The Killing League

5.

The Butcher

A floor drain finally caught up to its workload and devoured the last batch of swirling blood.

The flow had slowed to steady drips with the occasional gush that sent a stream of thicker, darker blood toward the floor. The blood emerged from a corpse hung from a thick ceiling beam into which a huge metal eye hook had been screwed. The body belonged, or once belonged, to a middle-aged woman. Now, it was in the possession of a craftsman, who stood before his meat-cutting saw, its blade still spinning.

Roy Skittlecorn appeared like the stereotypical image of his profession. He was a butcher, and very much looked the part. He had on an apron, its front smeared with blood. He had thick black hair, slicked back, and his hands were large with bulging knuckles. They, too, were covered with blood.

A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

His thick fingers were wrapped around an elongated piece of flesh, with a jagged circle of bone protruding from the middle.

The AC/DC song “If You Want Blood,” boomed from the stereo that sat on a wide, metal shelf.

Skittlecorn took another drag from the cigarette, set it back in its ashtray, and pushed the severed leg onto the table saw’s blade.

He’d heard of people using hacksaws and sawzalls to chop up bodies. He had a name for them: amateurs. A sawzall, even with a new blade, made a mess of things. His technique was a work of art. He watched as the blade sliced through the leg in a perfect, smooth cut. He set the piece next to the others, all lined up in neat groups. A wave of contentment washed over him. Life is never better when work is going so well, he thought.

He turned his attention back to the leg, and pushed it onto the blade. The sound of the diamond-coated cutting tool drowned out the words to the Butcher’s favorite song.