She tasted of mucus, she tasted of puss, easy and
smooth without a great fuss. She went down without
a sound, no screams nor a yelp. No whines, or moans
or cries for help. She tasted delightful, toasty
and sweet. Like fine wine in October with autumn
leaves under your feet.
Musty and dusty, rusty like steel, her breath was
the scent of petrified veal. That is to say it
smelled like dead cow, the type of smell that makes
you think…how? How can something smell so wrong,
that it makes you think of a funeral song. The
songs they play when burying the dead, the ones
that haunt you when you’re lying in bed.
The beastly Baron, Baron Bacon Vonpoo, served most
of his prey out of an old leather shoe. He cooked
them up, to a steamy par boil, then sautéed them
whole in vinegar and oil. They tasted delightful,
creamy and light, a hint of mint with a dash of
night. When the sun went down and the town grew
dim, Bacon Vonpoo became sinister and grim. Soups
and stews, sauces and stirs, he used all their
parts including their furs. Eyeballs exploded …
Wzzzz WaPop’d, toe nails made the sound of a floor
being mopped. A quiet slithering, a slithering
sloosh, as nails fell off and the sauté went
woosh. It frothed and bubbled with grimy guts,
eyelids and earlobes and wet hairy butts.
It was cooked, It was finally complete. A well
cooked stew made with various meat. A tribute to
his prey, he had saved her head, he’d serve this
particular perfect stew from a cranium instead.
The brains were dished out, both lobes intact,
the pituitary gland tasted best, this was a fact.
Sliced thin, like a fine blade of grass, this gland
was a delicacy sought after in mass. VonPoo bottled
and pickled, shelved, and preserved, this fine
piece of meat was heavily reserved. Fanatics and
clerics, nobles and monks, they carted this
carpaccio away in fine trunks.
The stink came back, how could it not? Her breath
had the scent of obnoxious rot. Have you ever you
smelled the smell of a dying cat? This was worst,
a thousand times at that. As he dished the grand
stew from her cranial bowels, his guests and his
friends cowered over in howls. They rolfed and they
sneezed, her breathe was diseased, but she tasted
so fine, and with this they were pleased.
They swallowed parts whole from her skeletal bowl,
licking it clean until the stink took its toll. At
first things were calm, then the monk dropped a bomb.
Yes, oh yes, he soiled his robes, the stain dripped
down to his sandaled toes. The color of cocoa, the
stench of stank fish, the cleric was next as he
finished his dish. His rear end exploded, it
literally blew, a fine mess of meat and cranial stew.
All over the walls it covered the halls, it puddled
the floor, and dripped down the door.
The Noble stood back, his stomach was clenched.
Within 30 seconds his wardrobe was drenched. He was
crouched on the ground, let out a gurgling sound,
his intestines began twisting around. The fanatics
were scared, they ran from their table. They ran
as fast as they could while still standing and able.
Outside VonPoo’s castle, they fell over on his lawn,
Bacon screamed out “Come back! Try my tropical prawn!”
In an ill mannered way, the fanatics turned gray, a
soft rumbling could be heard a mile away. Their eyes
went shut, their expressions puzzled somewhat, their
bowels loosened up with a case of mud butt.
All of his guests, sick and diseased, farting and
pooping and generally displeased. Baron Bacon VonPoo
was lit up with a grin. His hands rubbing together
under his chin. His sinister plan had taken its toll,
his snickering went deep and tickled his soul. The
truth about meat that no flavor can sweeten: It’s
as bad for the eater as the one being eaten.