The Creature's Cookbook

By Simon Alkenmayer

I am a monster. The kind that eats people.

Yes, we are real, but do feel free to doubt me — your doubt stocks my freezer.

I have wandered this globe for centuries, cultivating a unique understanding of the human condition —and an epicurean taste for the villain. In the strictest sense, I’m a humanitarian.

Welcome to my diary — where modern skepticism has enabled me to divulge my secrets and my recipes. It has damsels, danger, desire, but unlike fairytales, dire consequence. You will discover a history untold, learn the many culinary uses for blood, and if nothing else, acquire the handy skill of how to spot one of us in a crowd. Or a dimly lit alley.

This sojourn into the dark meat of the soul is an experiment. Fiction, the fried food of the mind, is crippling human intellect and I aim to learn a thing or two. You, as a gentle reader, have one task before you, should you choose to accept it: read this book, contact the author, ask questions, participate, and when the time comes, give your opinion. Are we real, or are humans really the only monsters you need to worry about? Let us see if you can digest this manifesto and know it for the truth it is.

Let us see if you are one of the interesting ones.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Alkenmayer
• Release date: Jan 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005175078

Simon Alkenmayer

Simon Alkenmayer is a monster. What kind? The only kind that’s real. Which somewhat complicates any biography. He has lived all over Europe and North America throughout the centuries, dividing his time between making fortunes, telling fortunes, and being a soldier of fortune. Currently settled somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, he owns or invests in everything from scientific research to small local businesses. In addition to running his social media experiment into how humans parse reality from fiction, he collects antiques which he restores, writes recipes that may or may not contain human flesh, and tries to avoid being driven from his home by a mob of angry townspeople. He enjoys engaging with the gentle readers, music, film, fashion, and of course, food.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author ’ s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

Copyright © 2020 by Simon Alkenmayer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [e-mail].

First paperback edition 2015

Book design by Anne Groner

http://www.creaturescookbook.com

The Creature’s Cookbook

By

Simon Alkenmayer

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Please take note that the following text was written in 2011 and 2012, and appeared first as a series of journal entries on my online blog. The blog still exists, but is now used for other things. These entries were curated and edited to take their current form. Many things have changed in the time since these entries were written—from politics, to understandings of certain important issues facing many of us, to language used. I have altered some things to be sensitive to that. Certain events and names have also been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Indeed, even my own opinions and thoughts have changed considerably since the initial writing. This experiment has educated me in ways I never expected and I am grateful for it and you. Even my writing has improved immensely since these early entries, and I feel somewhat embarrassed at reading through them for this edition. Please be kind to me.

Thank you kindly,

Simon

Part One: Beauty and the Monster

October 31, 2011

The Myth

Let me begin in a rather succinct way: I am a monster. No, not metaphorically. Yes, I really do exist. Yes, I eat people, though the correct term is anthropophage. You can google this.

Now that we have that out of the way…

Hello.

You probably have some mixed feelings, hearing one so matter-of-factly declare such a thing. You are reading this and thinking, Ah, this is quaint! or perhaps you are disappointed. You anticipated pidgin English like Tarzan, or would rather I utilize a medium that allows me to snarl like a Doberman pinscher. The work of Mormon housewives may have driven you to imagine an enigmatic smoldering stare. Do not get your hopes up.

Fiction has done much to impede this conversation. After all, we monsters did not exactly come out and allow ourselves to be examined for the sake of science. The more misconceptions you maintain, the easier it is to eat you. When humanity perceived even a slightly hulking form, or heaven forbid, a mirthless cackle, it took flight and did not stop to make an accurate and detailed checklist.

So it is that my species has been exaggerated into caricature, turned into ghouls, goblins, and ghosts. The worse we loomed, the more you tried to unmake us, with songs and books and plays of our vanquishing. Once we became the stuff of bobbing, plastic, animatronic enjoyment for a dark and stormy All Hallows Eve like tonight, we ceased to be truly terrifying. That is how humanity has purged us from its psyche.

Well done. But please allow a word of caution, gentle reader: you may no longer be afraid of us, but we are still here.

I have heard it said that as many as 50,000 Americans go missing every year. The question is: where do they go? There really is no way the national forests of this fair land could contain some several hundred thousand moldering corpses at a time without a hiker stumbling over one every time he goes out. Nor is it feasible that since the advent of facial recognition, GPS, and RFID chips, a person could assume another identity without a single hitch. So, where are they?

Imagine there are only 2,000 of us, and we each counted calories like a supermodel. That ’ s twelve bodies per year, each. That ’ s half the yearly statistic, half of all the missing accounted for. Why half? Why not go for the full quota, you ask? Well, I must not detract from the truly awesome cruelty you somehow manage to perpetrate against yourselves—from concentration camps to atom bombs. Humanity gives monsters like me a bad name.

So, please allow me, as an offended party, to set the record straight.

Contrary to fiction, we are not confined to drinking blood or eating brains or leaving you in tubs of ice with your kidneys missing. I take great pride in being a conservationist; I eat everything. The idea of cleaning up every clue with the precision of a maggot appeals to me, though perhaps the image is not a flattering one. I like being what I am: a consumer. I consume until there is nothing left.

Of course…you are breeding very quickly these days. I have been sorely tempted to pick off a few just for their more savory parts, but that would be wasteful.

You are probably wondering why I would come forward, why I would risk the wrath of my fellows for revealing our age-old infiltration. It is a natural question, and lest you think this some kind of fiction for art ’ s sake, I will give you the only answer I have.

