Scott stood on a faded welcome mat-- the word nearly destroyed with age.
He straightened his tie, re-tucked his shirt, and took a deep breath.
His hand shook, as it hovered over the doorbell.
This was the last house on the block--
and he needed one more sale to meet his quota.
He sent a brief buzz through the walls.
An older man in a garish red bathrobe answered the door.
Scott put on his brightest smile. “Hello sir, my name’s Scott, and I--”
The man interjected, “No thanks, I’m perfectly happy with my current lord and savior,”
Scott stuck his foot in the door before he could close it.
“N-no sir, I’m actually with Slice Corps.-- the leader in kitchen cutlery!”
The man raised a grey eyebrow, “Knives? Well... Sure, come in.”
Scott beamed with fleeting hope as he entered the small house.
The man sat in a musty brown armchair, and poured bourbon into a glass.
“Do you want a drink, Scott?”
Scott shifted uncomfortably, as he placed the case of knives on the coffee table.
“Oh... n-no, I’m fine, thanks.”
The man shrugged, “suit yourself,” taking a generous sip.
Scott started in on his rehearsed presentation, “For fifty years, Slice Corps. has been--”
“The leader in kitchen cutlery,” said the man, “yeah, you said that earlier.”
Scott let out a nervous laugh, “O-oh, right, yes, well--”
“Scott, just let me see your knives-- I was a professional. Fair enough?”
The man had an intense stare, like looking into a train's headlamps.
“F-fair enough,” Scott managed.
The man picked up the large butcher’s knife, turning it over, and over again.
“Can it cut through bone?” he asked, gently chewing on his lip.
“O-of course, and the tip is great for disjointing.”
“Very nice... What about this cleaver, good for splitting ribs?”
“Y-yes sir, that’s what it’s famous for... up to four inches of bone, actually.”
The man whistled, “Damn, that’s pretty impressive.”
He looked over the others briefly, before seeing the boning knife.
“Oh-ho-ho, what is this little beauty?”
He held it in the air, watching the light glance off the edges.
“That’s our deluxe boning knife, it’s angled to trim meat off of any kind of bone.”
The man set the knife down, a toothy grin on his face.
“How much?” he said, a look of youthful yearning in his eyes.
Scott found himself aping the man’s playful grin.
“Really? Oh, well the butcher’s is one-fifty, and the--”
The man shook his head, “No, how much for the whole set?”
Scott’s face fell, “Oh... Well... it’s two-thousand, nine-hundred, ninety-nine...”
The man deftly wrote the check, and handed it to Scott.
“Hell, I was thinking of coming out of retirement anyway.”
“T-thank you sir! You won’t regret this!”
“Oh, I’m sure I won’t... When will they get here?”
“Three to five business days.”
The man nodded solemnly, “That should be enough time to get back in business.”
The Return of the Eastside Butcher?
A terrifying find in a dumpster-- human remains, all cleaned of flesh.
The last time human remains were found in this volume, was thirty years ago,
when the Eastside Butcher took the lives of an estimated twenty-five people.
The serial killer, and suspected cannibal, was never found-- and assumed dead.
That is, until now. The police department refused to comment on the connection.
Scott stared at the newspaper, mouth agape, and face twisted in equal parts disgust and fear.
“There’s no way,” he thought, a glimmer of sweat on his brow. “I’m just being paranoid.”
He crumpled the paper, and tossed it aside.
Cracking open a beer-- he sighed.
“Besides... I really needed that sale.”
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