Morsel

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

At the processing plant, I glance at the analog clock on the break room wall. My skin is flushed, and my hands are trembling with nerves. I meant to check behind the student union to see if the food court had any leftover meat, but Mona took over my brain, and I forgot what I was supposed to do before my shift.

If Mona has a forty-page contract she wants me to sign before we even watch a movie together, then there’s something wrong with her. A secret she’s hiding. A trap she’s set that I’m willingly walking into. A corral at the end of the barn, leading me to the slaughterhouse.

She gave me until five o’clock. I’ve only got an hour or so left until I need to take the commute back to the university.

If I sign those papers.

The supervisor adjusts his glasses. The plastic frame slides down his nose.

“And so, please remember that we have cameras everywhere,” he says, his voice monotonous. “Even if it isn’t being sold under our company’s brand, taking organs from the rendering packages is stealing.” His eyes narrow in on me. “Let me repeat: there are cameras everywhere. It doesn’t matter how good of an employee you are. It doesn’t matter if it’s a handful of intestines or a few livers. We know how much we should be exporting from the plant each day. If you take the rendering shipments, it will be considered stealing, and I will be forced to fire you.”

I huff. He’s acting as if I’m the only one who takes meat. For fuck’s sake, that’s how Jerry lost his finger. I saw him digging around the buckets and accidentally startled him. His hand slipped against the cutting machine, and there went his pinky.

The contract pages flutter under the ceiling fan. As the supervisor continues lecturing, I subtly pick through the contract. I catch different phrases.

The subject agrees to participate ? —

…an art series dedicated to the topic of cannibalism ? —

By signing here, I give up all claims to my photographs ? —

I understand my likeness will be used ? —

…series shall explore humans eating humans.

My pulse quickens as I continue scanning. This isn’t just an NDA to watch a movie together; this is about being a part of her next project.

An art project on cannibalism.

I flatten my lips, keeping my simultaneous desire and irritation at bay. Mona wants to use me for her art. In a way, creating art on human cannibalism is putting people like me behind a fence and gawking. My mother’s words echo in my mind: You little freak.

I grind my teeth and chew over the printed words. Mona will probably depict me as a cannibal that must be kept in a cage. Her fans will laugh at me. Judge me. Think of me as less than them. And I hate it, hate it, fucking hate it, and hate her for doing this to me. To us.

“It’s not like corporate needs the profit from a few ounces of meat,” Jerry whispers.

“Seriously. The fuck is their problem?” I mutter.

We bump fists, then pretend to listen to the supervisor again, and I find myself staring at Jerry’s missing pinky. On the day of the amputation, the supervisor was pissed; we had to toss the entire bucket Jerry was working on, and to spread out the blame, I pretended to be working on it too. The supervisor and a few other workers helped shift through the bin, but no one could find the rest of Jerry’s finger to reattach it.

It was in my jumper pocket. I had stuffed it in there before anyone even thought about searching for his severed finger. Instead of wasting his flesh with reattachment, I got to confirm my suspicions about men’s meat. I ate it in the bathroom stall as soon as I got a second alone.

It was too tough to truly enjoy though. I spit it out and added it to the furnace. Besides, there’s a good chance he never would’ve recovered the full sensation in his finger anyway.

When the supervisor asked why we were monitoring that part of the cutting machine together, I didn’t mention seeing Jerry put chicken breasts in a separate container; Jerry appreciated that. Now, he even eats the specialty ground meat I prepare at home.

In the end, that amputated finger started our friendship.

I haven’t tried Mona’s meat yet, but I’m certain her flesh will be softer than Jerry’s. Tender. Sweet and savory. Delicious in every possible way.

I’m not a cannibal though. Jerry’s pinky was only a sample, and to be honest, the texture was disgusting, like the gristle from a turkey leg.

Jerry gestures at the contract. “What is that?”

“This woman I’m dating wants me to sign it,” I say. “She needs privacy or something.”

“You’d do that for pussy?”

“If it’s a guaranteed premium cut, then fuck yeah.”

He stifles his chuckle behind his hand. I want to enjoy the joke too, but I grit my teeth.

The problem is that I don’t know if Mona is a prime slice. Is Mona my dream girl, or is she going to end up leaving me like everyone else?

The supervisor keeps yapping about the newest safety protocol, undisturbed by our quiet conversation, so I pull out my phone and flip to a picture of Mona from the personal ad, the one where she’s halfway inside of a large dog kennel.