It is an experiment. A point. An argument for the furthering of knowledge. Mixed with a little boredom, if I am honest. You are a test subject. By reading this, you give consent to tell me what I need to know.

I have been watching as your culture enveloped our myths, absorbed what was so terrifying, and turned us into heroes. I think that perhaps now is the moment when your minds have become so deluded by comparisons of cannibalism with sex that my revelations will make not a single ripple. We shall see. But there is one simple test.

You don ’ t believe me, do you?

No, not really.

The truth is, you have given us an even better hiding place than we could have asked for, and the days of witch hunts, talismans, and portents are behind you. Congratulations.

So here we are. You will be allowed to interact with the most dangerous of animals, from a comfortable distance. Perhaps you will enjoy it. I hope so. I find that my life certainly seems to be the stuff of films, television, and mini-series, though I do hope never to find the contents of this journal on the CW network. That would be utterly disheartening, and while it would serve to prove the point beneath which I begin this experiment, it would banish any and all cathartic response I might have.

I hope to keep a daily account of my hidden life among you. I love food, and so I think you will discover that my record is largely gustatory in nature, rife with recipes and cooking tips. You may also find, in the contents of this diary, a tidbit here or there of a history that will seem at least partly familiar to you. I advise you to absorb it and be aware that during times of hunger, of wandering, of banishment from society, my concept of time shifts. Even when well-fed, certain things seem very vivid to me, and events that are momentous to humanity seem not so pivotal. I apologize if you find this distracting.

I can only tell you what I know, so if you hope to read some great and insightful depiction of the French Revolution, please know that during that time, I was nowhere near France, as the terrible events were preceded by a devastating famine. Skinny, malnourished corpses are not my favorite. I was in the Americas, obsessing over the awe-inspiring indigenous flora…and incidentally, beer. If you are hoping to hear my account of slavery, you should know that I was fixated upon the flavors of meat raised in the terroir of Virginian tobacco plantations, and didn’t even notice the skin color of any given human. You all smell the same to me. If you are looking for an expos é on the tribulations of the Great Depression, I was unfortunately already on the West Coast eating migrant workers, of which there were many without any family or identification. I did not find grapes particularly wrathful. So please know, my purpose here is not to rewrite what you believe to be your past.

I do not need to insert myself. I have been living my life all along, right beside you, and had more important things to worry about than politics or war. Like mobs with torches and pitchforks—an aspect of the stories which is regrettably true.

I am seldom, if ever, intentionally funny. If you find yourself laughing at something I have said, I suggest you take a moment to reconsider that I may, indeed, not be kidding, and if you find this alternative too awful to consider…well, might I suggest you find something else to read?

In centuries past (when writing was finally taught to the masses, of course), a diary was considered a proper pursuit, even for young ladies. It was thought to encourage personal reflection. Their technological counterpart, however, is merely a platform by which one speaks to a captive audience and fends off anonymous reproach. It is amazing that the evolution took so long; given your tendency toward regrettable psychological conditions. I would have expected it sooner.

I understand that questions may arise, so I vow, here and now, to answer them. Feel free to contact me, my email is easy to find and I have all the social media apps— except Instagram. I do not do photos. Probe and test my brain for signs of falsehoods; query me about life as a monster; harangue me about being a second-rate author; but please be polite. The more well-structured the encounter, the less confusion results. As may be expected, more than enough difficulties will hamper our engagement without rudeness added to the mix.

And so, in an environment of apathy, and denial, via a medium of anonymity, uninhibited critique, and rampant self-absorption, I share my secrets with you. Never fear for my self-esteem,      however. Do not fall into that sweet and nigh-invisible trap. I am not your friend. If you catch yourself liking me, just turn away. I will not be hurt by your laughter, censure, or shock, any more than you give any passing thought to the feelings of your cheerios.

Welcome to my life. You are encouraged to embrace this tale however you see fit, communicate with its author any way you can. Test yourself and confront what you believe. I heretofore absolve myself of any and all guilt should you choose to try my recipes. May the consequences be upon your head if you do not substitute proteins.

Tongue in Cheek, a recipe

Tools:

A large frying pan or cast-iron skillet

A large, oven-safe casserole dish

Whisk

Ingredients:

For the tongue:

bacon

Fresh tongue (You should go with pork, though I personally prefer the tongue that goes with the cheek plus a few extras, and for the best cheeks, I troll fast food locations late at night. That is not a joke.)

cheeks (again, go with pork, and usually you’ll need about six)

bay leaves

fresh black peppercorns

Kosher salt

1 small onion

2 cloves garlic

1 1/4 c sweet cider

2 tsp cider vinegar

1 c chicken stock

5 tsp unsalted butter

Instructions:

Preheat oven to 300.

Cut the bacon into thin lardons and set aside.

Wash the tongue(s) in cold water and place in a large pan with 1 bay leaf, peppercorns to taste, salt, and some of the bacon.

Add just enough cold water to cover the ingredients, then bring to a boil.

Skim the surface of any foam (a very important step), then reduce the heat to a simmer and cook until the point of a knife is easily inserted into the thickest part of the tongue(s). (If you are using human tongues, cooking time is obviously shorter, so don’t be discouraged if you are using pork and it takes a bit. Just carry on until the knife point penetrates.)

Leave the tongue(s) to sit in the cooking water until cool enough to handle.

Discard the cooking water and peel the thick outer skin from the tongue(s).

