Bad Meat
By Greg Wilburn
Copyright 2015 Greg Wilburn
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BAD MEAT
“The food here sucks! There’s nothin’ but vegetables in this god-forsaken place!” said Michael Stevens as he threw the Styrofoam plate of carrots, peas, green beans, and mashed potatoes and gravy to the floor. Tersen Asylum had started a vegetarian diet for all the patients two days earlier under the order of Dr. Langham, the new head of the asylum’s operations.
Michael had always hated change, especially when it affected him. When he’d been arrested after killing and eating fourteen women in the Malden area, he hated how that changed his weekly routine. And he was just getting used to having such good meat too.
Sitting at the table, moping as he glared at Dr. Langham, who was standing on the opposite side of the gated cafeteria entrance, Michael missed the hunt. He recalled the prey he longed for: girls between the ages of 20 and 28, average height, athletic build, green eyes, and brown hair.
Some of the defining factors of knowing which catch was worth eating when Michael was on the prowl were her living habits. Michael was very particular in certain regards. She had to eat healthy, exercise regularly but not too much, brush her hair daily, shower often with high-grade washes, conditioners, and shampoos, and she had to have natural features that were accented with wearing little to no make-up. He found that their meat had the best flavor.
It took three tries to find out which prey was ideal, but once he discovered the succulent meat the ideal produced, there was no way he was gonna stop. In the end, Michael supposed that not every single change that happened in his life was for the worst. But it was the one time he thought he hit the jackpot with those twins that did him in.
He knew he should’ve stuck to the normal routine of seducing one woman at a time, but he thought it would be worth it because he’d never get a chance like that again. He did a wonderful job of luring the twins at the café into inviting him to their studio apartment at three in the morning. He was absolutely giddy as they rode in the taxi across town.
Everything was going according to plan as he killed the younger twin in the bathroom when the other dozed off. He relished the choked moan she gave as he covered her mouth with his left hand and drove the kitchen knife into her heart with his right. The dark blood that ran down his arms and dripped onto the floor felt refreshing, like the first rain of Spring. He guided the girl’s body gently into the bathtub and took a second to clean up for the next kill.
He couldn’t wipe the smile off of his face as he cracked open the door and hoped to see the sister asleep, helpless to what would happen next. But when he walked out of the bathroom, he was met with a black handgun pointing straight at his head. He was shocked at how quickly the fear of death surged through his veins, and the cold sweat that came over him made him realize how foolish he’d been to think he could pull off a double-kill.
He didn’t listen to the woman as she accused him and berated him with her words, speaking nothingness about the nature of his darkness and how sick he was for killing her sister. His eyes darted around the room helplessly as she dialed the police and reported him. In an attempt to escape, he ran towards the door as the girl’s voice choked up and her eyes filled with tears at telling the police her sister had been murdered. The woman saw him and got off two shots that hit as Michael ran: one bullet lodged in Michael’s right shoulder, and the other pierced him through the right side, just below the lung.
Still, he managed to flee the scene and make his way to the street. His head throbbed as the pain rushed about his body, making it difficult to breathe and move. He limped down ten blocks in that still morning and collapsed due to exhaustion and blood loss in an alley next to a local drug store. The police caught up to him and had him sent to the hospital eight minutes later as Michael verged on death.
He shouldn’t have been saved, but the arresting officers decided that letting Michael die would be too easy. Instead, they rescued him from Death’s clutches so that he would face his crimes, be sent to prison for life, and receive the chair or an injection.
Michael woke up two days later in the hospital, restrained to a smelly bed in a blank hospital room. The first things he saw were the white, unfeeling walls that caged him in, refusing to let him escape. He tried to sit up in a panic, but the metal restraints kept him locked in place. He tried to let out screams of anger and horror at his capture, but his parched throat only allowed chirps and yelps to leave his lips.
A few minutes later, the lawyer that would defend Michael entered the room. As he swung the door open, Michael saw that some police officers were outside standing guard over his sister Margaret, who was sitting on a bench across the hall weeping into a handkerchief. She was wearing her favorite blue dress that day, and it became a disgusting bruise as the black mascara dripped onto its delicate surface.
The lawyer closed the door slowly and came to Michael’s side, asking about his condition. For some reason, Michael knew that this particular lawyer had a genuine concern for him. Upon seeing Michael gasp where words should be, he pulled out a water bottle and opened it. Michael consented as he poured some water into his dry throat. The water tasted stale, but he welcomed the cooling that revitalized his voice and left him grateful to the man.
The lawyer listened attentively to what Michael had to say in his defense, taking careful notes at every interval he took a breath. As their session came to a close, the lawyer revealed that he was a high-profile case lawyer that his sister had hired, and he assured Michael that he was the best around. Then he spent the last fifteen minutes speaking with Michael on how to get his story straight and develop a good plea for insanity that wouldn’t get him off, but would definitely keep him from jail time.
Michael returned to himself sitting at the dull metal table that housed no reflection and realized that Dr. Langham was no longer there. He assumed that the doctor probably had something better to do all day than look at all his zoo animals penned up in that solitary space, playing with their food and picking at their minds in silence.
Even though Michael hated being locked up in the asylum, he had to admit that it was far better than being slammed up in a jail cell. As he gave at least a little gratitude, the buzzer rang through the loudspeakers on the walls and the male nurses came into the caged area to take the patients back to their rooms. It was always one of two men that came to drag Michael away to his padded prison. He never bothered to remember their names.
The first was a large man who had a scruffy red beard and freckles that ran down his arms. He had a large build that was nothing less than intimidating with the bulging muscles and veins that were barely contained within the tight white uniform. His yellow teeth gave his smoking habit away, and his deep voice forced Michael to submit to any order he gave under its weight.
The second man was medium-sized and had long hair down to his shoulders. He had some scruff and some revealing tattoos of tribal designs. He was quite skinny. Michael mused himself over the idea that if the man were to turn sideways, he would disappear from sight completely. He was always in a cold sweat, and Michael assumed that it was due to a severe drinking habit. Although smaller, he was much wilder than the first man. Michael had seen—and experienced—the verbal and physical assaults he gave when the patients were in the courtyard for recreation time or alone with him.
On that particular day—the eighth day of March in his third year of deta
inment—it was the second man that came through the gate. Michael groaned as he saw the man’s large smile of torture bobble on his sweaty face. He took long strides across the room, reaching Michael’s side all too quickly. As he stood next to Michael, his smile turned to a scowl, and he bent low to pick up the remnants of Michael’s lunch. He scooped the dirty food back onto the plate and placed it in front of Michael.
“Eat it.” He said gruffly as Michael met his gaze. He was running his fat tongue over the inside of his left cheek, making it look as if it were about to pop wide open under the pressure. Michael let out a deep breath, preparing to fight back. He tried to stand up and face his enemy, but the man placed a powerful fist into his gut that made the breath fly out of his lungs. Then the man stood behind Michael, placed his hands on his shoulders, and guided him back to his seat.
Michael grunted in protest as the man shoved Michael’s face into the dirty food and said, “Make sure you eat your vegetables, you scum.” Michael caught glimpses of