“Here,” I say as I hand my device to Jerry. “Check it out. She’s an artist.”

Jerry’s eyes widen as he glimpses at the image. He squeezes my shoulder. “She’s kinky too? I didn’t think you’d be into that shit!”

He must think the chains around her shoulders mean we’re into sadomasochism or pet play. I guess in some aspects, sexual cannibalism is about pain and caging the livestock.

Not that I want to hurt her.

Not that I’m actually a cannibal.

I wink at Jerry. “I’d do anything with her,” I whisper.

“Even sign a contract?”

I inhale sharply. “I don’t know, man. This is intense, right?”

“The crazy bitches always are.” He lifts his shoulders. “Does she put out?”

I pinch my lips together. Even if I came too fast, the hand job in the wine bath definitely counts.

I bob my head. “No complaints so far.”

“Who cares what you have to do to get your dick wet, right?” He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “I dated an artist once, and she never even let me smell her. You know what I’m saying?” I laugh quietly, and he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Pussy is always a feast or a fucking empty plate.”

Jerry is always talking about women like that, and though I know he’s talking about licking pussy and eating ass, he still treats women like objects, something to be fucked and consumed. And I like that. They aren’t objects, of course, but that isn’t the point; I like how the objectifying camaraderie binds us. Besides, I don’t actually want to eat a woman; I simply like the idea of it.

Tension rolls through my groin as I reflect on the fact that Jerry is probably right: Mona may be truly crazy. If she’s willing to be eaten, then she’s also probably willing to chop off my dick and feed it to me.

But the bottom line is that she’s insane enough to actually indulge her cannibalistic fantasies for her art instead of hiding them in her mind. It’s her choice to go public with her fantasies, to put them out in the open, to force others to witness her desires.

Our desires.

If I get to eat a part of her, does it matter if it’s forced out of some artistic bullshit?

I can inspire her.

I can eat her too.

No, no, no, my brain argues. You can’t actually eat her. It may be tempting to take a small bite, but you can’t fuck a woman who wants to be eaten . You’ll take one little nibble, and that will turn into more, and before you know it, you’ll be fucking her battered pussy and eating her tongue like she’s a fucking buffet. You can’t be a monster. You can’t. Control yourself, Kent. Control yourself, and you’ll get what you want.

I flip through the pages again, this time stopping on a new line: I understand that no compensation, including payment from art buyers, will be given to my benefit.

A headache blooms across my temple. I don’t need to read through the rest of it; I’ve gathered enough. First off, I don’t care if I get paid for this; I have my job here at the processing plant. And secondly, is it really that bad to be a part of her art show if there’s a chance I’ll get to eat a piece of her too?

I check the clock again. It’s getting dangerously close to when I need to decide.

Do you want to consume me because you’re a predator? Mona had asked, and it was like her voice was made of honey. Her throat and tongue braised in sweet water for so long, she would melt on my fork. You’re a predator, she had said, as if she saw the animal inside of me and wanted more, as if she knew my sharp teeth were longing to be tainted with her blood.

I can’t let this opportunity go to waste.

I keep my voice low. “Fuck the empty plate,” I say to Jerry. “If she’s a buffet, then I’m in.”

His laughter booms. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

A throat clears.

Jerry and I startle, then straighten in our seats.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” the supervisor asks.

The whole room is staring at us, judging us like we’re big cats caged behind thick glass, and for a split second, I imagine snapping everyone’s neck in my jaws like a fucking lion.

“We’re good,” Jerry says.

“Well, then.” The supervisor angles toward the door. “Let’s get back to work.”

The workers shuffle out of the break room, and I shake hands with Jerry. I nod toward the back exit, then lift the stack of papers.

“I’m going to clock out early and take care of some important business, ” I joke.

“Signing your life away for pussy, then?” Jerry smacks my back. “Get it, my man. And thanks for the ground meat. I’m going to grill some burgers tomorrow.”

“Fuck yeah,” I say. “Eat up!”

“And you eat too!”

He wiggles his tongue like he’s licking an ice cream cone. I laugh, then head to the supervisor. I fumble an excuse about indigestion, and though his shoulders flinch like he doesn’t believe me, he lets me go. Health code rules come in handy in situations like this. I change into a button-up shirt and get in my cargo van.

I may not be eating Mona, but I am serious about this. I’m even willing to sign a contract. And if I drive fast enough, I’ll be the first one in the movie theater, ready to watch her creation and become a part of her art.