The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer, Part Three – The Butcher 1
Serial Fiction
He slowly grew to despise the pleasures of the flesh. He had always hated people. He considered this his greatest strength because he stayed away from them and that gave him time to perfect his inner beliefs. He had always been the flat faced anti-social that befriended the boss, kept his mouth shut and his ears open. He was the one that got people fired for spitting in the trashcan. He despised people that spit in the trashcans. They were filthy animals and he liked his coffee in a little porcelain cup on a sassier with tiny demitasse spoon pointing at his right thumb.
Early in his life he decided it would be better for him to swim to America from the old world instead of flying. He jumped in the water blindly and didn’t look back. It was cold at first but after a few years he don’t feel a thing. He learned to take the good with the bad weather. Every opportunity had to be gently guided into his soft pockets and then incubated until it bloomed. The hardest part was when he found himself in the open ocean almost out of resources with a thousand opportunities most of which fake. In those days it was every man for himself and only the sharks and the very big fishes survived, eating or simply killing everything in their path. Once the path was clear and the few survivors started trusting each other, for they knew each other’s crimes, the power settled and a few years of semi-peaceful rule began. They controlled the few available floating devices. There was never a rest for the Butcher. He had always been itching for more, it’s like being thirsty and needing to piss at the same time. He just enjoyed fucking people over and moving up, more than anything else. He had a special black book for all those people that couldn’t or wouldn’t pronounce his name right, they had it coming.
Most people’s idea of pursuing a career is following the green line until they smell fish. Not him, he was determined to leave a brand new trail in the forest. And he made sure to leave plenty of traps behind so the competition never made it.
He left home young because he couldn’t or wouldn’t digest the mediocrity of his family. They never gave up on pushing him into the paved clerical office with no windows. His life would be more interesting if he went to prison. He believed most lived as in prison with the comfort of options they never took. He never went back. Never called back.
His first years in the cold waters of the city felt like climbing K2 with flip-flops and shorts. He knew nothing but persistence. He despised the white-collar flock that spent every penny they made on happy hour. He went home and peeled potatoes and marinated cheep meat so he can advance as fast as possible. He only took on friends that he considered useful in some way or had potential to grow at least as fast as him. In those calculations he was not always right. But if he was focused, he was right most of the time. After all it was not that hard to tell the losers from the winners, just measure their sips of vodka at the holiday party. He despised people that stuffed themselves, drunk too much and complained all day about their stagnation. They were rooted in the yellow teeth nation. They spend their lives peeling potatoes with a long face. The person sitting right next to them would most likely cut them and the next would fry them only to serve them right back to them so they can eat their pain away and further impair their ability to understand abstract ideas.
When he moved up an inch he had the determination to find the weakest most useless individual that worked on the floor under him and made an example of him. That was his idea of a vehicle to leap foreword. He believed routine workers gave him enough excuses for capital punishment. He didn’t have to look far or long, he had however to keep a keen eye out for the best opportunity that will manifest him as ruthless leader with only the well being of the company in mind.
Like most good opportunities this one came along slow and unveiled itself over time after careful observation. There was a cubical dweller, a stunningly beautiful young lady he could only assume this was why she got away with things. He had been observing her coming late very often with huge circles under her eyes drinking too much coffee and vitamins to patch up her broken spirit. He could only assume she had been engaged in heavy drinking sessions leading to drug abuse and orgies with random men. He needed only wait for her to slip in front of him and he would tear her to pieces.
next: The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer, Part Three – The Butcher 2
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more by PETER ODEON