Place the meat in the refrigerator to chill.

Meanwhile, prepare the cheeks. Heat a frying pan and, when hot, add the remaining lardons of bacon and fry for about 5 minutes.

Transfer the bacon to a flameproof casserole dish.

Add the onion, garlic, remaining bay leaf and peppercorns to the bacon, then the cheeks. Pour in the cider, vinegar and stock.

Bring the contents of the casserole dish to a boil on the stovetop, then cover and place in the oven for about 60-90 minutes or until the cheeks are tender.

Remove the casserole from the oven and lift out the cheeks and bacon, setting them aside in a warm place.

Strain the cooking juices into a saucepan and boil until the volume of liquid has reduced by two-thirds.

Meanwhile, slice the chilled tongue(s) lengthwise into lardons of about 1/4".

Whisk the butter into the sauce and adjust the seasoning to taste with salt and pepper.

Reduce the heat and add the cheeks, bacon, and sliced tongue(s) and heat through gently before serving.

This can be served alone, over crusty bread, potatoes, rice. It matters very little, and I find it particularly nice on a cold night.

November 1, 2011

Parallel Evolution

Parallel evolution (No, not convergent evolution. That’s another topic) is a scientific term: two species that are seemingly, but not actually related, growing alongside one another. Think horse and zebra, and you will grasp the concept. I have made a small study of it, for reasons that should be apparent to you at this point.

Did you know that homo sapiens was not the only humanoid race wandering the earth? There were several others; sentient hominids that walked alongside homo sapiens and even mated with them. The current genetic makeup of your race is as mixed a genome as can be imagined. Your neighbor may have a completely different concentration of a divergent populace; he may be, largely, another species altogether: ten percent Neanderthal , or five percent Denisovan . You never know, and yet you call everyone human .

Whatever you were, you were very tenacious, and swept across the ancient world, conquering it through effective breeding practices. But you could not ever destroy us in such a way. We are your only predator, so when you thrive, we feast. We have always been an adversary to you, and thus, we evolved to be unobserved. We evolved to mimic and disappear. We evolved to pretend.

My race does not form tightly knit families or travel together. We do not enjoy each other ’ s company or feel ostracized when we are not included. We do not organize. We do not form governing bodies. We are predators, and we guard our territory jealously. It has been months since I have spotted another of my kind, and that is exactly as I like it.

I have never seen my creators. I do not know how I came to be. I have no theories about our reproductive processes, and cannot locate any discernible genitals upon my person. Perhaps one day I will simply become ill and crumble like a shell, and from the ruin of my body and blood a new creature will emerge. I by no means find this thought comforting, but if I have no choice, it seems logical to at least attempt to come to terms with it.

When I opened my eyes for the first time, it was to stand up from a sticky pool of blood and gaze about in recognition. I had never seen the world, but this was it. I was not perplexed. I doubt we feel perplexity of that type. I looked down at my naked limbs, at the ring of red around me, and was certain that I existed, and that I was hungry.

By scent alone, I could detect the lines of the terrain that had belonged to the former monstrous occupant, and that land became mine. I saw other creatures who looked like me, but were not like me, and I knew that I must camouflage myself in order to survive. That very night, I stole clothing from a plague victim. Thus my birth, education, and transition to adulthood encompassed but a few hours.

For many years, my life consisted solely of the simple truths of sustenance and concealment, until I began to really pay attention.

I have no idea if the others like me are as observant. Perhaps I am unique, but regardless, over hundreds of years I learned that I have more akin with a shark or a Komodo dragon than I do with you. Books, radio, television, and now the internet, have furnished me with a far superior body of evidence outstretching my own experiences, proving that we are nothing alike, no matter how easily I hide within your towns.

I respect your condition because it is something I do not share. I follow your traditions out of care and concealment. When a mother talks of her baby, I listen and I smile, though not too widely, and when a clerk at a store makes a friendly overture, I am amiable. But it is simply the trappings of camouflage. I am an observer, passive or active.

Speech was the most difficult thing to master. It has taken me many years and the assistance of modern dentistry. You see, I have sharp teeth. An entire mouth full of them. But now, clip-on dental veneers are cheap and easily made. Dentists no longer bat an eye when they look into my maw. They assume I have disfigured my grin to be more accepted by some subculture, and I forbid them to x-ray in an effort to keep this impression intact. They take a mold of my fangs, perhaps scold me for my flossing habits, and then build me a lovely row of false, snap-in teeth that fit around my own like a gauntlet over a hand, arming me for verbal assaults.

I now speak perfectly, though I have often seen that my natural tone is unsettling to the human ear. In order to converse, I must adopt a kind of falsetto. My tongue, which is very long, cannot manage sharp sounds, and consequently, I am plagued by the softened s, th, and t, but it has become a somewhat charming quality in practice. Humans hate friction, even in fricatives.

I know that my body does not look as yours does. My skin is very smooth and hairless, the pores almost invisible. I do not sweat. Try as I may to hide it, my complexion is a grayer tone than is perceived to be healthy. In certain light, I am often asked if I am feeling well, even by perfect strangers. I reply that I am anemic, and they seem to feel this satisfactory.

I am average height, but I am slight. This length and narrowness of form is deceptive. Our muscles, you see, are dense and more efficient. We are more powerful than you, perhaps by several times, though our stamina appears to be somewhat limited. We are fast, brutish, and lethal in tiny bursts of motion, but we burn through calories quickly, and if we are hungry, we become sluggish, desperate, and more violent.

