As Fate Would Have It Read online

No question, the meat was excellent. Addictive even. But wrong was wrong and murder wasn’t as easily justifiable as it used to be. No matter how good it was, it was wrong.

  The warm water cascaded through her hair and snaked clear trails across her V-shaped face. Montgomery moved the massaging head in slow, tight circles and aided the rushing water with his free hand as it washed away mascara and eye shadow and foundation until her face was free of caked on blood and cosmetics and the water rolling off of her cheeks ran clear. He gently rubbed at her lips with his thumb and the run off went red for a moment before clearing up yet again.

  Moving down.

  The Wusthof made clean work of her neck, leaving a thin, but deep, deep cut. Most of the blood had drained, pooling within the plastic and soaking through her blouse, and the wound looked a little ragged, whitish blue in color, the edges of severed flesh puckering over as if they were trying to find a way inside, searching fruitlessly for welcoming, living flesh to become one with again. A little prodding with the massager washed away hiding pockets of blood and revealed that the Wusthof had cut through to the spinal column, bisecting every bit of biology on the way. Montgomery had used a small amount of pressure, only intending to severe a major artery so Heather could simply bleed away. He didn’t plan on cutting so deep. The Wusthof was indeed a remarkable knife.

  Moving down.

  The ablutions continued. Montgomery washed away the viscera from Heather’s breasts and abdomen. It was good to note that the heat was officially gone. Though her sizable breasts were on display before him (as were her lower extremities), the process had taken on a clinical sheen. Montgomery feared sexual dysfunction. He killed (and wasn’t proud) and ate (and wasn’t proud), but he wasn’t some freak-o that got into necrophilia…

  Moving down.

  He smoothed away the blood drying on her waist, her hips, and her outer thighs.

  Moving down.

  Parting her legs slightly, he stroked her inner thighs and her pubis, delicately altering the jet stream and sending more blood and bits of debris spiraling down the bathtub drain.

  Moving down.

  Her shins, her calves, her ankles.

  Moving down.

  Her feet, her toes.

  Montgomery repeated the process twice, until the water circling down the drain rushed colorless and clean. He stared at the funneling whirlpool and for a split second his brain flipped out. Within the rapidly spinning tide he could see vague impressions of those he had killed in the past. Dramatic detail began to gather like dark clouds readying to lay thunderous siege upon his thoughts.

  Not now.

  Montgomery ran to the kitchen and brought back a handful of forty pound garbage bags. He retrieved the bloody plastic bundle from the corner, rolled it even tighter, securing Heather’s clothes within its slick folds, and then shoved it in to one of the garbage bags. To prevent leaks or spills he put the whole mess into a second garbage bag and then tied it off.

  Next, he grabbed a towel and went to scrub at the blood stains on the carpet in the front room. One was completely gone, the cleaning solution ate the blood away like nothing - the other was still a bit orangey and took a second helping of carpet cleaner.

  Before returning to the bathroom he pre-heated the stove, grabbed some large Glad freezer bags, a sharpie, and his complete knife set (Wusthof) and, balanced precariously under an arm, his countertop scale. While prepping, cleaning the chef’s knife he killed her with and then laying out the other cutting tools he might need, Montgomery kept his eyes down and his mind focused. Heather’s clean, naked body was a distraction, but he kept reminding himself that this was about meat.

  In culinary school he learned a great deal about stripping the meat from a carcass. Proper cuts. Methods. And though cows and fish and chickens had radically different morphologies than their human adversaries, the principles of butchery were pretty much the same.

  A few cuts in the sheer artistry of his work began to beat his heart faster and fill his brain with tremendous color. A twist here, a gouge there, sawing, sectioning, the meat came away easy and her musculature, the ropey rivulets of yellowish fat beneath and between, were beautiful. Grotesque to be sure, but organic, primal, something that made Montgomery feel like he was more, like he was beyond the flesh, a master of it, Godlike.

