Frank's creativity is widely based. Here he is in London in cullinary mode... ellipses for D there.
The Café
South-east London was a long way from the rugged landscapes of south-east Brazil. The café had begun as a joke; his latest contributor had been an enthusiastic chef as well as an invisible but ubiquitous arms dealer and the café existed on paper as a business through which millions of dollars could be channelled. When things had got a little too hot in Belo Horizonte Frank decided to take a breather by indulging his newly acquired hobby and opening up the café for business.
He finished counting the take from the evening and slipped the cash-box into the safe. A warm self congratulatory glow suffused his limbs as he reflected that his arithmetically progressive genius had given him once again the rewards that other people spend their lives toiling to attain, and all without the inconvenience of developing ulcers, anxiety, addiction or coronary disease. In fact he’d rarely felt better.
Wibz shuffled past the door and attempted a sentence in English, thickened to the limits of comprehension by his Balkan accent and most of a bottle of over-proof Polish spirits.
“Need girl to stay this time.”
“I am not in the mood to entertain your pathetic attempts at levity,” replied Frank. “You know the way we operate here: you bring them in warm and I send them out piping. What on earth makes you want to keep this one?”
Wibz reached down into his suede trousers and let a long string of mucus swing from his nose. Frank was delighted that the unexpectedly large dimensions of the dwarf’s member distracted him from the gleaming nasal extrusion. He had already calculated the relative dimensions of the organ and applied it to a man of 185 cm (giving the dwarf a relative penis size of length approximately 35 cm and diameter 11 cm. Big by any standards) before he added “As long as there’s no security issues that’s fine for a few days, but make sure we have enough raw materials for tomorrow, there are reviewers coming and some music group or other.”
The dwarf coughed happily into his hand and moistened the tip of his extended member. For a second Frank imagined what was about to happen to the girl and felt a double shock of disgust and nostalgia. He had, of course, identified with the teenager Wibz had locked in the cage. Frank had enjoyed sexual union for a brief spell in the year 1876, in this very city, less than a kilometre from the spot where he now stood. He recalled his amour, a slaughter-house worker with an amateur interest in chemistry, married to Agnes, exhausted from providing and providing for six children. He could still smell the blood, beer and bromine as he had been deliciously impaled, Friday and Saturday nights in a shed off Borough High Street.
He whistled the memory away tonelessly between his pursed lips and made his way down to the ice house. Here hung the cadavers he plundered to create his delicious and increasingly popular dishes. The gate was of late medieval design and the ice house itself a hidden gem in the ramshackle dereliction of South-East London. Political tension between central and local governments had led to patchy development and an almost total disregard of aesthetic or archaeological values. Frank had been laughed at by the planners when he had expressed his interest in developing the old jail as a theme restaurant, and even health and safety checks had been less than minimal. In discovering the ice house he had removed the junk of the centuries by hand because something cold had been tugging at his tired blood.
Beyond the gate he had found then, as he did now, a calm well of sub-zero temperature that spoke to him of his origins inside the Arctic Circle. Here he could still be Norwegian, here he felt comforted by his infancy in the Nineteenth Century. Here hanging the bodies and eviscerating them seemed as pure an act as the experiments on flora he had carried out in Edgeøya. It was under the thrall of these comforting thoughts that he spun the body on the hook and found the meat on the left buttock and thigh. He needed thin but fatless slices for his signature dish; a millefeuille for carnivores; leaves of human carpaccio gleaming beneath a rich aspic. He expertly shaved the subcutaneous layers before turning the body again and swiftly removing and opening the penis and testicles longitudinally. These would provide the stock.
He returned to the kitchen and fed his saucepan. He viewed the crates of vegetables and considered preparing them himself, but then decided that this was in truth the dwarf’s job and that he could not entertain paying any respect whatsoever to his diminutive colleagues carnal appetites. Wibz could forget about fucking the girl and get down to peeling potatoes.