I am not a—dare I even write the word—vampire. I cannot turn into a flock of bats. I cross running water all the time, eat garlic, and have no counting or knot-related compulsions. In fact, I crochet. I do, however, drink blood, interact smoothly with wolves, and have a modest aversion to sunlight.

I do not know if I am immortal. So far in my life, I do not appear to have aged. I know my face. It has looked at me from still lakes, burnished silver, glass and Mylar, and now, CCTV. It has never changed. I am as tall as I have ever been. I am as broad as I have ever been.

I have no abnormal repugnance of human food, despite what you have read of the V-word. I enjoy coffee, wine, fine cheese, and an occasional Snickers bar, but I am not nourished as I should be unless my refrigerator is stocked with a spare arm or leg. I do not gorge. I do not lavish myself with baths of blood. I eat a portion that amounts to about 2500 calories, and a single human corpse may last me several weeks.

Now we come to the meat, as it were, of the manifesto: the hunt.

I drift through this patriarchy in slacks and a tailored coat. However, when I kill, I frequently do so in a skirt. My species is androgynous, you see. It is possibly a defense or adaptation mechanism that allows us greater safety. Whatever the reason, it is certainly convenient. So the next time you pat a girl on the backside, and she tells you not to touch her if you want to keep your fingers…you should listen.

Four or five hundred years ago, everyone wore shapeless sacks that dragged on the ground and lifted easily for the necessary excretions, but the modern era has divided you even further, pressed out roles that you seem to play. Now it takes more effort to switch from one gender to the other. Perhaps your customs are a modern adaptation against us, to make it more difficult for us to hide. I do not know, but as a natural response, I have become a master at makeup and costume, appreciative of certain looks.

I like tall boots. When I hunt in them, I am protected from filth. I pile the mess of hair-like filaments atop my head into some kind of pleasing coif in line with the fashion of the year. I wear padding where it looks most appealing. I paint my face. When I look in the mirror, I am the same to my own eyes, but not to those looking for a target. It is a costume. It is camouflage. And it works.

Nine times out of ten, I take a solitary man who often carries a weapon or is under the influence, but I do not discriminate. I have hunted women. I have even captured a teenage boy hitchhiking away from a juvenile record and an outstanding warrant. A dozen or so bodies a year is a pittance, and I am careful to always vary my attack, my disposal: my modus operandi, as they say on television.

I do love television. I have a premium package. And yes, even monsters must deal with indignant cable company staff. On late nights, I stay up and watch all manner of program. I obsess over infomercials, and, I confess, have a storage room filled with useless items I have purchased to examine and test. My favorite is that suction-cup knife sharpener. It is really quite remarkable considering the lengths a man used to go to to have his one knife sharpened at a whet stone.

You may ask, What does a monster do with its day?

I will give the ancient reply: Whatever it wishes.

I like to shop, and even when I must relocate to prevent myself from being discovered, I am never far from a mall. I collect, you see. Antiques are my drug. I do not know what need I am satisfying, but when I walk around my lofted warehouse space and look at all the shelves of trinkets, I am filled with what I can only assume is pleasure. I roll them in my fingers, position and clean, appraise and repair. I have dolls, glasses, bells, pipes, pocket watches, Depression glass, skeleton keys, and old canes. I have stamps and coins, patches and pins, toys and instruments. They amass in my home until they bury me, and then I sacrifice one of them to my cable bill or my lust for black truffle pât é .

I invest, but to say that I do so is a bit misleading. I invested very carefully, in what we now call utilities and viable nascent technologies and simply did not budge. Like Xerox, Apple, Google. All those delightful inventions that surprised you? I saw their potential at once, probably because of my continuous habitation. I remember what has come before, and am invariably either annoyed by or enamored of it. So it is that I am able to do as I please in your capitalist society without fear of impediments, unless the IRS counts. I have, since its instantiation, been audited a total of 14 times, under six different identities. I ate three of the auditors.

Death and Taxes.

I like to walk through the park during the day, and to garden on my roof. I enjoy driving fast cars, constructing things in my workshop, and reading books in the library. To move among you and interact is no chore. I enjoy it as a kind of mental exercise. I am unafraid of you, because I know that you do not see me, even though I see you.

I like what I see.

November 2, 2011

Occupy

I enjoy protests. Rallies, marches, even riots. Anything raucous and revelatory. That is perhaps an odd thing to say, but forgive me if I point out the obvious…that I am a monster, and hence, odd is my forte. Protests overrun the banks of normal social grace. They tear through barricades. They wash over groups. They are quite lovely to an island like me.

I have a talent, you must understand. It is perhaps not really a talent, but some kind of evolutionary adaptation; however, I think of it as a beautiful and inexplicable behavior that provides me with a truly unique trait. That is what talent is, if I am not mistaken.

I can be noticeable. I can seem so inviting that people will walk up to me in a crowd and ask me a question, though I stand between a bespectacled old woman with a shopping bag and a tailored businessman who obviously knows where he is going. I am the one they approach, because I am ultimately and perfectly approachable. I can also do the opposite. I can seem so stony as to be overlooked entirely. I do not know how it is done. I know that I must adopt a kind of stance, set my shoulders just so.

I call it my aura and I cloak others in it, or mask myself from view.

And so I go to the protest, wade into the middle of the tide, and take root. I become a sandbar, a rock. It moves around me easily, without a sign that it sees me as an impediment, and I am happy.

