Linder stands next to the table, washing his arm over a ceramic basin with a bit of water, then the whiskey. It stung but that was fine - impurities being purged.
He blots his arm with a piece of cloth torn from one of his employer’s Sunday shirts and slathers on a small glob of honey - then wraps the area with a bigger piece of cloth from the same place. He tucks the last few inches of the makeshift bandage into itself, inspects his work and leaves the table to dump the dirty water.
The modest house is filled with the glorious smell of roasting meat. Linder bustles over to the old wood burner, throws open the door and has a gander - the fine joint rests luxuriously in a shallow pot, bathing in its own broth, scenting the air with its savory delight. His mouth floods in anticipation. A moan from across the room interrupts his culinary moment.
His employer was coming to. Linder dashes to the table, grabs the rag, the ether and scurries over to attend to the matter.
“You sorry son of a bitch, what have you done to me?” the old man coughs out in a throaty rasp.
“Back to sleep.” whispers the younger man.
The cloth barely wet - the bottle near empty. Linder was nervous but reassured once his employer’s head falls backward and words cease to escape his cracked lips. Another bottle would be necessary. That means a trip to the chemist. Out, in public, where people would see him.
He shakes the brown glass container - maybe one or two more light doses. That outing would need to happen soon - but not before dinner.
Half an hour passed, the old man was still out - maybe this time for good. Linder takes steps in his direction, kneels beside him, places two fingers to his neck - a very weak pulse. A sigh of relief.
He springs up and races to the oven, removes the cooking vessel, places it on the stove-top and marvels. The wondrous aroma, every inch of that succulent meat falling gently away from the bone. A truly rapturous experience awaits him.
Linder seats himself at the table with a plate. He takes it all in first with his eyes, then through the nose - teasing, depriving - until it burns in every part of his mind and body. Finally, a taste. The warm, juicy flesh cooked to perfection fills his every need and desire.
So good in fact, it rouses the old man who lays crumpled in the far corner of the room.
Linder indulges in another bite, closing his eyes and chewing slowly. He was indeed in paradise.
“You bastard fuck.”
Eyes open, he turns towards the groggy store owner. He takes one last bite and stands from the table - moving in unison with his chewing, stooping down next to his employer - swallowing the mouthful of pulverized meat.
“I need a doctor.” groans the shop-keep.
Linder hovers above the elderly figure on the floor, licking his lips, staring spitefully into his eyes.
“Get me a goddamn doctor!”
The younger man grabs the pile of burlap sacks covering his boss and rips them away - inspecting his body head to toe. Giving extra attention to the tourniquet around his right leg - or what was left of it.
“For a mean old bastard, you taste very good.”
The elder man turns to face Linder.
“I’ll die without a doctor, son of a bitch.”
“You will die anyway.” Linder croaks in deadpan.
He stands and returns to the table - finishing the rest of his meal.
Amidst the intricate ecstasy, new thoughts arrive.
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