  According to his consumption tables, after blood and bone, tough muscle and the inedible, there was about forty-five pounds of consumable meat to be had from Heather’s corpse. Montgomery separated, weighed and then bagged the meat into two pound portions. After cooking and reduction, this was the perfect amount for two meals. A stash like this generally lasted him and Liz about four months if they limited their intake to about two servings a week.

  He labeled each bag with the date and any pertinent information about the particular cut and then transported all but one, which he left on the kitchen counter, to the deep freezer in the garage. The oven was hot and ready, but Montgomery had a few more things to do before he concentrated on cooking.

  He carried the double bagged mess containing the blood stained plastic and Heather’s burnable personal effects out to the backyard and placed the refuse in a large metal trashcan. He added a bit of lighter fluid and set it ablaze.

  Montgomery stole the trashcan from a local park a couple of years ago as a goof with some drunken sous chefs and it turned out to be quite the handy backyard accessory. Other than destroying evidence, it served as a wintertime fire pit and, in conjunction with a grill top, a summer barbeque.

  Next, he disposed of what was left of Heather’s carcass. In the garage he kept an unmarked metal barrel that contained approximately eighty-five gallons of sulfuric acid. If a houseguest ever happened upon it and asked what it was Montgomery quickly changed the subject. If they pushed, he half-joked and laughed that he could “tell them,” but then he was going to have to “kill them.” It never got further than that and Montgomery suspected it never would. People simply weren’t interested in nondescript metal barrels stored in the garage.

  If he was to really tell you where he got the stuff, he would say that Liz’s father, a tanner by trade, kept the volatile chemical around in his workshop. The need for disposal, effective, clean, law-evading disposal was an absolute necessity. Options were weighed; dots connected and once Liz was brought on board with the meat thing, her father, perplexed with head-scratching confusion, lost a barrel of highly corrosive acid every now and then.

  Montgomery simply transferred the remains from the bathtub to the barrel via more super strength garbage bags and then sealed the whole mess up. Before long it became sludge. No fingerprints or bone fragments or identifying chunks. Thus far he averaged about two bodies per barrel before it got too sludgy to do its job and dissolve the remains thoroughly. At that point he had to rent a truck, lug the barrel into the bed and drive to any quiet neighborhood (at least a hundred miles away) where he dumped the viscous goop from the barrel into a random sewer drain. Then he’d hit a coin operated carwash, clean any residue out of the barrel and drop it, anonymously, under the cover of night, at a scrap yard another hundred or so miles away. It was a torturous fucking process to be sure. Montgomery abhorred the amount of blood, sweat and tears that went into it, but alas, if he wanted to keep from getting caught it was a necessary evil.

  Besides, the fruits of his labor were so sweet and so exotic and so very, very worth it.

  The menu tonight: simplicity.

  Montgomery was way too tired to attempt anything that required a lot of prep. But, he wasn’t a rising star within culinary circles for nothing. Even the most basic of his dishes had flair and panache and flavor that would spin your eyeballs cartoon crazy. No wonder Liz was so damn insistent. Human lives be damned, the taste was powerful enough to drive decision. The taste was all-consuming. The taste was flavor turned inside out and edified. It was sublime and intoxicating and worth every bit of risk.

  Simple then: perhaps a braised dish (He and Liz both refrained from using the words
‘Human’ or ‘Being’ when talking or thinking about preparing meals) with red potatoes and a vegetable?

  It sounded good and allowed Montgomery to choose a tougher cut of meat, saving the good stuff, the tenderloin for instance, for a day when he had more time and drive to prepare something exquisite.

  Braising was a simple enough process and worked wonders at tenderizing and infusing the tougher cuts, like the athletic, exercised meat he scraped from Heather’s legs and arms, with flavor. What we eat, when we eat animal meat, is really muscle that is comprised of fibers and connective tissues. The muscle fibers are what we tend to think of when we envision meat prior to being cooked. They are generally long, thin strips of red-hued meat that are held together by whitish, translucent ribbons of collagen, or fat, that marbles throughout the cut.

