October 16th, 2022

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He kept his gun pointed at her even as they sat across from each other at his little wooden table in his little apartment living room. He held his weapon against the table, between his wine glass and a single lit candle centerpiece.

“I promise you,” she said, “I won’t tell a soul if you let me go right now. Not the cops. Not my friends. Not even my deaf grandma.”

A little old man shuffled toward them holding the handles of a silver serving tray. He transferred in front of each of them a bowl of steaming soup.

“Thank you, Pedro,” he said.

SOUP: HUMAN FLESH POZOLE 

“You wouldn’t believe how many years it took me to perfect this recipe,” he said casually, as if talking to someone he’s known for years. “Obviously obtaining the fleshy bits is a challenge in itself, but then there’s the chore of chopping it into little squares for aesthetics. The seasoning was also a bit tricky, but what I discovered is that black people are packed with more flavor than anyone else. I mean, duh, right?”

Horror froze on her face. Her spoon combed through the pozole’s hominy, cabbage and square pieces of flesh.

“I can’t eat this,” she mustered barely above a whisper. 

His eyes don’t leave her as he slurps maroon broth from his spoon. “You eat the soup or be part of the soup,” he said, his gun waiving at her.

She shut her eyes. Slowly she transferred a spoonful of pozole to her mouth. To her surprise, the flesh was tender and sapid. The broth was salty with the right amount of spice. She did not know how to feel at that moment; the pozole was genuinely tasty. Her reaction made him beam.

APPETIZER: FRIED FINGERS SERVED WITH RANCH

She grimaced as her teeth crunched into one of the crispy, breaded fingers that, she assumed based on their size and shape, belonged to a heavy-set person. She detected salt, garlic, and a pinch cajun seasoning, among others. The meat was chewy and tasted like pork but with a tart aftertaste. 

“So, is this a black person, too?” she asked.

“No, this is a white woman from Lancaster, SC,” he said with his mouth full, a streek of ranch between his lips and chin. “She loved football, like you wouldn’t believe. Always wanted a son, a little football star, right? Get this: three daughters from three different dudes. She was cursed.”

Her jaw stopped mid-chew. She struggled with the wave of disgust and sadness washing over her. She stared at the exposed bone of her crispy treat and could not help but think how it once belonged to a mother with passion and dreams and little girls who were missing her right now.

“But I’m not a racist,” he went on. “Could you imagine if I were actually on a black-person diet? Who cares if I’m a cannibal, right? Surprising, though, I struggled to find a black person with hands this fat. Not that I’m only willing to eat black people because, again, not a racist. I had a black friend in high school. Jeff Wilson. Really cool guy. Great at football.” He lifted a crispy finger in the air. “She would have loved someone like Jeff for a son.” He dunked the finger in his little saucer of ranch and took a big bite. “But I don’t think she dated black guys.”

SALAD: MEXICAN MAN MEAT SALAD

He never let go of the gun while he ate. It stood on the tabletop, the barrel pointing at her, following her like a set of eyes. Despite his casual demeaner, she knew he was sick, twisted, and dangerous. But everything in this salad tasted so fresh, it was as if he grew lettuce, tomatoes, and corn right in his apartment.

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