Etymological Erotica: Meat Your Maker
noun & verb
- a preparation of game bird split in half, splayed open and grilled, fried or baked
- Originating from 18th century Ireland as a slang abbreviation of the expression “dispatch the cock,” meaning to whip up a quick & simple meal of game bird.
I’d heard of the Butcher from both fans and foe alike. Experiences spilled from salivating lips flickering flints of combustible pride and obsession and likewise rumors from disgusted dissociative daydreamers at Club Rub.
“Do you know what they call the place?” they would ask with one eyebrow cocked high, as if dangling a forbidden carrot of secret information.
The first time I had heard of the Butcher, I shook my head without even a guess (which goes to show just how far my imagination has come…).
And as if the dangling carrot weren’t torment enough, they would serve back to my naivety a riddle:
“It's only unethical if it's a slaughterhouse. If it's a butcher shop, it's charming.”
* * *
On the corner of Good and Gone is where Butcher Bright did reside and work. The storefront sign creaked in the wind just above the glass display window adorned with a bacchanal array of roasts, dangling links of sausage, flakey meat pies, wine pairings, and wheels of imported cheeses. Inlaid in black and golden paint just above an image of a cleaver wedged like Excalibur into stone, the butcher's shop sign read:
Meat Your Maker,br> Meat Market and Butcher Shop
Opening the glass door, the butcher’s voice spilled over the counter, harmonizing in gruffness with the chime of the brass bell that announced the arrival of patrons in a bright yet ominous tone. Ringing their oracle upon my entry, their master spoke to the customer at the counter.
“Now, that's a spatchcock!”
Hunched over, ungloved, the bloody hands of the butcher were woven together by the linking of their thumbs, as they heaved their body’s weight and a smug smile downward with undulating pulses upon the breast of the splayed open bird. The sound of cracking bones satisfied the Butcher’s ears like a fresh chiropractic adjustment.
“Is that what they call reverse CPR?”
Butcher Bright hiked an eyebrow sideways, acknowledging my comment without losing focus on the bloody process before him.
“Might as well be the real thing: Sometimes you need to break a couple of ribs to resurrect a fool.”
Their hands worked diligently with force and tenderness on the limp creature that folded and flattened at their fingers beck and call.
“Well on with the resurrection…” I declared as I slumped the large sack that had been slung over my shoulder onto the black and white tiled floors with a loud Thump!
The Butcher paused, and craned their neck over in my direction, sizing me up with a few glances back and forth between the sack and my belt buckle. A faint smirk curled the corners of their blistered lips as their eyes fell back in line with their present duty, shaking their head slowly as they muttered “A hecklers introduction…”
Butcher Bright quickly finished up the order with a few more cracks and a swift wrapping job. Shuffling the customer out of the shop, they locked the door, flipped the sign to ‘closed’ and drew the shades.
One eerie spotlight flickered on with a buzz, casting shadows from the bulging brims of our hats over our eyes.
“Does every bird have a spatchcock?” I asked naively.
“By the time there's any having to be done, it will be a different beast,” replied the Butcher beckoning me over to the counter.
My eyes swept across the Butcher’s office, pausing for a long moment to admire the exposed midriff of the shiny carbon stainless steel knives cradled in their cubbies. The butcher noticed the direction of my attention, and slowly slid out a handsome cleaver with a handle made of bone. My eyes were mesmerized on the butcher’s hands as they stroked the sharpened ridgeback and forth, and back and forth...
Like word vomit, all the rumors from Club Rub poured out from my lips,
“So this is why they call you Captain Spatchcock, the Blasphemer of Bird to Beast, Sir Loin Steak of London Broil, First Cut Chuck, the Master of…
WHACK!
Embedded only an eighth of an inch away from where my fingers gripped the counter’s edge was the Butcher's cleaver, fallen as swift as a samurai sword next to my hand.
Only after the ripple of frozen shock dissipated and I shook myself back into my focus did I notice my entire body was covered in goosebumps and my eyes were bulging wide. I took a deep breath and cast my gaze like a shamed puppy dog down to my feet.
A chuckle slithered out the butcher’s vocal chords as they said,
“You are as splotched as this morning’s plucked poultry. Now then, back to business. Did I hear you call me Master?”
I did not look up, but replied slowly.
“Yes I did…” WOMP!
No sooner did I realize that there was a meat tenderizer cornering the embedded cleaver, just millimeters away from my fingertips, then did the Butcher slide the tool back into the palm of their hand, bouncing it lightly as their calm and eerily articulated voice arose,
“I’m sure you didn’t hear me correctly the first time I inquired, so I'll ask one more time: Did you call me Master?”
I looked up at their dark smoldering eyes that were now pinned on my mouth.
“Yes, Master.”
* * *
To be continued...
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