Sunday, June 05, 2011

The Butcher


This, ladies and gentlemen, is a story. It is a factual story, but it is one that occurred while I was under the influence of many beers and running on about three hours sleep; so I cannot guarantee the level of accuracy to the actual events.

This is the terrifying story of... 

The year is 2010, mid-winter; the location is a house party where you knew precisely two people out of roughly 70. You’re sitting outside with a group of 10 to 15 people, none of whom you know. The time is… around 2:56am and you are currently equipped with:

1.     Right hand: Your 16th beer; one third consumed.
2.     Left hand: Half smoked cigarette (you have no idea how it got there, if anyone asks)
3.   Feet: Covered with odd socks because you did not think that this house would be one of those places where wearing shoes inside earns you a death sentence.
4.     Head
a.     External: Severely skewed trilby you found on the floor around four hours ago that you promptly stole because you are about three months overdue for a haircut at this stage.
b.   Internal: Harshly reduced system performance. The temperature, operation time without a break and incorrect use of coolants have all played a part.
                                               i.     Vision: Blurry, party guests are now classified as either ‘male’ or ‘female’. Faces and names take up too much memory. Look at the floor, it’s moving less than the other things.
                                              ii.     Movement: Strictly for bathroom visits only.
                                            iii.     Thought to Speech Filter: [error 404: file not found]


Admit it: you’re shitfaced and about twelve minutes from falling off of the chair and onto your arse. But what do you care? You don’t know any of these people; they don’t know you and you’ll never see any of them again.
Most likely not. Probably not.

“You look don’t look well…”

…It’s a girl, you think. At least it’s a girl’s voice. You gather yourself as best you can: “Ok…” (You say to yourself) “…a fellow human being is trying to converse with you, let’s not immediately scare them away. Play nice.”

You look up. Yep it’s a girl, all right and holy-sweet-Mother-of-God she is a giant! Oh wait, you’re sitting down you damn fool, she can’t be that tall. You stand up.
Holy-sweet-Mother-of-God she is a giant! At least 6’ 2’’, if not taller. You sway a little and squint, trying to find the delicate balance between nonchalance and vomiting on your shoes. Your stolen trilby is now trying to make a break for it from the left side of your head. “She’s a damn good-looking giant”, you think to yourself. Ok, time to begin some conversation, start off with something casual:

You: “Holy-sweet-Mother-of-God you are a giant!”

Oh brilliant, well done. You’re a fucking modern day Casanova, you are.

Her: “I’m not, you’re just tiny.”

Well she’s sharp, you give her that… and a little scary, you can’t pinpoint why.

You: “So, what do –”?

Alcohol brain error 299: short-term blackout
Please stand by - rebooting…

Her: “…family business ...Butcher.”

You: “Ok, cool… Wait, what?”

Her: “I’m a butcher. You know, I dismember animals and sell the parts for money.”            
           (I am going to murder you)

She smiles, it’s compassionate but your left foot impulsively tries to make a break for it without consent. You stumble a little. The right half of your brain is screaming; “This woman is going to kill you, RUN!” while the left half is thinking; “Haha! I’m super cosy under this hat, motherfuckers!”
Stalemate. You’re rooted to the spot.

You: “Oh, right…” (Frightened laughter)

Her: “Oh hey, your drink’s empty, I’ll get you another one…”    (Subdued animals are far easier to slaughter)

         You’re torn. This rather attractive girl is possibly flirting with you, you can’t quite tell. At the same time you’re quite concerned with ending up in a Sweeney Todd-like situation. Think, man, think fast!

         Shit, too late, she’s back. She hands you another beer.

You: “Mmnnh- thanks!”

You sip at the tasty beverage she has brought you. It helps a little. The fears of being massacred and sold as low-priced steak are slightly subdued. You figure what’s the worst that could possibly happen? You’re being paranoid, surely.

You: “Well what is it like being a – ”

Alcohol brain error 766: System failure.
Please stand by for full system scan:

5% - Checking vitals… Vitals functioning.
32% - Rebooting motor functions…
68% - Reinitialising vocal functions…
97% - Deleting directory – C:\Users\Social\Dignity
99% - Installing - C:\Users\Social\Shame
100% - System starting up…


You’re on the floor. It’s carpeted and warm. You have no idea how much time has passed, but it’s light outside now. Something heavy has convened on your head at some point; it’s squashed and sore. Your stolen trilby is gone. You sit up and look around; there’s a bucket next to you, you grimace and look inside, but it’s empty, your shirt is missing but your pants are still intact.


 Memories of the night before are a haze with no colour or substance: chairs, fireplace, strangers, socks - “No shoes inside!”, beer, BBQ, “cosy…hat”, beer, cleavers, meat, blood, chop, hack, crack…

You compose yourself and leave without taking your eyes off of the floor; everything hurts.

The Butcher was never seen or heard from again.


- Tom

4 comments:

Kayla >.> said...

Bahahahahhahahahahahahhahaha <3 Oh you outdid yourself.

Anonymous said...

Possibly the best description of 'drunk' ever written. I think Oxford should give you a job.

The Two Finger Scroll Team said...

Naww, thanks 'Anonymous' :D

- Tom

Anonymous said...

Youre welcome. And sorry about the profile but I couldnt be fucked.
*my phone autocorrected to 'ducked'. Cheers technology.

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