would make him feel better about the whole thing, make him more likely to listen. Well, maybe it did go better than it could have, but that donât mean it went well.
Jed stood up fast as lightning and knocked the chair he was sitting in backwards. Now, Iâd been punched in the face a few times before, just little altercations or accidents, but never the way Jed Barings punched me. My nose musta gone flat, the way it cracked and the way it gushed. And he punched me again in the mouth, and again in the jaw, while I sat, too stunned to move, in too much pain to speak.
âI hate that place!â he roared. âI hate that fucking job! I hate that goddamn slaughterhouse! Everyone pretends they donât see it, but thereâs something wrong in there, and I hate it! But where else am I gonna work?! Once youâve become a killer, you can only work in a slaughterhouse!â
âJed,â I tried, and got another punch, this time a little tap compared to the first three.
âIâm sick of slaughterhouses! Iâm sick of animals! Iâm sick of everyone pretending they donât notice the weird shit that happens there!â
I wondered if Meredith was listening. God, I hoped she didnât come in, come in and get roughed up, or, God forbid, her little boy.
âFuck you, Bonny Joy Cook! Fuck your daddy! Fuck your haunted-ass slaughterhouse! And fuck your stupid, stupid, stupid goddamn fucking RULES!â
Which one of those âfuck youâs was the one that damned him?
At first it was like misty, gauzy and transparent but growing thicker. The lights flickered, all at different rates before syncing up. The smell of opened organs slammed into my lungs, into Jedâs. There was blood on his knuckles, his fist still drawn back, as the thing solidified.
It was human-shaped enough. At least, the silhouette was pretty much human. But tall, so tall, and with long arms. And it was made out of meat and blood, solidified, mashed together, bits and pieces just crammed into shape.
It put one massive hand, its fingers the discarded trotters of a pig, on Jedâs elbow. It brought its head very close to Jedâs, cocking it back and forth as though curious, though with no facial features it was hard to tell. Slow as molasses it was, and I knew now this was because it knew it could never be harmed.
What could Jed do, that hadnât already been done by a butcher?
Jed didnât make a sound. His face was grey, his eyes wide, fixed on the figure. It was still as stone, standing there in plain sight like it wasnât some sort of hideous abomination. Insolent, brassy, uncaring.
The room filled with the sound of animals dying.
Pigs squealing. Cows bellowing. The final shrieking cluck of a chicken. My hands flew from my nose to my ears. Every bulb went out, the only light what was coming from the street light outside the window. I could still see the shape of it, and the shape of Jed, limp in its grasp, held up only by that vicious hand at his elbow.
The noise cut off as suddenly as it started, and the lights flickered back on, still unsteady. The thing let Jed down to the ground. I thought he might be dead, but, no, I saw his chest rise and fall, though shallowly. Must have been a good goddamn spook.
My heart had slowed. Iâd blown through all my reserves of fear, all my terror, and now I was only tired.
It reached for me. I flinched, but there wasnât much I could do, pinned in my chair as surely as I had been with Jed. Those fingers very carefully, very slowly, brushed my broken nose, the split on my lip.
It leaned forward. I closed my eyes.
Squishy, warm meat pressed to my forehead. For a second, it held itself there, head to my head, and when it disappeared, I kept my eyes shut. Shut until I heard Meredith come in and scream.
âCall the cops,â I said, eyes still closed. âBefore Jed wakes up.â
Well, that Jed, he went to jail. I hope he likes it better than the slaughterhouse. Last I hear from his son, they have him making license plates for the state, and I figure thatâs gotta be easier on him than slitting throats.
âYou saw it too, Bonny Joy, didnât you?â he begged me, the first and only time I went to visit him. My nose was still swollen, bruises still livid on my face, but I figured he deserved at least one last talk. âPlease tell me you saw it too.â
I wondered what Meredith told him she saw. If she heard that horrible orchestra of animal death.
I remembered the bruise on her face, and how scared her son had been as he came to tell on his Daddy the way he did. And how scared and stunned Iâd been as Jed wailed on my face.
I thought about the rules, and the lessons you only gotta learn once.
âSaw what, Jed Barings?â
I reckon Iâve told all there really is to tell. All the important bits, at least. Itâs a damn long story as it is, and my throat is starting to hurt. Hear there? Iâm getting a little frog!
I never told anyone else. Even Nevaeh doesnât know all the things I seen, though I daresay sheâs put it together just as well as anyone else. I do know she doesnât go there no more, and sometimes, when we visit Big Cass in the cemetery, she just shakes her head at his headstone. Like she canât believe heâd do it for so long.
I wonder if itâs more of a burden knowing what he shouldered all his life, or if the ignorance hurt more. That seems a damn rude thing to ask, even of Nevi. It seems⌠it seems cruel. And we arenât cruel, not in this family.
Remember the rules, darlinâ. Remember that this slaughterhouse has been in the family for centuries, and will go down long after I been laid to rest like Big Cass. Like Daddy and Mama. You may think that you got a choice, but if it isnât you, it might be someone who doesnât know.
What kinda trouble could that old slaughterhouse stir up, if it gets someone that donât know? If it gets an owner that donât respect it, that it donât like?
Iâll be here to help you, darlinâ, you donât have to be afraid. And as long as you remember that you have a duty, youâll never have cause to fear, even when Iâve said goodbye to you and those abattoirs, those freezers.
Remember, my love, my little boy: youâve got a duty. The one who knows always has a duty. To me. To the slaughterhouse. To your animals. Youâve got a duty. Good Lord, that was his favorite phrase.
The slaughterhouse looks after its own, son. As long as you remember your duty, you ainât got nothing to fear.
#horror#creepypasta#butchers#slaughterhouse#tw animal death#tw gore#tw abuse#tw bullying#tw parental neglect#tw the south#southern gothic#horror fiction#short story#short fiction#authors on tumblr
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