estdeus_innobis | Eat to live, don't live to eat.

Day 150, Wednesday, October 28
After dinner
Benedict's tent

I've eaten a lot this past day. Will laughed at it, wondering why I had such an appetite, and I smiled and told him I was hungry for new patrons of our fine establishment. It got a coarse laugh from some of the guys who'd seen me walking with Kataniya, and anything unusual was lost in the joking. I laughed along with them, and that night I went out into the field and found a rabbit and ate it while it was still alive and screaming. It wasn't the same, but the hot meat and shrieks made me feel better.

But I'm still hungry. Rabbit isn't real meat, and I find myself aching for that night when she comes back, at night this time and trusting me more. I should give it several times, really. As we aren't going anywhere, the more she trusts me the easier it will be, and the easier she can be hidden. Plans are important.

And now I have a plan I give myself a treat. I have some few records and a small gramophone - I can afford these small luxuries, though not a truck or a wagon. Fuel is harder to come by than gears, especially with Zann around to look over the springs and toothed wheels. I put on my favourite record and pull out a small box from the corner of my trunk.

Hey everybody, did the news get around
About a guy named Butcher Pete
Oh, Pete just flew into this town
And he's choppin' up all the women's meat

I smile in real pleasure as I open the box. I do not usually take trophies, as I have heard some killers do. I am not a murderer. I simply require a certain diet. I don't bear them any ill will, nor do I kill to rob. I kill to feed, and such a thing is as natural as breathing.

He's hackin' and wackin' and smackin'
He's hackin' and wackin' and smackin'
He's hackin' and wackin' and smackin'
He just hacks, wacks, choppin' that meat

I tap my foot to the infectious beat, taking the nails out. There are other things in it - some hair, a fingerbone, a tooth - little reminders of the ones who got away. Not reminders of unfinished business, really, just fond mementos.

Butcher Pete's got a long sharp knife
He starts choppin' and don't know when to stop
All you fellows gotta watch your wifes
'Cause Pete don't care who's meat he chops

I take them and put them in my mouth, sucking gently on them and the dry bits of skin hanging off of the edges. The flesh I ate as soon as no one was watching. Injuries always create distractions, but anything larger and people usually try hard to find the missing appendage. But fingertips? They were hardly missed, and it was a sweet treat, even with the motor oil and calluses. I roll the nails around my tongue, letting the texture remind me of rich, filling meat, and days that were much less lean.

I read a story for children once, where a crocodile had eaten a pirate's hand and, having tasted him, was ever chasing him for another bite. It always made me smile, for I know just how that crocodile felt. My belly rumbles as I reminisce, and I sigh, taking the nails out and putting them back in the box. We cannot always get what we want, and eating at the Carnival is discouraged. There are so many here I would gorge on, given the chance, but I know my limits, and have learned to live with constraints that test my resolve. I should be grateful that my diet is viewed with ambivalence by our Management, rather than seen as a crime.

Oh Pete, he loves that meat!

[Closed]