Post by onlyaworkingtitle on May 31, 2011 21:51:47 GMT -5
Here's a piece from about a year ago, based on the article listed as the epigraph... I'm thinking of revising. Where to start, Armadillos?
I eat people.
Seriously. No joke. I eat people.
I mean, not all the time. I eat other stuff, too. And, y’know, not the good people. Just the bad ones. Like, the really bad ones. Murderers and psychopaths and stuff. I guess that makes me some sort of vigilante, or something – like Batman. Yeah, I’m like Batman, except I eat people.
Okay, so I haven’t actually eaten any people. Yet. But it’s, y’know. Something I do. A hobby, or whatever. I’ve also taken up Mediterranean cooking.
Anyway, this one time, I was out in Queens, looking for some really bad people to eat – there’s this nice-looking marinade recipe in my Great Greek Flavours cookbook that I’d been wanting to try, if my neighbor would let me borrow his grill again. He probably would – he’s a decent guy. Not like the people I eat.
So yeah, I’m just standing there, watching people and trying to tell from the look of them how many people they’ve killed this month, when this teenager runs up and steals my backpack! All my notes on basting, my newspaper clippings of local crimes, my second copy of Silence of the Lambs, gone! And my wallet. So inconvenient. Lucky for him, I don’t eat minors – and I told him so as I ran after him into an alley, shaking my fist for emphasis.
“Lucky for you, I don’t eat kids!”
“Fuck you!” he yelled back, scaling the chain link fence and vanishing around a corner on the other side.
Charming.
I bet other cannibals don’t have to deal with this sort of thing. I mean, really, who mugs someone who eats people? Nobody ever stole anything from Hannibal. At least, nobody who stole from Hannibal lived to talk about it.
So I was left there, in Queens, bagless. Luckily, I still had my Emergency Cash – one dollar, kept in my left sneaker, wedged under that little foam slip in the bottom. It had been my mother’s practice: “You never know when you’ll need a dollar,” she advised, “so it’s a good idea to always keep an extra where it won’t be stolen, just for emergencies.”
I thanked her that day as I hopped on the sidewalk, sneaker in hand, holding my left foot precariously off the ground as I dug for the bill. I then replaced my shoe and headed for the subway, watching the streetlamps light up for the evening.
Alas, I was still a dollar short for a Metro Card. I think things were somewhat cheaper when my mom was my age – a dollar must have gone a lot farther then. Maybe I’ll upgrade to a five.
I frowned at the Metro Card machine, wondering what to do, when a man walked into the station: a sign! He noticed me as I approached him, and I put on my most congenial smile – the one I use to lure my victims into a state of calm, before I eat them. He smiled back, cautiously.
“Hey, I need another dollar to get home. Help me out?”
His smile faded. “Ah, sorry, I can’t…” he demurred, moving toward the turnstiles.
I sidestepped to block his path. “Sure you can! It’s just a dollar. I’d pay you back, but I doubt I’ll ever see you again.”
His face was stony, now. “No. Excuse me.” He tried to pass me, but I intercepted him again, starting to get frustrated.
“Listen, man. This kid stole my wallet today, and I just need a dollar, and I’m really not in the mood to—”
“Sorry, but that’s not my problem, and would you please let me through—”
“You don’t understand – I eat people.”
That stopped him cold.
“You… do?”
“I do,” I said, nodding earnestly. “I eat people.”
He stared at me a moment – awed, I think, at my extraordinary diet – before digging out his wallet. He shoved a one at me. “Here, man, take it. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Thanks,” I said cheerily, plucking it from him. “Me neither.”
He gave me another weird look – did he want my autograph? – and darted up the stairs. I shrugged and headed back to the machine, got myself a Metro Card, and headed down to the tracks to wait. The cops weren’t far behind, responding to a call from the man whose dollar bought my ride. They arrested me, and I’ve been in the system ever since.
I’m just sorry that I never got to try that marinade.
Robbery
---
---
Robbery: Linden Boulevard near 196th Street, Saint Albans, Queens. March 2, 2007.