  During the braising process the idea is to heat the meat in a pan until the collagen breaks down and dissolves into a gelatin. While this is going on the muscle fibers break down and contract, giving off moisture which actually dries the meat out, but at the same time makes it very tender. After the muscle fibers have expelled all of the moisture they relax and begin to absorb the gelatin, excess moisture coating the pan, and any liquids added to enhance flavor – usually acidic additions like wine or tomatoes. At this point you can add any sort of garnishing (in this case red potatoes, red bell peppers and onions) and then simply cover the pan, transfer it to the oven (or you can leave it on the stove top at a low heat) and let the meat and garnish soak up the juices. The final product takes on a wonderful texture and flavor.

  Montgomery prepped, got the pan into the oven, and then went to finish any extra clean up. He straightened the living room and then focused his energy upon the bathroom. Once everything sparkled spic and span he spent about ten minutes working at the stains on Heather’s fabulous jacket and then hung it over the bathroom sink to dry. He gathered all of her jewelry and put it in a floor safe in his bedroom closet and then disrobed for a shower.

  The shower ran hot and steam began to fog up the mirror. Montgomery got a towel from the hall cabinet, wrapped it around his waist and spent a few moments inspecting himself before the mist had its way and completely obliterated his reflection.

  He was skinny, but not too skinny, and white, but not too pale. He had begun working out in an effort to bring some of his flat muscles to life and define his pallid skin with arching shadows and appealing bulges. So far there seemed to be zero progress. Time and patience, he figured, time and patience. Unfortunately, the rest of him was just as disappointing. Dark, finger-thick circles rimmed each of his brown eyes and he looked like death warmed over. Heather’s blood was caked here and there and the very sight of it brought on tremors of remorse and guilt.

  Murderer.

  No.

  Murderer.

  No.

  He closed his eyes in an effort to make himself disappear. It worked. He turned for the shower, stepped under the hot stream and didn’t reopen them until Heather’s blood had run off and circled the drain at his feet. Guilt started to abate, not completely, never completely, it was always there and always would be, but Montgomery had gotten pretty good at suppressing it. All he had to do was think about the meat. Heather wasn’t a person, she was meat. Only meat. Culinary confection. A delicacy.

  The taste, the allure, the subsequent ecstasy was beyond description.

  The meat wasn’t even in the same class as chicken or beef or pork or fish. It was transcendent. Montgomery could remember a movie version of the book Alive by Pier Paul Read, a true story that chronicled the nightmare of a Uruguayan rugby team whose plane crashed in the Andes. The survivors had no choice but to eat human flesh to sustain them through the winter until they were eventually rescued. In the film the stranded ran out of supplies and were forced to cut away meat from the buttocks of the dead. According to reports they ate sparingly, only when they had to. Both the film and book dramatized the act as gross, a form of sacrilege against humanity, an unthinkable act, but acceptable in this particular situation because the end result was that of perseverance under great duress. The triumph of the human spirit and all of that crap. There was not a single mention of taste or cravings.

  Montgomery knew nothing about the rugby team save for what the movie portrayed, but he was willing to bet that those that ingested human flesh were forever changed. And not for the worst either, as our culture is so quick to imply. The whole sordid experience was horrible, terrible, a nightmare – and maybe the plane crash was all of those things and more - watching loved ones die or suffer is unpleasant if anything. But not the flesh. Not the eating. No matter what they said they weren’t being honest or accurate. Montgomery was willing to bet a thousand bucks that each player that took a taste took another and another and after the tragedy they still thought about it, still craved it.

  Though society enforces taboos and propagates guilt and prevents these poor, rugby players from admitting that they actually enjoyed the surprising taste and texture of their desperate meal, Montgomery knew the real deal. If he were to do a bit of research and find some interview footage of the survivors he was one hundred percent positive he would be able to see something swirling about in their eyes. It spiraled dreamy in the back of his head. Always, constant, autonomous, the ever-hunger, desire, the ever-itch that always reminded. He could see it in Liz as well. As if they were beyond. They had tasted the forbidden, embraced it, and they were living on a different plane than the rest of humanity. The survivors, reluctant cannibals or not, were no different.

