I Prefer Medium Rare, Myself
Brain utterly knackered thanks to first day back to work post vacation. (You know you are being punished for taking vacation when, upon your return, you are literally unable to see the top of your desk thanks to countless papers, requests, and memos covering the surface). Ergo, I took inspiration from Mike Arzen's Twisted Prompts for Sicko Writers - choosing to spin off the third.
This is an outrage – Detective..an outrage I tell you! I’ll have your badge for this. It’s true what they say – all men created here in this country – unless they look different, or have an accent. I’ll have you know I am a citizen of this country. I’ve been naturalized, and am entitled to good treatment, a lawyer.
A good lawyer, Detective. I am a very wealthy man.
Instead you treat me like this, like an animal – pull me from my sleep and drag me to this…establishment. What is this? A … what do they call them in your action movies…”safe house.”
This house … that gun …your badge and yes, even that gaudy medallion around your neck – none of this will keep you safe.
Even without my money, I am a powerful man. A force you will wish you never reckoned with.
And then to have the audacity to stick me with that needle. I imagine you think it ironic, don’t you? Sticking a sticker? You Americans. So droll. I can feel it now, coursing through this blood. I fear you may be disappointed. You may wrench some words from me, but I’ve have tainted blood before – and still I survive. Free.
Get that light out of my eyes…such juvenile theatrics. This is barbaric. You know full well I am photosensitive. I know it’s in your file. Always you pitiful men and your journal and files. I am in all of them. And your ridiculous little books and films.
Seen them? Of course I’ve seen them, of course. You are Italian, Detective, are you not? Have you never seen The Godfather, or any of those other charming mafia films? Don’t you find yourself somehow drawn to the caricature they make of your people, your ancestry; coveting that bile that bubbles inside you because although you recognize some truth of what they show, you also know the secrets film can never expose; the nuances and depths that lie beneath.
I wonder if they make you as lonely as your “monster movies” make me?
That blasted woman? Of course I did not know her. This is what I mean about those movies. Ridiculous romanticizing of a basic act of survival. Tell me Detective, what did you have for dinner? You and the tall bag of bone and muscle behind the mirror there. (That’s what he’s here for, I assume? Muscle? I know you can’t see him right now, detective, but I can tell you, it’s delicious to watch him squirm. Just because I can’t see myself in the mirror doesn’t mean I can not see.)
You both of the stink of dead flesh on you – cooked so dry there is nothing of value in it…no…he did. You had your’s..rare? It’s better that way, isn’t it? Closer to the truest taste of flesh without you having to dirty your hands or acknowledge your slumbering lizard brain. You think because you stand up on two legs, but on a suit and a hat and pretend to pray to some higher being once a week that you are somehow not an animal?
Well let me ask you this, Detective. Tonight, when you sat at that greasy spoon, that piece of meat clinging so desperately onto your fork, the red juice dripping down to pool on your plate and stain your tie…did you, before you put that morsel in your mouth and rent it between your teeth, tearing the flesh and freeing the juices…did you stop for a moment and consider the cow? Was it a cow you picked out before hand? Did you drive out to the farm, and court if from afar? Watch it from afar– a living thing – chew it’s cud and laze about in the sun? Perhaps you did that charming things you humans do and “mooed” at it tenderly as you drove by? Soon becoming brave enough to court it with sugar cubes and then steal it away to your backyard to treat it to fresh grass and be with you for the rest of your days?
Of course you didn’t. You didn’t even have the decency to kill it yourself. It is food. You went out, your ordered it without a single thought for the mindless, sub-human creature that died for you, and then ate it without remorse.
Have you ever looked into a cow’s eyes, Detective? They are terribly soulful things.
Why, no, Detective. I am not saying humans are cows. I am saying they…you…are the steak. If I could have you packed for my consumption and convenience, I’d patronize those garish corner stores of your much more often.
That woman – shout her name at me all you like. She had a family? Then I hope she had a good insurance policy. What do expect from me? Pity?
It’s about survival, Detective…the food chain. I, like you, must eat or I die.
I? A monster? Now, you make me take it back. I do feel pity. Pity for you and your entire self-important brethren. Why do you assume you are different from any other animal? Because you can speak a language I understand? Because you can reason? Lie? Create art?