One man demanded $1 from another. When rebuffed, he said,
“You don’t understand – I eat people.”
“What a Safer City Really Looks Like”
(Featuring crime statistics for January 1-December 23, 2007)
New York Magazine, January 14, 2008
---
I eat people.
Seriously. No joke. I eat people.
I mean, not all the time. I eat other stuff, too. And, y’know, not the good people. Just the bad ones. Like, the really bad ones. Murderers and psychopaths and stuff. I guess that makes me some sort of vigilante, or something – like Batman. Yeah, I’m like Batman, except I eat people.
Okay, so I haven’t actually eaten any people. Yet. But it’s, y’know. Something I do. A hobby, or whatever. I’ve also taken up Mediterranean cooking.
Anyway, this one time, I was out in Queens, looking for some really bad people to eat – there’s this nice-looking marinade recipe in my Great Greek Flavours cookbook that I’d been wanting to try, if my neighbor would let me borrow his grill again. He probably would – he’s a decent guy. Not like the people I eat.
So yeah, I’m just standing there, watching people and trying to tell from the look of them how many people they’ve killed this month, when this teenager runs up and steals my backpack! All my notes on basting, my newspaper clippings of local crimes, my second copy of Silence of the Lambs, gone! And my wallet. So inconvenient. Lucky for him, I don’t eat minors – and I told him so as I ran after him into an alley, shaking my fist for emphasis.
“Lucky for you, I don’t eat kids!”
“Fuck you!” he yelled back, scaling the chain link fence and vanishing around a corner on the other side.
Charming.
I bet other cannibals don’t have to deal with this sort of thing. I mean, really, who mugs someone who eats people? Nobody ever stole anything from Hannibal. At least, nobody who stole from Hannibal lived to talk about it.
So I was left there, in Queens, bagless. Luckily, I still had my Emergency Cash – one dollar, kept in my left sneaker, wedged under that little foam slip in the bottom. It had been my mother’s practice: “You never know when you’ll need a dollar,” she advised, “so it’s a good idea to always keep an extra where it won’t be stolen, just for emergencies.”
I thanked her that day as I hopped on the sidewalk, sneaker in hand, holding my left foot precariously off the ground as I dug for the bill. I then replaced my shoe and headed for the subway, watching the streetlamps light up for the evening.
Alas, I was still a dollar short for a Metro Card. I think things were somewhat cheaper when my mom was my age – a dollar must have gone a lot farther then. Maybe I’ll upgrade to a five.
I frowned at the Metro Card machine, wondering what to do, when a man walked into the station: a sign! He noticed me as I approached him, and I put on my most congenial smile – the one I use to lure my victims into a state of calm, before I eat them. He smiled back, cautiously.
“Hey, I need another dollar to get home. Help me out?”
His smile faded. “Ah, sorry, I can’t…” he demurred, moving toward the turnstiles.
I sidestepped to block his path. “Sure you can! It’s just a dollar. I’d pay you back, but I doubt I’ll ever see you again.”
His face was stony, now. “No. Excuse me.” He tried to pass me, but I intercepted him again, starting to get frustrated.
“Listen, man. This kid stole my wallet today, and I just need a dollar, and I’m really not in the mood to—”
“Sorry, but that’s not my problem, and would you please let me through—”
“You don’t understand – I eat people.”
That stopped him cold.
“You… do?”
“I do,” I said, nodding earnestly. “I eat people.”
He stared at me a moment – awed, I think, at my extraordinary diet – before digging out his wallet. He shoved a one at me. “Here, man, take it. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Thanks,” I said cheerily, plucking it from him. “Me neither.”
He gave me another weird look – did he want my autograph? – and darted up the stairs. I shrugged and headed back to the machine, got myself a Metro Card, and headed down to the tracks to wait. The cops weren’t far behind, responding to a call from the man whose dollar bought my ride. They arrested me, and I’ve been in the system ever since.
I’m just sorry that I never got to try that marinade.