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 No.16055

The Dear
RuneSmith
December 1998
It had been a long time since I last ate human meat. My friend, Joe, would hunt and kill kids and then eat them. But he didn't like eating them alone, and so he'd invite me over for dinner, with someone else on the menu. It really didn't matter that I was eating children. What I didn't like was killing them, so I left that up to Joe.
When the authorities finally caught up with Joe the kid eater, they broke into his farmhouse and found Joe skinning an eight-year-old female. She'd been swiped from a local play park. .
Police found the girl's head sitting in a bowl, her sweet brown eyes staring at nothing. Her organs had been put into a small tub, wrapped up in several layers of plastic bags. Her heart and liver were already fixed and chopped and found frozen in the freezer.
He probably would have gotten away with her murder, but someone had seen him snatch the little girl from the street and whisk her away. He was put away with no parole and finally done in with the electric chair. I followed the trial. He never said he was sorry. He never regretted his actions, even admitting that she was maybe, as far as he could remember, the fiftieth child he had eaten.
Over a period of ten years I had helped him eat most of those fifty children. They were good, boys and girls. Some were white, black, Asian, and some were Mexicans. All were sweetly delicious. Each time I sat down to eat with him, he would tell me the haunting details of their capture, gleefully retelling how frightened the little animals were as if they were running from a giant lion. He was a good cannibal right to the last.
Now this is my story. I wasn't hunting any children, but I shot one anyway. My ranch is forty acres and I was out back with my hunting rifle boning up on target practice, getting ready for deer season. But it wasn't deer season. Not yet. But I thought I saw a deer. Yes, I would be poaching on my own land, but gee whiz the thought of fresh venison ran through my mind. I would have fresh meat tonight.
I saw the animal scampering through the woods. I took aim and shot it and it fell from sight. I ran over to the deer and stopped, shock registering on my face. Looking down on the ground lay not a deer or your usual other meat animal. It wasn't even a dog, or a bad dream. There before me lay the crumpled body of a young girl. She was dead and bleeding. I had shot her right in the head and the bullet exited the opposite side in a terrible reddish gob of brains scattered about.
Afraid, I squatted down and waited for someone to approach. Yet several minutes went by and I could not hear or see anyone else. Why this girl was where she was, will always be a mystery to me. But there she was. Dead.
I picked her up and carried her back to my truck and laid her on its cold, hard bed. She would not care about a bumpy ride. When I got back to my ranch I pulled the body from the truck and carried it into the kitchen, placing it on the dining table. Blood leaked out of her broken head. Then I thought, well had this been a deer I would have taken it to the barn and butchered it. I remembered that once I was a cannibal regular at the dining table.
It took it back out to the barn and found the hooks to hang it up and let it bleed out. After she was hanging upside down I realized that her clothes would have to come off. No deer would be wearing clothes. I cut off her clothes and put them into a box. There she hung, arms dangling downward, turning blue.
The hands and the head had to come off quickly otherwise the blood would stand in the meat and turn it bad. I got my large serrated knife and sliced off her head and then cut off her hands. My fingers felt her beefy young hands. Meaty, I thought. Maybe good for soups or something like that.
She was a perfect young specimen. Her cunt was hairless, showing her fresh petals. I squeezed her thighs, where most of the meat is on a human. They were strong and muscular. I thought the same about her well-fleshed calves. Joe would have called them good roasting legs of lamb. He liked roasted calves.
Her butt was well rounded and soft, but there was thick muscle inside. Her arms were good and healthy, thick with corded muscle, now being converted to animal meat. I squeezed her arms. Joe called forearms drumsticks, because when they were frying, sizzling in the pan, they would come out like Southern Fried Chicken legs. He would always cook them like that with the skin on.
Her torso was thick with flesh. Her ribs well covered with meaty muscle. Joe liked barbecuing young ribs. I once watched him eat a whole backside once. There were bones all over the place when he was done. His fingers and face were greasy from the rich, juicy meat.
One of my favorite pieces of the young deer was her brisket. Joe usually left the skin on those parts too. Her briskets, with bones was about an inch and a half thick. Joe, he liked to cut the ribs out and place the whole brisket on a low heat, cooking the meat from the bones up. The meat would cook and the fat beneath the skin would melt and drip basting the cut. The skin would curl up and turn dark and the little pink tits would turn almost black. Joe always said, "Cooking young girl briskets had to be done just right, or you'd loose their flavor and juiciness."
Once Joe threw away some badly cooked briskets that had been overcooked. He went about for weeks feeling sad and sorry for the child he'd killed just to waste the precious few ounces of delicate brisket meats. He was most careful after that. He'd watch the meat cook, rather than watch TV while it cooked.
That evening as I watched the TV news, I cleaned my hunting rifle, taking tasty nibbles from the girl's one pound drumstick and sipped an expensive red wine. Joe would have been proud of me. Joe liked little girls and I figured that my mysterious child was just about ten years old. I had bagged a ninety-five pound deer that day, yielding about fifty pounds of soft, pink, juicy meat.
The TV never said anything about any missing girl. I never knew her name. We never met. As far as I was concerned, I had shot me a ninety-five deer that day which took about six weeks to reduce to just bones.
The End


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