Freedom of speech is a curious thing. As near as I can tell, you believe in the right to say and do as you please, unless it harms another. If that is what freedom is, why don ’ t more people speak even their most extreme thoughts?

I am not a psychic. I do not read minds. What I can do is see with a precision it seems you do not share. Every tick and twitch are visible to me. When you hold back, when you lie, when you are uncertain, I can see it.

So as near as I can tell, a protest is a glorious confusion of people shouting to have the right to hold their silence with impunity.

Curious.

Today I stand in this water and let it rush around me. There are all manner of exotics here: Stilt-walkers and musicians, masks and banners. For a moment, it is carnival, and I am overwhelmed with things to smell, see, and hear. But carnival was a trick all along. It is the death throw of desire before the starvation of Lent. It was the last gift of the aristocracy to placate the serfs. Carnival is insidious in its beauty.

I feel a kinship to it.

I also think it is important to note that wherever there are people, there is food. You will always find the enterprising businessman, selling questionable items that no one questions, because they would rather eat within the river than try to wade against the current. I have already consumed two sausages on sticks made mostly of pig offal, though seasoned well, if perhaps heavy-handedly. I have eaten cotton candy, two fruit drinks of different descriptions, popcorn with hydrogenated, salted fat, and that ever-present pastry of joy–the churro. I have also met several people I would love to eat, but alas, crowds do not usually react well to that sort of conspicuous consumption.

There are speeches about the right to a living wage, safe lending, and proper investment security. There are speeches about unions, fairness of trade, and even a diatribe against Federal deregulation. It is terribly interesting.

They are the ninety-nine percent. Money, being an illusory representation of an assumed value, seems a strange cudgel. That a man may starve, even when across the street from a grocer, in my opinion, is contrary to the idea of civil society. And yet there are plenty of laws making certain that food rots on the shelf. This example is but a metaphor for a great many flaws in your world, but who am I to bite the hand that feeds?

As I am well-versed in the manners of predators, I understand a victim who does not wish to be one, but I also understand that my stomach is empty.

I walk away slowly, still taking it in, digesting, as it were. I make my way down a side street packed with wandering protestors carrying empty bottles, megaphones, and drums. I come to a courtyard at the front of a large office building. Its retaining walls had served as stands for the spectators during the speeches, but now they are emptying.

A woman screams. She is only a few yards from me, and her cry pierces my nerves. She is weeping when I spot her, her hands up in the air as if she is clawing at the sky. Another woman wearing a colored t-shirt and a whistle frantically attempts to calm her. An overlarge bag with a friendly bear print, a juice cup with a funny straw, a tiny sun visor tucked into a pocket, and the waves and gestures that sketch a portrait of the child that belonged to these items. A child who was now missing.

I close my eyes and listen.

I have very acute hearing. I can hear the hiss of a switchblade opening from the length of a football field, through a mass of steel and stone. But to pick one soft sob from all the noise is an even greater skill I call filtering. All the sounds hit me at once, and slowly, I pick their tangle apart. I banish the notes that do not harmonize, and I listen for the perfect chord.

I leave the distraught women to organize their tiny search and walk back the way I have come. I find the little girl quickly. She has climbed the elevated planting area of an offending bank and is wading through the detritus of the rage, scanning the crowd, and calling for her mother. Clever girl, to seek out high ground even though she is afraid.

She is about six, I think, though her eyes are very solemn. She looks at me as I manifest that supernatural approachability and frowns.

I have seen this before. Some children are not fooled. They know that there is something about me that is not right, and when they recognize this about me, their behavior is unpredictable. I have often been the cause of a standing wave of infantile weeping.

I approach her cautiously. You are lost.

Her eyes are huge, looking up at me almost accusingly. I am the witch from Hansel and Gretel, the giant from the beanstalk, the thief in the night.

I know where your mother is.

She looks away from me at the many people observing us. I ’ m not s ’ posed to talk to strangers.

This is a common phrase. I smile each time I hear it. It is a delightful and innocent paradox.

She is over there, I point.

She stares at my finger and the nail bed as if dissecting it. I gotta wait for her here and maybe for the policeman.

I blink. She is quite disciplined. Shall I wait with you?

Her frown deepens, and she looks around again. To my surprise, she drops her voice and leans forward so that her face is almost level with mine.

Are you sick?

I don’ t think so.

You look sick.

I apologize.

She scowls in consternation. Did you awk-you-pie and get heat stroke?

I do not get heat stroke.

She sits down and puts her elbows on her knees. Her T-shirt says Where ’s my bailout?

Do you get colds?

No.

Chicken Pox?

No.

Wooziness?

No.

She scans the crowds of flowing freedom fighters. That ’ s nice. But if you don ’ t get sick, then you don ’ t get ice cream.

I modify my expression. You only get ice cream when you are sick?

She nods, draws her knees up to her chest as if fending off terror, and wraps her arms around them. Her headband, forehead, and eyes peep over at me.

That is most unfortunate, I say.

Mommy says it ’ s bad for you, unless you ’ re sick, because then the corpuscles need it to fight off sickness.

Fat, sugar, and protein, added to a cooling liquid. It is true that ice cream does seem to be an ideal food for the human immune system.

Do you eat chicken soup? I have heard that is also quite good for sickness.

We don’ t eat chicken.

Beef?

Her head switches back and forth, and her face vanishes behind knees of despair. We are veg-uh-tree-uns.

