I watched as the soggy half-chewed chunk of bloody meat hit the ground with an unceremonious plop! Dark juices ran off the strip of flesh, mixing in with the dust of time and dirt of patrons' boots that already layered the worn floorboards. What a waste of good food.

Well, maybe I shouldn't judge her too harshly. It did have a bit of a musky, oaken aftertaste to it. That's what happens when dinner hasn't had a bath in a couple weeks.

“Sure, we have a bit of time.” Tattered carcass in tow, I went around the bar and through the door leading to the kitchen area. I was greeted by a pair of cooks, a man and a woman. Fear in their eyes, tears staining their cheeks, piss in their pants.

A quick cussing-out and a cloud of plague later, the two scattered out into the tavern as I was left to work the grill for a bit. It didn't take long to find a couple of pans, some salt and pepper, and a nasty set of knives. Cleaning off the prep area--making sure to wash and dry every surface and utensil, of course; I'm not a fucking monster--I hefted the dead patron off the floor and dropped him onto the polished steel surface.

Careful not to sever my own briar-knit fingers, as they were still shaking from the adrenaline rush of finally being able to cut loose and be myself again, I began to fillet the corpse. I took long strips from the upper arm and thigh areas, setting them aside on the prep table. Blood started to run everywhere, but that did not stop me from working. Hell, I even hummed a little tune as I slid the knife through the body.

Had I been Amari, I would've turned down my offer to try the snack in the first place. But I really appreciated that she took it. She may not have liked it, but I think I can make her come around to it.

Flesh really is an acquired taste. I'd have to season the hell out of it, make it more palpable to her tastes. Some light veggies, maybe a bit of mustard. A fresh bun.

Out from the tavern proper, the Ar'Tuel called for me. “What are you doing back there?”

I rolled the patron's corpse off the table. He hit the ground with a sloppy, awkward thunk. “What do you think,” I hollered back.

“We should probably leave, now!”

I picked up one strip of the man's leg and set it on a clear spot of the table. “The one n'urd I let escape is rounding up the rest of the crew. Town this size, we probably have half an hour, tops. Plenty of time to prepare lunch.”

A pause. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We can't fight on empty stomachs, can we?” Truth is, I already had my fill of fresh meat for the day. But today was a day of indulgence.

Flipping the steak over a couple times, I slid a sharpened knife through it, taking a quarter inch off the top. Had to get all the hair off it before I cooked it. Have you ever bitten into a sandwich only to find someone's hair in it? It sucks. And it feels weird on your tongue. Pretty fuckin' gross, really. Just that strand, dancing across your taste buds. You don't know the last time it met with soap and water. Days, maybe weeks of sweat and oil and maybe worse soaked into it. You try to pick at it with your fingers, but you miss the first three or four times.

That's when the panic sets in and the bile rises in the back of your throat.

“I'm not actually hungry,” she shouted in protest.

Bullshit, fatty. “It's high in protein and will give you the energy to kill dozens more, Amari.”

Having cut away the bad stuff on five or six strips of meat, I moved over to the stove. A healthy fire roared underneath the grill. Made sense, it was lunchtime after all. I snatched a skillet off a nearby hook at set it over the licking flames. Poured a bit of oil into it. Slapped down the thin strips of mercenary and began to pour on the salt and pepper.

Grabbing a rag off the floor, I wiped my hands clean and left the kitchen.

“While that's cooking, can I interest you in a real drink?” I motioned with the rag at the rows and rows of half-empty liquor bottles that lined the wall.