There’s a rather famous gorilla who does all those things. And yet – if I had treated myself to monkey for dinner, you and I wouldn’t be here right now – having this…civilized conversation.
Allow me to be frank, Detective. I could live on bugs and rats and small mammals, and eek out something of an existence…just as you could subsist on sprouts and beans. But just as you prefer steak..well..
What can I say, Detective? We are men of distinctive tastes.
You don’t mind if I stand a moment, I get so cramped, sitting. Despite what you may have been led to think, I don’t like cramped spaces. You should see my bed – it is wondrous thing. King sized, four poster, carved mahogany – heavy burgundy drapes. A bit ostentatious really – more fit for royalty – but we must have our vanities, mustn’t we?
The bonds? Oh, Detective. Really. I thought you had done your reading. And this little drug of yours – well it does where off. It’s temporary. Even at that dosage.
It was a bit pleasant, really. Much like the effect I once got from a good vintage.
Don’t bother signaling your friend. We’ve had…a meeting of the minds, so to speak, why you and I were chatting.
It’s harmless. He will wake later with a slight headache, and, if he is the type of man he seems, a permanent distrust of his sanity and
You do please, me Detective. Of course, you are right. I will tell you what you need to know.
I did it. She was insecure, lonely, and easily led like an eager lamb to the slaughter.
She was a little drunk, and very fertile.
It is very likely she felt pain, but she did not struggle.
She tasted like cigarettes and honey.
If you have more empty packages that fit the profile, then yes, I may have been responsible.
How do you put it…I am your man. I bow to your dazzling intellect and slightly yellowed smile.
Now I will tell you the answer to the question you will not ask, Detective.
You will taste of red meat, fear, bad coffee and stale cigarettes.
I’d give you some of that drug to relax you, but you seemed to have used it all on me.
Besides, it would spoil the flavor.
You have but a few moments, Detective. You can pull your gun, urinate down your leg, weep or pray – as you wish.
Yes, you seemed that sort of man.
I think I will take your badge with me, Detective, so I can remember you. The cow who thought he was a God but became a steak.
Rare is the best, way, don’t you think?
I have noticed that everything I've written so far has been a monolouge. Fine for character studies (in fact, I have another one planned) - but one of these days I'll have to do some proper descriptions and dialouge.
This is an outrage – Detective..an outrage I tell you! I’ll have your badge for this. It’s true what they say – all men created here in this country – unless they look different, or have an accent. I’ll have you know I am a citizen of this country. I’ve been naturalized, and am entitled to good treatment, a lawyer.
A good lawyer, Detective. I am a very wealthy man.
Instead you treat me like this, like an animal – pull me from my sleep and drag me to this…establishment. What is this? A … what do they call them in your action movies…”safe house.”
This house … that gun …your badge and yes, even that gaudy medallion around your neck – none of this will keep you safe.
Even without my money, I am a powerful man. A force you will wish you never reckoned with.
And then to have the audacity to stick me with that needle. I imagine you think it ironic, don’t you? Sticking a sticker? You Americans. So droll. I can feel it now, coursing through this blood. I fear you may be disappointed. You may wrench some words from me, but I’ve have tainted blood before – and still I survive. Free.
Get that light out of my eyes…such juvenile theatrics. This is barbaric. You know full well I am photosensitive. I know it’s in your file. Always you pitiful men and your journal and files. I am in all of them. And your ridiculous little books and films.
Seen them? Of course I’ve seen them, of course. You are Italian, Detective, are you not? Have you never seen The Godfather, or any of those other charming mafia films? Don’t you find yourself somehow drawn to the caricature they make of your people, your ancestry; coveting that bile that bubbles inside you because although you recognize some truth of what they show, you also know the secrets film can never expose; the nuances and depths that lie beneath.
I wonder if they make you as lonely as your “monster movies” make me?
That blasted woman? Of course I did not know her. This is what I mean about those movies. Ridiculous romanticizing of a basic act of survival. Tell me Detective, what did you have for dinner? You and the tall bag of bone and muscle behind the mirror there. (That’s what he’s here for, I assume? Muscle? I know you can’t see him right now, detective, but I can tell you, it’s delicious to watch him squirm. Just because I can’t see myself in the mirror doesn’t mean I can not see.)
