a nice red wine and a jacket potato

“You got my package?”

He leaned into the counter and watched as Hock brought the butcher knife down on a hunk of meat.

“In the cooler.”

Laying a few bills on the counter, he moved around to the swinging doors. He stood in front of the steel door of the walk in cooler for a moment and listened as Hock worked on cutting meat.

It was a distinct sound he enjoyed. The almost wet squish of the meat parting, the heavy thud the knife hitting the chopping block, and the nearly indistinct whisper of the knife leaving the wood.

He opened the fridge and stepped into the arctic air.

The muffled sound of struggling reached his ears as he passed the slabs of meat dangling from the ceiling.

You shouldn’t dissect meat cold, but he wasn’t worried about that as he slipped on his gloves and stood on the black tarp. Stooping, he met the wide brown eyes of the man dangling like meat from a chain.

A ripple of glee went through him as the man struggled, wiggling like a worm on a hook. The faint sound of chop thud filtered through to him. A sound he’d be hearing with startling clarity soon.

“I told you never to underestimate or disrespect me, Frankie, or you’d end up dinner.”

He picked up a butcher knife as large as the one Hock held at the counter. Examining it, he smiled at the man.

“I’m sure you’ll go well with a nice red wine and a jacket potato.”