Vegetarians.

Yeah.

A condition as vile and immediately reproachable to me as extreme body piercing. If I wanted metal in my teeth, I ’ d invest in further orthodontia. Understand me, I mean no judgement by my dislike. It is simply a personal preference that is so acutely painful that it must be heeded. If I don’t eat meat, people will die, and I will become conscious of guilt the same moment I remember my own name.

That is also quite unfortunate.

Is it good?

Meat?

Yeah.

I shrug, though she cannot see. Sometimes it is in the voice. I like it.

What ’ s your favorite kind?

I watch her closely. She is hiding from circumstance, not me. No one nearby appears to think anything is amiss. They believe me to be her guardian.

I consider the question.

I avoid dishonesty. I am not sure why. I suppose I have no reason to lie. If an agent of the NSA came to me and asked, Are you human? I would say, No. Because there is something about horrible honesty that makes it completely detestable to a rational human mind, as you yourself can attest.

"My favorite is people meat."

Her head shoots up. Her scowl twists back to life. " People meat?"

Yes. I do not smile. Smiling would make it seem silly, a bad joke.

She drops her knees. You can ’ t eat people!

" You cannot, but I can."

How come?

Because I am not a person.

This seems to cripple her brain for some time. Almost a block away, I can hear the frantic crowd calling her name. They fear the worst, though they do not know she is in the safest and most dangerous of hands all at once.

But Mommy says we can ’ t eat animals because they ’ re like…they got souls and stuff, and people have souls, so you can ’ t eat them.

What gave them souls?

God, maybe? she says dubiously.

Then God should have made them less delicious.

The frown twitches and wiggles, and I can see that I have her. Finally, the fear vanishes, and she begins to giggle. " You can ’ t eat people!"

Why not?

Because they ’ re people!

People made of meat.

Her laugh jolts to a halt. She manages a hard swallow. Do you eat kids?

No, I say honestly. It does not make sense to consume offspring until they are mature. Though, I imagine, to some like me, she was just a cut of veal on two legs.

But kids are people. People made of meat.

True. Do you think I should start eating children?

" No !" she commands with a fierce shake of her head.

Are you delicious?

No, trust me! I ’ m not at all.

I will take your advice, then.

She laughs. Are you kinda like a vampire or something?

" I am not a vampire," I grumble. I dislike the word for all the myth-riddled sludge it drags behind it.

Well, you look like you could be.

I lean close to her. Children often like gruesome and disgusting things. I attribute this to the fact that their brains are half-developed.

Would you like to see my fangs?

She nods vigorously. Planting her palms on the cement, she leans forward to get a better look. I reach up with a quick thumb and snap off my fake smile.

She gasps. Wow, those are cool!

I replace the veneer. They are very sharp.

And those are for eating people?

They squirm.

She blinks a few times and screws up her face. "You eat them alive ?"

No. I lean against the wall and put my elbow on it. Her mother is just around the corner, and I should make my escape, but she is sweet and precocious. I want to leave her with a positive feeling. " But I do kill them when they are alive."

She leans over me and pats my shoulder. That ’ s silly. Of course they ’ re alive when you kill them. But you know, killing is bad.

I consider her words. Only if you are a person.

Nope. Killing is bad for monsters too.

Why?

She seems to think it over carefully. Well …because… she pokes my elbow. You can feel that, right?

Yes.

So can I.

I blink.

It ’ s the same, see?

No.

She sighs heavily and shakes her head. Monsters are hopeless.

It is an incurable condition.

Her mother is at the edge of the swarming masses now, pushing her way through and shouting at the top of her lungs. I turn back to the little girl and drop my voice.

I ’ ll bet if you start crying right now, your mom will get you ice cream.

I point, but she does not leap down and run at the hysterical woman. She just purses her lips.

I can ’ t make myself cry.

Me neither.

She turns and takes in my face carefully, as if memorizing my features and their peculiarly off arrangement. You ’ re weird.

I smile. The next time you are afraid, just remember the time you were alone with the weird monster who eats people.

Her eyes sparkle. I wave to her mother, and with a face that tells her I have heard the whole situation and am aware that the girl was hers, I exert all my appeal.

Oh, my God, Casey, you scared me to death! the woman sobs. She throws herself at the girl as I back away and pulls her off her pedestal. Good girl finding a place to wait. Thank you, sir, for staying by her. What happened to you? How did you get lost? and like all human mothers everywhere, she does not let her daughter answer. The girl is put into a steel grip and dragged bodily away.

The child looks over her shoulder at me and smiles. Monsters aren ’ t real!

We are the one percent, I murmur as I watch them disappear.

November 3, 2011

Second Thoughts

Tonight, gentle reader, I played a hero. This is, for reference, inadvisable for monsters to do. It is not only counterproductive, it is not well-accepted by the rescued. Probably because it confuses the hell out of them. After all, the hero is meant to be a strapping man with a confident voice, and the villain, a creepy sallow-faced menace.

Blame Disney.

So, tonight, I went to see one of those dime-a-dozen demon possession films. Yes, I know it seems strange for a creature like me to go to a theater to watch inexplicable things terrorize families, but honestly, I find them amusing. The screams and laughter of the crowd are a perfect landscape for independent research into the nature of fear. And to be honest, nothing tastes like cinema popcorn.

Never mind that.

