The Pieman

Now, there's no question that Simon had the brain of a horsefly an' just as much the appetite. After his ma's death, he'd been able to miraculously get by through the kindness o' strangers as well as his work, but soon, all the menial tasks he once relied on fer his income began to dry up 'n the money with them. Cus of this, he'd been forced to resort to moochin' fer his meals. That's how he came to me, looking fer some pies without a penny to give but, in its place, a promise to pay me back before the fair packed up fer the year.

Heh, as if I ain't heard that crap from about 3 goldbricks a day since I started this goddamned gig. Maybe he woulda followed through, (he sure seemed the kind of innocent, honest manchild what would,) but a dick in my position can't afford t' take that kinda risk. It broke my heart to tell him he was out of luck. Needless t' say, he didn't take it awful well himself. He looks at me fer a while, twitching slightly bef'r his face warps int' a look of what I can only call desperation and he falls to his knees in front o' me, grabbing my suspenders and, as usual, making both a scene and a fool of himself.

"I need some pies, sir! Berry and candy fillin' with sweet, sweet pastry, an' I need em now! NOW!"

Poor Simon had a cravin' fer pies as I'd never seen before 'n, needless t' say, it weren't pretty. Course, outwardly at least, he'd been pretty damn specific bout what he wanted in his pies but really, it were a matter of ignorance or, if ya prefer, innocence. No doubt, it was Simon's ma what got 'im hooked on pies in the first place. The looks we was gettin' from the fairgoers made that fact clear enough. Course there are candy pies, fruit pies, and vegetable pies. Even pork, lamb, and bird pies if you're inta that kinda meat, but that's all fer the casual or rookie pie eater. The normal-minded, god-fearin' folk what eat the so-called ''dainty dish'' once, maybe twice a week or month at least. But, fer a pie fiend of Simon's level, only one type've fillin'll sate the deep, dark hunger within: Beef.

Cow. O'l Bessie. Dairy Queen. The Ol' Mooba Daooba, reacquaintin' herself in a castle of crumblin' gold, with her own aspic'n 'n meat drippins fer suppertime company. As the ol' Gossip'd let me in on, however, Simon'd never understood any o' this. It was a cravin' he'd picked up from his ma, the woman havin' eaten copious amounts of uddered quiche while her soon was in the womb.

Despite this, he'd been a tender soul since kidhood and couldn't bear to eat anything from an animal what had to be carved off. Unable to live a life without her pies and knowing her son would know the truth soon enough anyhow, she did the only thing she knew how ta. She lied. She confined her own flesh and blood that the pies he was giving him only looked like cow due to a lack of faith on his part. In "reality," her pies were made of the sky, of snacks and fruits and dairy products of all kinds. ''Good Pie'' was what she called it. Somehow, it'd all worked out and Simon, poor, simple, trustin' Simon had fallen hook, line and sinker fer the gaslightin', keeping his childish faith long into young adulthood. I knew from that info alone that Simon was gonna be a toughie to bring to reason bef'r his time came.

I told him all about it, of course. About the Pie Hunger, what the need fer cow can do to a man if he don't fight it. But, the results were just like all the others. Simon just wouldn't listen. Said that it didn't apply to him. We went back and forth fer a while, Simon bein' stubborn an' petulant, myself trying my best to be patient, bef'r Simon finally insisted that he had t' "see fer himself." Well, obviously it was better than nothin', so I did what I had to. Sent him straight to the source! He'd been to link number three in the pie chain, now it were time t' hunt down links two 'n one. Once I'd handed him the map, it weren't too long b'fore he was on his way out of the fairgrounds and outta sight.

I never stopped prayin' fer the kid.

The map I gave 'im took 'im to the woods on the far edge of the town. Simon knew what he would find there, o' course. Anyone goin' that way woulda done. The ol' Baker's shop. God himself only knows how long the hermit baker 'n his family had been out there selling their wares. (Not to mention why in the fuckin' woods of all damn places, but still.) There it sat, in the glade, silent, still. the baker and his wife had gone out fer a refreshin' stroll with their daughter that day, but did that stop our boy Simon from heading there anyway? Ha! Yeah right, an I'm Nicki fuckin' Minaj! Simon's need fer pie was like a thunderin' tsunami. Holdin' it back woulda only made shit worse fer everyone.

Forgettin' himself, he came rushin' towards the place with gay abandon. It was at this point that the guard cow got him. It came at him, screaming out a moo straight from a heffer from the herd of Satan himself, knocking Simon to the ground and straddlin' him with its hooved legs!

He screamed like a lil bitch and tried to push it away, but the cow wouldn't let up! It pranced there, continuin' to scream mechanically in his face, spittle flying from its muzzle! Albino, she was, with red eyes glarin' at him, but to Simon, that damn piece'o snowy tenderloin looked downright rabid! "Oh, Mercy! Mercy!" he wailed in his cowardice. "Get off'o me, you dairy devil!" As he squeaked this out, a ''familiar damp gleam'' began t' form on the crotch of his jeans as he tried to fight off the mindless marauder. Eventually, he scrambled out from under her udders and raced into the Baker's, slammin' the door behind him. His undercarriage still reeked of "Fool's Gold", to use a scarcely remembered euphemism, but, at least his struggle had allowed him to dry it a tad.