Flavored People

tw: dismembered body parts

He kept his gun pointed at her even as they sat across from each other at his little wooden table in his little apartment living room. He held his weapon against the table, between his wine glass and a single lit candle centerpiece.

“I promise you,” she said, “I won’t tell a soul if you let me go right now. Not the cops. Not my friends. Not even my deaf grandma.”

A little old man shuffled toward them holding the handles of a silver serving tray. He transferred in front of each of them a bowl of steaming soup.

“Thank you, Pedro,” he said.

SOUP: HUMAN FLESH POZOLE 

“You wouldn’t believe how many years it took me to perfect this recipe,” he said casually, as if talking to someone he’s known for years. “Obviously obtaining the fleshy bits is a challenge in itself, but then there’s the chore of chopping it into little squares for aesthetics. The seasoning was also a bit tricky, but what I discovered is that black people are packed with more flavor than anyone else. I mean, duh, right?”

Horror froze on her face. Her spoon combed through the pozole’s hominy, cabbage and square pieces of flesh.

“I can’t eat this,” she mustered barely above a whisper. 

His eyes don’t leave her as he slurps maroon broth from his spoon. “You eat the soup or be part of the soup,” he said, his gun waiving at her.

She shut her eyes. Slowly she transferred a spoonful of pozole to her mouth. To her surprise, the flesh was tender and sapid. The broth was salty with the right amount of spice. She did not know how to feel at that moment; the pozole was genuinely tasty. Her reaction made him beam.

APPETIZER: FRIED FINGERS SERVED WITH RANCH

She grimaced as her teeth crunched into one of the crispy, breaded fingers that, she assumed based on their size and shape, belonged to a heavy-set person. She detected salt, garlic, and a pinch cajun seasoning, among others. The meat was chewy and tasted like pork but with a tart aftertaste. 

“So, is this a black person, too?” she asked.

“No, this is a white woman from Lancaster, SC,” he said with his mouth full, a streek of ranch between his lips and chin. “She loved football, like you wouldn’t believe. Always wanted a son, a little football star, right? Get this: three daughters from three different dudes. She was cursed.”

Her jaw stopped mid-chew. She struggled with the wave of disgust and sadness washing over her. She stared at the exposed bone of her crispy treat and could not help but think how it once belonged to a mother with passion and dreams and little girls who were missing her right now.

“But I’m not a racist,” he went on. “Could you imagine if I were actually on a black-person diet? Who cares if I’m a cannibal, right? Surprising, though, I struggled to find a black person with hands this fat. Not that I’m only willing to eat black people because, again, not a racist. I had a black friend in high school. Jeff Wilson. Really cool guy. Great at football.” He lifted a crispy finger in the air. “She would have loved someone like Jeff for a son.” He dunked the finger in his little saucer of ranch and took a big bite. “But I don’t think she dated black guys.”

SALAD: MEXICAN MAN MEAT SALAD

He never let go of the gun while he ate. It stood on the tabletop, the barrel pointing at her, following her like a set of eyes. Despite his casual demeaner, she knew he was sick, twisted, and dangerous. But everything in this salad tasted so fresh, it was as if he grew lettuce, tomatoes, and corn right in his apartment.

He talked and talked. She struggled to pay attention, to look for an opening to escape her predicament. She could hardly focus on anything other than the amount of human meat she consumed so far. The shredded human in the salad had a smokey taste to it. She did not feel the need to drown the salad in dressing in an act of denial. The meat was well prepared.

“And then she goes ‘Oh,’ and I go ‘Oh,’ and she’s wiggling her bloody stumped arm like this.” He wagged his free hand close to his shoulder to mimic whoever he was talking about. “And we both busted out laughing. Tallahassee is wild, lemme tell ya.”

He laughed heartedly. She laughed, too, but it was hardly convincing. “So, your friend over there,” she said, referring to the little old man in the kitchen a few feet away, “is he your accomplice?” The old man stood in front of a humming microwave.

“Guillermo’s here to warm and serve the food. And to keep the wine flowing.” That last sentence he said loud enough to reach the kitchen, prompting the old man to shuffle toward the table with a wine bottle in his hands. “The food was precooked this morning. I slaved over every morsel. There was no way I could have enjoyed your company while cooking everything fresh. The date would have been soooo boring.” He laughed again. “You would have run off by now.”

