It’s nearly impossible to scrape all the lard out of the five foot tall burnished metal pot they kept in the back of the slaughterhouse. They’d boil down the bones and unwanted fatty bits to make a special pate for “premium customers.” Not that it was like to ever exit the building.

Roger “Cow Hide” Horton walked around at a staggering six foot six inches and four hundred pounds. Every day he’d stomp over to the magic man-sized pot and ladle out a fresh portion of the eternal lard stew into his thirty-three ounce “Don’t talk to me” coffee mug. He claimed it was for “quality control” but most workers knew better than to press questions.

Those who did— at least those who wouldn’t stop (after Roger issued a one eyed growl) were the ones that didn’t show back up for work. Not that anyone was too miffed. The meat house wasn’t hiring salutatorians of society. Most men and the handful of women that worked there had dubious tattoos and worse records.

Roger proved a safe haven for the domestically challenged. The denizens of North Plains were separate from the slaughterhouse servants and polite society was thankful for it.

Right on the edge of a posh town— but without the visibility to unsettle the milquetoast masses, the meat house and its gremlins (as Roger called them) continued their work in impeded. It was only the disappearance of a wealthy scion turned pseudo bad boy that the structured elite of the town took notice of Roger Horton.

Even with his special tasting regiment, Roger didn’t posses lard for brains. He knew if he made a misstep, his size eighteen boots of his would make a mark. So, sly as an urban coyote with the brazen balls to match— Roger struck first.

He rented out the ballroom at the council estate at the north end of town. He hired a nervous weevil of a man named Parker to manage the decorations. Roger and the gremlins took care of the food.

When the night of the new society ball arrived— gasps could be heard from the entrance as the guests walked into an elegant crimson hall. Dark purple streamers ran along the balconies above and a magnificent crystal punch bowl served as a centerpiece. It sat as a mock cauldron at the center of it all. And Roger-pressed into an immaculate three piece suit (custom, of course) with ruby red boutonniere attached to the chest, stunned the North Plains elite at the transformation from monster to monsieur.

Roger dazzled the guests with a surprising urbane sense of humor. He discretely ogled those to ogle, cackled and jested with the gummy men, and flowed from group to group with the ease of an established power.

By the time for toast arrived— Roger had worked the crowd like Kobe beef. All sweet talk and gentle massage. So much so, that no one noticed the quick movements of the cheap suited gremlins as they attended to comings and goings from the doors. Nor, did they noticed the covered trolley wheeled behind Roger’s table.

As Roger built to the crescendo of his speech— the residents realized he had dropped his suave mask. Before them stood the nightmare of a butcher— made real as he pulled an oversized cleaver from the trolley.

His booming voice proclaimed an end— to what— he didn’t specify in words.

Only action remained that night. Horrible, spine splitting, guts squelching, torn flesh action.

The floor had a cantilever to edge the offal to a sluice pit worked underneath by the gremlins. A dark shadow cling to Roger as he finally dropped his cleaver. He returned to his seat and pulled his mug from the trolley— staring out at the ruin before him smiling— he wondered why he hadn’t done this earlier.