You both of the stink of dead flesh on you – cooked so dry there is nothing of value in it…no…he did. You had your’s..rare? It’s better that way, isn’t it? Closer to the truest taste of flesh without you having to dirty your hands or acknowledge your slumbering lizard brain. You think because you stand up on two legs, but on a suit and a hat and pretend to pray to some higher being once a week that you are somehow not an animal?
Well let me ask you this, Detective. Tonight, when you sat at that greasy spoon, that piece of meat clinging so desperately onto your fork, the red juice dripping down to pool on your plate and stain your tie…did you, before you put that morsel in your mouth and rent it between your teeth, tearing the flesh and freeing the juices…did you stop for a moment and consider the cow? Was it a cow you picked out before hand? Did you drive out to the farm, and court if from afar? Watch it from afar– a living thing – chew it’s cud and laze about in the sun? Perhaps you did that charming things you humans do and “mooed” at it tenderly as you drove by? Soon becoming brave enough to court it with sugar cubes and then steal it away to your backyard to treat it to fresh grass and be with you for the rest of your days?
Of course you didn’t. You didn’t even have the decency to kill it yourself. It is food. You went out, your ordered it without a single thought for the mindless, sub-human creature that died for you, and then ate it without remorse.
Have you ever looked into a cow’s eyes, Detective? They are terribly soulful things.
Why, no, Detective. I am not saying humans are cows. I am saying they…you…are the steak. If I could have you packed for my consumption and convenience, I’d patronize those garish corner stores of your much more often.
That woman – shout her name at me all you like. She had a family? Then I hope she had a good insurance policy. What do expect from me? Pity?
It’s about survival, Detective…the food chain. I, like you, must eat or I die.
I? A monster? Now, you make me take it back. I do feel pity. Pity for you and your entire self-important brethren. Why do you assume you are different from any other animal? Because you can speak a language I understand? Because you can reason? Lie? Create art?
There’s a rather famous gorilla who does all those things. And yet – if I had treated myself to monkey for dinner, you and I wouldn’t be here right now – having this…civilized conversation.
Allow me to be frank, Detective. I could live on bugs and rats and small mammals, and eek out something of an existence…just as you could subsist on sprouts and beans. But just as you prefer steak..well..
What can I say, Detective? We are men of distinctive tastes.
You don’t mind if I stand a moment, I get so cramped, sitting. Despite what you may have been led to think, I don’t like cramped spaces. You should see my bed – it is wondrous thing. King sized, four poster, carved mahogany – heavy burgundy drapes. A bit ostentatious really – more fit for royalty – but we must have our vanities, mustn’t we?
The bonds? Oh, Detective. Really. I thought you had done your reading. And this little drug of yours – well it does where off. It’s temporary. Even at that dosage.
It was a bit pleasant, really. Much like the effect I once got from a good vintage.
Don’t bother signaling your friend. We’ve had…a meeting of the minds, so to speak, why you and I were chatting.
It’s harmless. He will wake later with a slight headache, and, if he is the type of man he seems, a permanent distrust of his sanity and
You do please, me Detective. Of course, you are right. I will tell you what you need to know.
I did it. She was insecure, lonely, and easily led like an eager lamb to the slaughter.
She was a little drunk, and very fertile.
It is very likely she felt pain, but she did not struggle.
She tasted like cigarettes and honey.
If you have more empty packages that fit the profile, then yes, I may have been responsible.
How do you put it…I am your man. I bow to your dazzling intellect and slightly yellowed smile.
Now I will tell you the answer to the question you will not ask, Detective.
You will taste of red meat, fear, bad coffee and stale cigarettes.
I’d give you some of that drug to relax you, but you seemed to have used it all on me.
Besides, it would spoil the flavor.
You have but a few moments, Detective. You can pull your gun, urinate down your leg, weep or pray – as you wish.
Yes, you seemed that sort of man.
I think I will take your badge with me, Detective, so I can remember you. The cow who thought he was a God but became a steak.
Rare is the best, way, don’t you think?
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home