I have a love-hate relationship with tales of faith and magic. On one hand, I benefit from their preposterous fictions. Unsuspecting victims placidly believe I am something linking them to the divine. But on the other hand, the condition of stupid does not impress. An invisible friend in the sky who refuses to help but insists upon obedience makes me wonder about the quality of your brains. For culinary reasons, obviously.

As it happens, it was not a very good film regardless.

I walk home via the service drive that runs behind my home. It used to be a path for shipping vehicles to the loading docks of this line of ramshackle warehouses, but now it is a driveway for the patrons and renters who frequent these urban reclamation projects. My home is the last warehouse at the end of the street, atop a small hill. Along the tree line are numerous garbage heaps and abandoned pieces of furniture.

Normally, I like the decay, the sparkling amber glass, and the shards of moldering wood. But tonight there is some kind of scuffle taking place ahead of me, behind a group of old metal drums. A human might exit the path, but a monster is not bothered by raccoons. I walk closer, my senses on the alert, and detect the heartbeats, labored breathing, and hormone clouds of two people. A muffled scream warns of the true ugliness taking place.

I halt and think for a moment.

Doing nothing when one has the capacity to act is a crime in human society; even though most embrace cowardice when no one is looking. I, however, cannot die, and tangling in moral quandaries often stocks my freezer. It isn ’ t bravery (just in case you think to praise me), but necessity. So, I take off my motorcycle jacket, lay it gently over a decomposing sofa back, and roll up my sleeves.

There is no transformation, if you ’ ve been waiting for me to describe one. I pop out my fake teeth. I extend my claws like a feline. I collapse my skeleton, because I am able to do this, by compressing and flexing joints. I perform an exercise similar to a professional body builder about to lift a stupefying amount of weight, and I spring. It is impressive to behold, but only because witnesses seldom have a grasp of the mechanics, and they frequently do not live very long to reason through it.

I land on the other side of the drums. A woman is pressed to the ground on her stomach. Her dress is torn and pushed up above her waist, exposing her underwear. Her right hand is disabled and bleeding, while her left is twisted behind her back. Atop her sits a fat and stupid-looking man. He stinks of booze and is gripping a knife in his teeth.

The sort of people taking back this neighborhood are brightly colored, listen to music with wind in the title, and always smell of potting soil, so this brutality is a strange thing to see. But it is my element. I suppose it is stranger to realize one ’ s element has become foreign, and that it has no business in one ’ s neighborhood.

I reach out, take hold of his face, and with a tug, dislodge him. He shrieks behind the knife, which makes a bloody grin of his mouth. The woman, her arm still twisted, shrieks as well. With a well-placed stab of my hand, the man ’ s arm falls limp. His fingers relax from around her wrist, and as she squirms, I bring the forehead sharply to my knee and feel a bone give. He tumbles off her body.

The haze of instinct is rising in me. I hold onto cool wrath until the blood flows, and then I am completely myself. Or, not myself, depending upon how you look at the situation. My rational mind retreats, and I am a monster with truly terrible ferocity. When this happens, nothing can stop me, but careful conditioning or the taste of flesh.

I growl and jerk him to his feet. He staggers, swiping out at me with his hands. A mighty toss sends him sprawling into an old television box filled with mildewing clothes. I spring atop him as he rolls to face his enemy, and with a primal cry, bite into his throat. I tear and tear, ripping skin from his chest and his protruding belly. I pull and yank muscle loose.

Suddenly the fog lifts, and I sit atop a ruin of a man.

I lick my lips. He is greasy, inside and out.

A sniffle wakes me. The woman is still t here.

There is no going back. The truth is all over her bruised and bleeding face. Her whole body is shuddering with such violence that her one dangling earring jingles. She is sitting, legs akimbo, her one working hand wrapped around the man ’ s knife.

The contents of her bag are strewn over the ground. Her cell phone is almost ten feet from us—a blessing. If it were within her reach, I might have to kill her too.

We are locked in a standoff that is distinctly in my favor. I watch her stoically over my shoulder. She sits there and shakes. Finally, after many minutes, she jabs the knife toward my perch.

Is he… dead?

Most assuredly, I reply, though it comes out frightfully lisped around my pointed teeth.

A tiny wheeze releases a torrent of tears and sobs. She hurls the knife away as if it is red hot and hastily begins to pull her shredded clothing down over what naked parts of her it can still cover. Her movements are frantic and uncoordinated. I watch as she smoothes her hair and tries to calm herself.

The corpse beneath me gurgles and squelches, but I cannot get up. If I move at all, I will frighten her into some kind of seizure, and it is very important that she remain calm. The dead body releases an effusion of gases. I grunt at it.

She looks up and swallows. The expression on her face is a kind of agreement.

Slowly I shift my weight until I am crouched over his revolting meat-sack.

You ’ re strong, she whispers.

I tilt my head.

And fast.

In the back of my mind I am hoping this is not about to turn into a scene from another terrible movie franchise. I reach down and pinch the corpse ’ s cheek. His eyes are yellowed and cloudy. Overweight liver is the tastiest, but his is certainly diseased. I begin to feel put out. Nothing salvageable.

Your teeth … she breathes, and your claws …

Yes, they are sharp, I say with some annoyance, hoping she will not say the V- word.

Are you supposed to be some kind of vampire?

I growl and lift the corpse ’ s lips to examine his teeth. Rotting. His fingers are showing signs of clubbing. His heart is also unusable.

Fuck. I do not often swear. Most of the four letter words used in such circumstances are not compatible with a mouth of jagged edges, and I end up slicing myself in an obnoxious karmic loop.

