The Pieman

That, o' course, did lil t' stop his tiny mind from reelin', an' who the hell can blame him? Not many folks around those or any parts what can say they've seen an Albino cow used as a Guard Dog bef'r. I guess it was poor sportin' on my part t' sell that mad bessie to the baker but, in my defense, it were an easy sell, what with the promise o' her protectin' his property an', after all, he was the one what paid full price fer her without so much as an attempt at hagglin'.

Besides, it were fer Simon's own good n' training. First thing a guy in the pie chain with Simon's...delusion's gotta do to appreciate his place in it is t' stop feeling sorry fer the fillin', and fer Simon, forever held back by his overheated empathy, making him dislike a cow was his first, big he looked out of the latticed window at the cow outside, his anger at nearly bein' killed by the beast took over and he found himself shakin' his fist at it grumblin' "Bovine Bitch!" under his breath.

Took a while fer Simon to compose himself bef'r he could continue his pie mission. He figured, an' rightfully so, that this would be the place he'd find his beloved pies. But if that was the case, why the map? Why all the cryptic secrecy? Oh, but he'd find out. He'd find out all too soon. The whole shop, as ah told yer bef'r, was empty. By rights, the door aughta've been locked 'n bolted but with the feeling of safety the new guard cow offered him, the baker'd gotten lax in his security, which is how Simon found himself inside the place. Sure'nuth, on the counter, he found what he assumed was the object o' his desires.

Course, if they were, this'd be one shitty story. They were pies, naturally. Freshly baked ones too, 'n Simon was just figurin' to borrow one of em, hoping to pay the debt he'd owe the baker later. Least he woulda done if he hadn't caught the scent of em first. The odd, earthy smell penetrated his nostrils like they was a 5 dollar whore an nose wrinkled, not so much in disgust as confusion. At this point, he found himself giving those pies a proper lookover and noticed that they were...somehow different to what he was used to. "Strange." was all he could think at the time. "Strange..."

Strange t' him at least, but not to the likes o' you or me. Veggie Pies! Carrots, Collards, Corn an' Spuds, all mixed up together in lard! Fer a hardcore bovine man like Simon, these were as big a slap in the face as if they'd been made o' custard. Course, having never learned the truth, he was left with more questions than answers and, after turning over the whole bakery in his quest fer confectionary bliss, he was forced to leave in defeat, reluctantly takin' a slice o' one of the vegetable pastries in a ''beggars can't be choosers'' sorta way. By now, the Cow'd wandered off, just like I'd trained her t' do 'n was chewin' on some cover, so Simon was free t' leave safely.

It weren't long after stepping back over the threshold that he found the gravestone me 'n the Baker'd planted the night before. It stood out there out in the front garden, close to the wife's flower bed. The stone was cheap an' Narra 'n light that even Simon, fer all o' his flab, coulda lifted it all on his lonesome, which was the point o' leaving it out there. Fer him t' find. He didn't know the name of the feller it were fer, but the note on it left instructions plenty clear enough. Mainly it was to be taken to the town cemetery by nightfall of that day, bef'r midnight. Simple enough, an' fer Simple Simon, that were all he needed t' known. He checked the map one more time fer the next place Ah needed him t' go, then he picked up that slab like it was nothin, hoisted it over his left shoulder, an' off her went.

Yeah, deep down I knew I was stallin'. Maybe part o' me just didn't wanna see that poor, happy idjit meet his fate, but ah knew it couldn't last forever. Time was a ticking on. Never stands still, never goes back...

And the Butcher needed some new meats t' play with.

Next stop, the slaughterhouse. Lying just opposite the forest, all alone, in a pasture o' permanently dry, brown 'n dead grass, with a Termite murdered peach tree not too far away from it, Course, no one but the Butcher and his ''employees'' dared t' set foot in that place an' the townsfolk regarded it as some kinda...ghost. An object lost to time. No chimney rose from its foundations. No smoke from no chimney, neither an' no noise from heavy machinery, came from behind those white-painted walls with ominous red streaks. Our boy the Butcher, ya see; well, he were a man of tradition. Didn't take much stock in all this talk of ''Industrial Revolutions'' an' the like. He was a straightforward, no-bullshit kinda man, even though he were full o' it hisself. He couldn't bring hisself to adapt to the new ways 'n so liked to pretend like they was inferior to his own. Some folks'll die on the weirdest fuckin' hills.


Not that the Butcher'd done much dyin since 150 years prior when he was chosen. How the hell he ended up settlin' in Ohio in the earliest days of the colony or how nobody in town ever noticed how all their Head-Butchers seemed so alike is anyone's guess, but he was around long bef'r the Americans rebelled and he might o' gone on living long after that year...if it weren't fer the fingers he'd lost a week back. Index and middle finger on his choppin' hand. An accident, ye see, while choppin' some Tenderloin involving a bottle o' homebrewed dark ale. Thing is, next t' his tools, his knives 'n such, the Butcher's fingers're his greatest asset. He loses them, he loses his use t' The Pie Chain, an' at that point, his days're surely numbered.