  Imagine your favorite dish. Imagine it prepared perfectly, seasoned expertly, served at the optimum temperature with ingredients that combine to create mind-blowing flavor. Now multiply these elements, taste, texture, perfection, by one hundred and you’re still nowhere near the superiority of (human – never say it aloud) meat. Even as leftovers, cold, days old, eaten with your fingers out of a plastic bag taken from the refrigerator, it still trumped almost everything else. It resided in a class by itself. It shreds and melds and dissolves exquisitely upon the tongue. Though Montgomery hated to think in these terms, it tasted so wonderful that it justified snuffing out another’s life (and another and another and another… stop. Murderer).

  Liz’s key jiggled in the lock just as Montgomery finished up setting the table. It was late (3:14 am) and he was tired, and he planned on going in to work fairly early (he was actually off for a few days, but it was an important delivery day and he had to make sure everything was accounted for), but instead of leaving Liz a plate in the microwave and heading off to bed, he decided to join her and do the exquisite meal right.

  He began plating the food as Liz hung up her keys and came around the corner to greet him. Her green eyes danced when she saw the plates and a smile spread over her full lips. Joy appeared to well from the inside out. It was a positively transcendent moment. Here she was in her pale blue scrubs, black hair tied back into a bun in an effort to contain the bedraggled mess, exhaustion rimming her eyes from the ungodly hours she was forced to endure, the smell of hospital disinfectant heavy on her clothes and skin. But the promise of new meat changed all of that. It reinstituted vibrancy. Suddenly she was a Goddess renewed. Her skin glowed with health and color. Her eyes sparkled with knowing excitement. She glided across the kitchen for a quick embrace and it seemed as if she was floating on air.

  “You got it.” She let Montgomery go and leaned in for a whiff of the glistening mound on one of the dishes.

  This made everything that much more worth it.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “The freezer is loaded too.”

  “It looks really wonderful.” She leaned in closer and took another sniff.

  “Let’s eat.”

  The two grabbed their plates and adjourned to the living room.

  Throughout the meal there was little conversation. The food was too good to spoil it with words and trivialities. Montgomery and Liz kept their eyes trained upon the delectable mass of essence before them. It cut like b
utter and practically melted in their mouths with a flavor that surpassed all others. Something inside each of them came alive, something primal and euphoric. They grunted as they ate, each unaware of the other’s animalistic fervor. Only when the meat was gone and the meal finished did they lean back in their chairs and regard one another with greasy, sated smiles.

  Their eyes danced, following each other, devouring each other, wanting each other.

  “Montgomery, that was pure mastery,” Liz purred as she slid out of her chair and sauntered over to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled her face against the side of his cheek. With a kiss and a hot exhalation of breath she whispered into his ear, “Incredible.”

  Montgomery shifted and turned and stood to align them and properly meet her embrace. They held each other tightly, silently, for a few moments. Liz ground against him and erotic fire coursed through their cells. Suddenly, she wasn’t an exhausted med student, ragged and broken down and fighting off sleep. Suddenly, he didn’t feel the tremendous weight of murder upon his psyche nor did he dwell upon or dread the rapidly approaching hour of eight when he had to rise to meet the delivery drivers at work. Suddenly, they both felt heat and need. Desire exploded within and it was like they were nineteen years old all over again - horny and wild and ready for some loud, cathartic, mind clearing sex.

  They fumbled with each other’s clothes and stumbled into the bedroom as one writhing, groaning mass. The world spun as they twisted and twirled and fell upon the bed racked with goofy laughter and sensual yearning. Long, deep kisses. Soft touches. Buttons. Zippers. Wet mouths. Closer. Closer. Clos–

  “I’ll be right back.” Liz broke the embrace and leaped off the bed.

  Montgomery threw his hands behind his head and sighed deeply. He watched her skip out of the room and felt his blood slow. Hot. Hot. Hot. While she went to the bathroom to do whatever it was she did in the bathroom before they made love, Montgomery stared holes into the ceiling and imagined all of the naughty things he was going to do to her when she returned. His skin went flush and his erection strained against his boxers.