Are you going to—

Eat you? I glare at her sardonically. She is suffering from shock and numbness has taken over. Her response is a dull whimper. No, I am not going to eat you.

Are you going to eat… him?

I wrinkle my nose.

Can I… she waves her uninjured hand at the trail, Can I go?

I am tempted to demand she assist me in disposing of the corpse, since her altercation has inconvenienced me completely. I will need to eat a great deal tonight to recover, and I have already rationed my supply to stretch thin. Then I glance her way.

She sits very still. Her tears are completely gone. Her eyes glow in the dull light of a street lamp like two little suns. Her body is limp with fatigue, and I can smell her blood oozing from the cuts and abrasions.

Any anger I feel is replaced by a certainty that even if I ask her to assist, she will not be able. She has just been through something I will never understand, and her life has changed forever. I am strong and experienced enough to handle the body. I do not need her.

Go.

What…the body…what will you do with it?

I slap its face and stand up, pulling my teeth out of my pocket and snapping them into place. Throw it away. There is no place in my freezer for that thing.

She blinks furiously. You have…a body freezer?

Only for halfway decent meat that won ’ t screw up a recipe. He smoked, drank, and ate himself to death. Not a usable piece on him. He reeks of cancer. I couldn ’ t even trust his marrow.

A shudder rolls over her frame like an earthquake, until her mouth erupts like a volcano. She vomits and coughs for several minutes while I watch her, knowing that I am not behaving in a way that is sympathetic as I understand the definition of the word.

When she has coughed up everything and wiped her mouth clean, she looks at me. A sheen of sweat is on her dirty brow, her mouth is slack, but it is her eyes that strike me. There is no horror. There is utter and all-consuming relief.

You do…eat people?

Yes.

Planting her uninjured palm carefully on the ground, she struggles to stand. Her strength has been eroded by the acid of adrenalin poisoning and her shoes are mangled. Where will you take him?

To my home. I will cut him into pieces.

She swoons a bit, steadying herself against a drum. You have a home?

I cock my head at my chest. I ’ m wearing Armani. Which means I have a closet…and an iron.

Yes … of course. She takes a few wobbly steps and looks around forlornly at her scattered possessions. I ’ m sorry … I ’ m a bit out of sorts.

Understandable, I reply with a certain gruffness to my voice. I am considering how out of sorts I will be in an hour after dragging this mass of putrefaction down the road and up into my shop.

He must have followed me from that place on the corner.

I am not certain what place she means. There are several, of the box wine and humus variety. I despise humus. There are far more interesting and palate-pleasing ways of preparing legumes. And box wine is a crime against grapes. And boxes.

Forgive me. My mind does tend to get preoccupied, particularly when it comes to food.

I live in the apartment complex, you know? She points. I ’ m sorry … I ’ m making a terrible mess of this.

You were assaulted by a human and rescued by a people-eating monster.

She attempts a half-hearted chuckle. And I just told you where I live.

I didn ’ t notice. I wipe off some of the oily blood that smells of dirty pennies.

I guess … I keep your secret, and you don ’ t eat me? Is that the deal?

I walk back to my jacket. She watches me don my disguise with detached interest.

I don ’ t have secrets, I say. I Facebook.

Of course you do. She looks down at the body. But if you write this, everyone will know what you did.

They won ’ t believe it, and no one will find him.

Well, that ’ s good. Suddenly, she stops and flaps her arms in frustration. You ’ re a god-damned…what are you?

A monster, I say monotonically.

Well, what kind?

The only kind that’ s real.

She seems crestfallen. Oh. And do you save ladies all the time? Isn ’ t that, like, not a part of the um… idiom?

This is the first time. Though two days ago I found a lost little girl.

Noble of you. She looks at me suspiciously. You didn ’ t eat—

No.

She tucks some hair behind her damaged ear. Does anyone follow you..online, like fans?

I don ’ t know.

Her strength is fading quickly, yet she is engaging in social behavior. I have seen people in odd circumstances do truly bizarre things, just before they collapsed. I stoop down and begin gathering every item of hers I can find. I shove them all into her bag and press it to her body. She wraps a loose arm around it dully.

So…just…walk home?

Go. Call a friend and have them take you to a hospital. You will probably need stitches.

She begins to limp past me, but as she looks down and sees the dead man ’ s leg jutting out, she is reminded of the bizarre events.

You ’ re a monster?

Yes.

Okay.

She turns back to the trail, and with tottering progress, makes her way toward whatever destination had been hers before the world shape-shifted around her. I wait until I am sure I hear her enter a building before I hoist the bleeding bulk over my shoulder and carry it up the back stair of my warehouse.

I have now just finished carving the turkey, as it were. I have wrapped the pieces in biodegradable webbing used in gardening and stored them inside a plastic tub in the trunk of my car. Tomorrow I will dispose of them in the woods near the northern border of my territory. Hopefully my nearest non-human neighbor will find them before the state troopers do. A bit like a get well casserole, or something.

One of my many records is playing; a lovely German waltz. I have a glass of wine. I am showered and fed. I am calm.

And I am having second thoughts.

November 4, 2011

Stitches

As it turns out, I can see the damsel ’ s apartment from my upper row of windows.

I installed a catwalk when I moved into the warehouse, just in case I needed a high vantage (useful when outrunning mobs). I love the industrial crank-open windows, some paned with yellowed plastic. In the mornings, light filters down through my metal shelving units and possessions like snow and glints