My Friend, the Cannibal, by Chad Beattie
He told me he did it because he enjoyed the taste. He said morals were not a part of it. He had abandoned those decades ago. He liked the smell of blood gushing from an open wound, the sound of gurgles and cries for help. He said he enjoyed ending a man’s life and devouring his soul.
He only ate men, which I found a bit strange. In all the cases I have read or heard about in the past, the victims tended to be women. In a strange way, I respected him for choosing the unexpected gender. It gave the situation a newness, an excitement. He was particular about his men too. He liked them bald, stumpy, short, pale, and slow. He liked them to have dull ties, wristwatches, and fat eyes. He liked them when they begged and he liked them when they gave up. He said he was doing them a favor. He said he was killing them in bodily form only because their spirits had already been murdered by their willingness to conform.
The last one, he told me, was a man named Ernest, a 42 year old computer technician. Ernest was single with no kids, no dreams, and no love. He was living simply because he was too afraid to die. Too afraid to live, too afraid to die. That’s what he always said. He had a strange air about him, a lovable trait of intellectuality that was both modest and noble. He only spoke words that he meant. He didn’t waste time saying things like, “how are you?” or “do you have the time?” He used phrases such as, “if you have made it this far, you can make it to the end” and “a man who dreams has much to say.” He was a poet in speech. One time I asked him why he had never tried to write. I thought he’d make an excellent writer. He told me he had chosen a different art, one that suits him just fine. His art, of course, was cannibalism.
He never asked me to join him in his escapades. He said it would weaken the experience. He said that the art was within himself and for another person to witness what he was witnessing would be like selling your soul for money.
I wasn’t afraid of him; in fact, I rather enjoyed his company. He had a tint of danger that gravitated around him. He was very handsome too, and good with women. Whenever we went to bars, he would always keep his eye out for a woman. He would watch her for an hour, picking up on her antics and quirks. Then like a vulture he would swoop in for the kill. Normally, it worked. The women got sucked into his uniqueness. He never said goodbye as he left with them. I didn’t mind. That was just the way he was.
He said having sex was the second most important thing in his life behind cannibalism. He said the third most important thing was shoes. He said a man could be read not through his actions or words, but through his shoes.
His apartment was always kept very tidy. His books and records were organized alphabetically on his bookshelf. His favorite writer was Dostoyevsky. He even lent me “Crime and Punishment” but I didn’t have the time to finish it. I told him I finished it anyway. When he asked me what I thought of the ending, I told him I liked it very much. He smiled as I nervously changed the subject.
He didn’t seem to be close to anyone. He never spoke of friends or family. I asked him once about his relationship with his parents. He said he had both a mother and a father. I asked if he kept in touch with them. He offered me another cup of tea. I nodded my head. Then he left his apartment and didn’t return for the rest of the evening. I waited four hours for his return, but it never happened. I walked home feeling guilty and ashamed.
Last time I met him at a bar, he told me he had successfully hunted his latest victim, a married stockbroker named Stan who never wore his wedding ring on weekends. He said Stan was very fond of prostitutes. He said Stan liked to beat prostitutes to make himself feel powerful. He said this was because Stan couldn’t feel power doing anything else. Stan’s intestines, he said, would taste very good steamed with parsley, butter, and sumac. He offered me a plate, but I had just eaten a burger so I shook my head no.
The eyeballs he always fed to the rats and cockroaches. He said it kept them from eating the good stuff. The tongue he always fried. The heart and meat he grilled. The bones he gave to a neighbor’s dog. He said he despised the poachers who hunted elephants solely for their tusks and left the rest to waste away. He said it was selfish and immature.
One day we were sitting in his apartment, listening to a Rachmaninov record he had just purchased. He was deep in thought, peering out the window into the street. Out of an impulse and a wonderment that had been eating at me for months, I asked him why he had never chosen me as a victim. I fit every description. I was lonely, boring, overweight, and useless. I worked as a telemarketer selling alternative methods to heating. I had no wife or kids. I hadn’t been laid in years. I wore ugly, bland sneakers. Why had I not been one of his victims?
He slowly turned his head to face me. His eyes blinked calmly like ripples in a quiet river. He smiled slightly. Then he said, “Finally you see how I work. Now please would you pass me the saw lying next to you? My stomach is beginning to rumble.”
Editor’s Note: When he isn’t penning fiction, author Chad Beattie (or as his affectionate fans address him, “Dragon Chad”) enjoys spending his spare-time crashing Halloween parties without a costume.