The Café
South-east London was a long way from the rugged landscapes of south-east Brazil. The café had begun as a joke; his latest contributor had been an enthusiastic chef as well as an invisible but ubiquitous arms dealer and the café existed on paper as a business through which millions of dollars could be channelled. When things had got a little too hot in Belo Horizonte Frank decided to take a breather by indulging his newly acquired hobby and opening up the café for business.
He finished counting the take from the evening and slipped the cash-box into the safe. A warm self congratulatory glow suffused his limbs as he reflected that his arithmetically progressive genius had given him once again the rewards that other people spend their lives toiling to attain, and all without the inconvenience of developing ulcers, anxiety, addiction or coronary disease. In fact he’d rarely felt better.
Wibz shuffled past the door and attempted a sentence in English, thickened to the limits of comprehension by his Balkan accent and most of a bottle of over-proof Polish spirits.
“Need girl to stay this time.”
“I am not in the mood to entertain your pathetic attempts at levity,” replied Frank. “You know the way we operate here: you bring them in warm and I send them out piping. What on earth makes you want to keep this one?”
Wibz reached down into his suede trousers and let a long string of mucus swing from his nose. Frank was delighted that the unexpectedly large dimensions of the dwarf’s member distracted him from the gleaming nasal extrusion. He had already calculated the relative dimensions of the organ and applied it to a man of 185 cm (giving the dwarf a relative penis size of length approximately 35 cm and diameter 11 cm. Big by any standards) before he added “As long as there’s no security issues that’s fine for a few days, but make sure we have enough raw materials for tomorrow, there are reviewers coming and some music group or other.”
The dwarf coughed happily into his hand and moistened the tip of his extended member. For a second Frank imagined what was about to happen to the girl and felt a double shock of disgust and nostalgia. He had, of course, identified with the teenager Wibz had locked in the cage. Frank had enjoyed sexual union for a brief spell in the year 1876, in this very city, less than a kilometre from the spot where he now stood. He recalled his amour, a slaughter-house worker with an amateur interest in chemistry, married to Agnes, exhausted from providing and providing for six children. He could still smell the blood, beer and bromine as he had been deliciously impaled, Friday and Saturday nights in a shed off Borough High Street.
He whistled the memory away tonelessly between his pursed lips and made his way down to the ice house. Here hung the cadavers he plundered to create his delicious and increasingly popular dishes. The gate was of late medieval design and the ice house itself a hidden gem in the ramshackle dereliction of South-East London. Political tension between central and local governments had led to patchy development and an almost total disregard of aesthetic or archaeological values. Frank had been laughed at by the planners when he had expressed his interest in developing the old jail as a theme restaurant, and even health and safety checks had been less than minimal. In discovering the ice house he had removed the junk of the centuries by hand because something cold had been tugging at his tired blood.
Beyond the gate he had found then, as he did now, a calm well of sub-zero temperature that spoke to him of his origins inside the Arctic Circle. Here he could still be Norwegian, here he felt comforted by his infancy in the Nineteenth Century. Here hanging the bodies and eviscerating them seemed as pure an act as the experiments on flora he had carried out in Edgeøya. It was under the thrall of these comforting thoughts that he spun the body on the hook and found the meat on the left buttock and thigh. He needed thin but fatless slices for his signature dish; a millefeuille for carnivores; leaves of human carpaccio gleaming beneath a rich aspic. He expertly shaved the subcutaneous layers before turning the body again and swiftly removing and opening the penis and testicles longitudinally. These would provide the stock.
He returned to the kitchen and fed his saucepan. He viewed the crates of vegetables and considered preparing them himself, but then decided that this was in truth the dwarf’s job and that he could not entertain paying any respect whatsoever to his diminutive colleagues carnal appetites. Wibz could forget about fucking the girl and get down to peeling potatoes.
2 comments:
Re: Quilmes (cos I´m not sure how to send follow up comments). You could get Quilmes in the heladeria we went to because it was attached to a bar.
Quilmes is most highly loved. Assuming it´s presence would not be bad ;]
thank you fionn. You will see that Quilmes will be a life-saver in a later chapter!
Post a Comment