MAIN COURSE: BUM STEAK WITH ROASTED SWEET POTATOES

The old man carefully placed each plate in front of them, as if a drum roll accompanied the presentation of the dish. His mouth hung open, his tongue hovering at the center between two chapped lips.

“I think your buddy needs water,” she said to her captor. 

“Roberto only drinks cream soda,” he said. Pride swelled in his eyes as he stared mesmerized at his food. It was a butt, cut cleaned from the bottom of whoever used to sit on it, “…seasoned and marinaded in butter and garlic and herbs for over two weeks. Pan seared medium rare. So simple yet so elegant.”

He lifted his fork with his free hand. Just as he was about to set the gun down to retrieve his knife, he hesitated. He decided to hold on to the gun, still pointing it at her. Instead of utensils, he grabbed the bum steak and pulled off a chunk with his teeth. Red juices dripped from his chin. He chewed ravenously, not even swallowing before taking another bite. The whole time he stared at her. He wanted nothing more than to see her reaction to its taste.

She closed her eyes as she cut a small piece. She placed it in her mouth, and disgust swelled in her once more, disgust for what she was forced to consume, disgust for how delectable it was. It was the best ass she’s ever eaten.

DESSERT: CINNAMON-BAKED PHALLIC SPLIT

“What the fuck?” she cried when the old man placed the treat between them. “Oh my God.”

Three scoops of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry ice cream—each topped with whipped cream and a cherry---slightly melted on top of an erect penis coated with cinnamon (it wasn’t really a split). 

“You have no idea,” he said, “how many guys I had to go through just to find a dick this big. How tricky it was to keep the thing hard postmortem. So this is my first time baking this dessert, so I hope it came out just right.”

“I think…” she said, “…I think this is brilliant. I think you’re brilliant. I don’t know how you could take human body parts and turn them into such delicious food, but I’ve never been so impressed in my entire life.”

“Thank you,” he said, relieved that she finally appreciates his culinary craft. “I want so badly to share my recipes with the world. It would be a game changer. People in poor countries are starving, while the human population will keep growing until the planet can’t provide for everyone anymore.”

“So cannibalism can kill two birds with one stone.”

“Exactly!”

Their heads tilted forward as they stared at each other. For a moment she bit her bottom lip, which made him smirk. He reached a hand across the table. She reached for his until she seemingly changed her mind and dipped her fingertips into some of the whipped cream. With a giggle, she flicked the whipped cream at his face. Not to be outdone, he threw some whipped cream back at her, which landed in her hair. They threw ice cream at each other, then red wine from their glasses. They were standing at this point, laughing, making a connection. 

They both reached for the penis at the same time. Their hands touched.

He looked at her. She looked back. Eyes locked. Souls courting. Love that defies kidnaping protocol, societal decorum. 

She grabbed the penis. It should have tenderized during the baking process, but instead it was still stiff. She swung all nine inches of it like a baseball bat across his jaw. He was knocked out before he even hit the floor, with the gun sliding from his hand. This was it, she thought, the crowning achievement of every independent woman: to beat the shit out of a man trying to take advantage of her. She walked around the table to stand over his body. Her hands squeezed that giant penis until her knuckles were white. She cock-walloped him. She dick-whipped him. She shaft-smacked him over and over across his face until she was out of breath. 

Perhaps she was swept away by the adrenaline, or more likely her earlier taste of flesh left her craving more. So when she kneeled beside his unconscious body she lifted his forearm and took a bite. All she could taste was arm hair, and because he wasn’t black she was sure he would be bland enough for her to need at least some lemon pepper. But she couldn’t stop herself. The trick, as it turns out, is to bite through the meaty bottom of the forearm, but she bit against the bone. She broke the skin, tasted his blood, grew more eager despite making little progress.

Meanwhile, the old man paid no attention to any of what just transpired. He helped himself to a can of cream soda from a pack of six sitting in the fridge. The sweet, cold, refreshing carbonated beverage transported him to a place of serenity where nothing less could reach him.