Good morning and Happy Hump Day ! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.
Charlemagne doesn't know what to make of what Tyrone just told him about his family. Cannibals? What? Maybe it's time to make a quick exit. See what's going on in this week's chapter of An Unholy Alliance. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers. Their links follow my tale! Enjoy!
I have to confess that I didn’t see that coming. His
whole family… cannibals… what? Like Mom and Dad and all the fine young
cannibals? Sorry, couldn’t help myself. I was flummoxed, at a momentary loss
for words. Congrats to him on that, doesn’t happen very often.
Gathering my wits, I blurted out, “Isn’t that
dangerous?”
He arched surprised eyebrows at me. “For who?”
Okay, stupid question, I know. Like asking a man
about to devour a steak which one of them is in mortal peril.
I began to pace back and forth beside the dead man’s
car, trying to formulate my thoughts. I really needed to get going. I had
things to do that didn’t include having this conversation. I wasn’t here in the
Ozarks on a mere whim or even on holiday, I was searching for information. Personal
information of the utmost importance. And yet, I found myself with too many
burning questions that required answers regarding what Tyrone had just said. He’d
ignited my curiosity, loath as I am to admit it. But first things first. I ceased
my pacing and paused just beside him in order to give him my full attention. Or
maybe I intended to intimidate him slightly by looming above him, since I
easily had six inches on him.
“Have you… disposed of all the evidence?” I made some
no doubt misguided attempt at being delicate. Not that I was trying to spare
his feelings or mine, mind you, but to come out and ask what he did with the
leftovers seemed a bit gauche.
“Gotcha covered, my man.” He thrust out one clenched
fist toward me. Did he really expect me to fist bump him over his disposal of
the remains of the day? I gave him my best disdainful look even as I took a
step away from him. He didn’t appear to be the least bit offended. Did nothing ever
rattle this guy? Or wipe the goofy grin from his face?
“I have everything packed up and in the trunk.
Meat’s in a cooler, I put the rest in bags.”
“What do you intend to do with it?”
His response is to reach into his back pocket. I
wasn’t concerned that he might be going for a weapon. I was undoubtedly faster
than he was even at my weakest, and I was fully fed at this point. But even saying that, a bullet could do
potential injury should he manage to get off a lucky shot. More about that later.
Let’s just say there are some ridiculous myths about vampires out there. Like
we’re indestructible or something. I wish that were true, but alas, it’s not.
Right then, I was simply curious, despite the adage
about curiosity and cats.
Neither a gun or knife. Tyrone held a dark brown
wallet, which may or may not have been leather (and I was trying not to think
about the implications of that). From this, he pulled out a card and handed it
to me.
I know, such an anticlimax.
Well, no harm in looking, right? Turned out to be a
business card. Nothing fancy or special. No pretty pictures, the text a
straightforward Times New Roman.
Jackson
Family Meats.
No logo, no
physical address. Not even a phone number. Just a website link with the same
name.
“What is this, Soylent Green?” I asked as I handed
the card back. Not as though I had a use for it.
He laughed again, a sound I was growing disturbingly
used to.
“No, my family does meat processing. Have for
years.”
Meat processing? Cannibals? Was he kidding me? “How
is that even legal?” I might have been on shaky ground there, considering I’d
just killed someone the night before, but I wasn’t about to split hairs. What
I’d done was unintentional; this was a whole other matter entirely.
“No, no, not like that. We work with local
restaurants, and also people order online. We have a few locations, actually. My
family roots go all the way back to Colonial times, before the US even was the
US.”
That was surprising. Maybe I’d made assumptions I
shouldn’t have made. But considering what we’d had for breakfast, was that
really such a stretch?
“Okay, so you don’t process human meat. How humane
of you.”
Don’t judge me.
He laughed again. “I didn’t say that. Of course we
do. I mean, not everyone’s good at butchering and stuff. We sell that to other
family members. At a discount, of course. Those are the special orders. We make a great pemmican. That’s one of our big
sellers. The secret’s in the spices.”
So he wasn’t just the backwoods Julia Child, he was
the backwoods cannibal Julia Child. Good
to know.
I wasn’t sure what my next question would have been.
Did I intend to ask him about pricing? He had pulled a pen from his pocket and
was writing something on the back of his card, before handing it back to me. Of
course I looked to see what he’d added. Turned out to be his name and an email
address.
“So we can stay in touch,” he said, rather
unnecessarily. Obviously that’s what email was for. The question remained why
would I want to?
But before I could frame an appropriate response—and
by appropriate, I mean incredibly rude and condescending—I heard a familiar
tone emanating from my cell phone. I
knew who that was, and I knew it was definitely time to go.
Conversation postponed for now. No, not just for
now. For always. I had no intention of seeing Tyrone Jackson ever again.
I glanced between him and the car, which belonged to
neither one of us. My first thought was to take it, but not with all that meat
inside. Not to mention the car was probably hot by now, or would be soon.
Without thinking, I slid the card into my pocket,
gave him a quick salute, and vanished into the woods.
to be continued
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