Peckish Packer

It was snowing when Alferd entered the pub on Bradshaw Road. He stomped his boots and shook the snow off his coat before sitting at the bar.

“What can I get you?” asked the bartender. Alferd thought the man looked smart – a black button-down, black slacks and carefully gelled hair.

“Whiskey.”

Alferd glanced around the pub while the bartender busied himself. A couple talked quietly at a table by the frosted window. A Christmas tree sat hunched over in the corner. Holiday music spilled softly from a small speaker behind the bar and black and white photos in cracked frames decorated the walls.

“You hungry?” asked the bartender.

“Not yet.”

The bartender set down a dusty glass of whiskey in front of Alferd. “New to town?”

“You could say that.” Alferd took a small sip and smacked his lips. At least the whiskey had improved.

“What brings you?” asked the bartender.

“I’m a journalist. Writing a story.”

“Yeah? What about?”

Alferd pointed behind the bartender’s head. There was a black and white picture of a man with a very long beard, a manicured mustache and wide eyes.

The bartender glanced behind and chuckled. “Peckish Packer?”

“Peckish Packer,” Alferd muttered. He frowned.

“You writing a historical piece?” asked bartender.

“Of sorts.”

The bartender shrugged. “’Fraid I can’t be much help. Been a century and a half since he lived, and I only know the stories.”

“The stories are exactly what I’m looking for, actually,” said Alferd.

“You sure you’re not hungry?”

Alferd shook his head and looked pointedly at the picture behind the bartender’s head.

The bartender shrugged again. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the bar.

“The guy was… a nut job, to tell you the truth,” he said. “Attempted to cross the mountains and… it didn’t go too great.”

“How do you mean?” asked Alferd quickly. He took another sip of whiskey to hide his eagerness.

“Well, he – he ran out of food.”

“And?”

“He ran out of normal food.”

“So?”

The bartender hesitated. Alferd’s leaned forward. His heart pounded.

“He killed and ate all his buddies,” said the bartender. He suddenly burst into laughter.

Alferd snapped straight. “What?”

“Yeah. Murdered every last one of ‘em, and cooked ‘em up. Crazy fella, like I said.” The bartender shook his head, chuckling.

“Well, what else was he supposed to do?” Alferd snapped.

The bartender blinked. There was a flash of anger in Alferd’s eyes that was hard to miss. “I mean – he could have died. Would’ve been more honorable.”

“Uh huh. You would have done that, would you? Died even when a solution to death was right there in front of you?”

The bartender fidgeted.

Alferd took a deep breath. Play it cool.

“So, what about after?” he asked calmly, leaning back and taking another sip of whiskey.

The bartender furrowed his brow. “Whadya mean?”

“You know – after the… occasion. What did Packer do after?”

The bartender was a shrugging man. “Went to prison, I suppose. You want something to eat now?”

Alferd shook his head. “He went to prison for eighteen years. What about after?”

“Never heard of any ‘after’ with this fella.”

“What about the orphanage he funded? Or the old museum he saved?” pressed Alferd.

“I told you, I never heard – I thought you didn’t know anything about this guy?”

Alferd shook his head and downed the rest of his whiskey. The bartender’s curious eyes clouded with suspicion.

“Who do you write for?” he demanded.

“What about that little girl he took in?” asked Alferd. He set the whiskey glass down on the bar a bit too hard for the bartender’s liking.

“Easy there, man,” said the bartender.

“What about the war he served? Was that honorable enough?” The couple by the window turned around and stared at Alferd.

“Calm down, buddy. I don’t know why you’re –"

Alferd stood up quickly and pulled out a large knife from beneath his coat. The bartender stumbled back, pressing into the photo hanging on the wall behind him.

“What’s your problem?” he shouted.

Alferd looked slowly around the bar. The couple stared at the knife in his hands. An ornament had fallen off the Christmas tree.

“I’m hungry now,” he said quietly, turning back to the bartender.

The bartender swallowed. “I’ll get you anything you want, man. Just – just put the knife away.”

“They were wrong, you know,” Alferd continued as if he hadn’t heard the bartender. He held up the knife and examined it lovingly.

“They said there was a deer near the campsite. They talked about big game in the woods. They were wrong.”

Something moved in the corner of Alferd’s eye. He whipped around to see the couple beginning to stand and he brandished the knife at them. They held up their hands.

“Please,” said the man weakly.

“Do you know what hunger does to a person?” Alferd shouted. “It blinds you. It shakes you. It pulls you down to the depths of hell until nothing else matters. NOTHING.”

Alferd slashed the knife through the air. The woman whimpered. The bartender shivered.

“They said I chose the dangerous route. The wrong route. They must have forgotten to mention it was the fastest route. And in the middle of winter? It was hike fast, or slowly freeze to death.”

“You’re crazy, man. Crazy. Put the knife down,” said the bartender.

“They sentenced me to 40 years. For what? Living? For being brave enough to do what others could not? Four decades.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about. You’re scaring the folks back there. Put the knife down.”

“And that’s all you remember me for? That’s it?! CHRIST, IT WAS A BIT OF MEAT. JUST SOME FLESH AND BONES.”

The bartender gawked at Alferd. There was something familiar about those wide eyes.

“Yes,” whispered Alferd, catching the look in the bartender’s eyes. “Peckish Packer. A nickname I’ll never quite live down, it seems.”

“You’re – you’re crazy,” whispered the bartender.

“No. I’m not crazy. I’m hungry.”

Alferd lunged over the bar and plunged the knife into the bartender’s chest.

This story is inspired by Alferd Packer, the first convicted cannibal in the state of Colorado.