Chuck’s Take.

The creature looks up at Chuck from the block through wide, pleading eyes. Its struggles against the shackles have ceased for now. It has expended a lot of energy thrashing about – not in pain, but the anticipation of pain – but seems to now accept its situation, or, at least, the futility of struggle. Chuck smiles at this, running his tongue along his blackened, rotting teeth and, as the creature recoils, whimpering behind its muzzle, Chuck shuffles around the block and regards its plump, ripe frame.

It lies on its belly, panting in quick, shallow, panicked breaths; its haunches fettered to the butcher’s block in stainless chain. Chuck cocks his head, takes his bony blood-stained finger and traces the nape of its neck to the shoulder. The brisket. It winces, and the chains rattle again. Briefly, this time. It is so very tired, now. He thinks about the sinewy cut; how he’ll dice it into chunks – cubic inches – and fry it in lard, adding a pint of Guinness and the stock from the creature’s boiled bones to make a hearty stew.

His finger continues to trace down the spine, sinking into each depression between the ribs. He can feel the beastly thing mustering the strength to struggle again. Chuck likes ribs. He’ll cleave clean through the spine, he thinks, and portion two meals from the ribs. He licks his lips at the thought of grilling them Cajun style, charred with a lathering of Louisiana hot sauce; and an Asian version with a Hoisin dip.

Chuck’s finger draws down to the hip, around the joint and back up to the small of the back. He visualises the incisions he will make to extract the sirloin. This is his favorite cut, to be enjoyed with a bottle of French Syrah. Perhaps some company. A little jazz music. He closes his eyes and sniffs in the imaginary aromas: the peppered steak, charred outer crust with a moist pink interior, dabbed in a rosemary and chanterelle sauce.

The chains jingle louder now as the creature begins to writhe once more. Chuck pulls his hand away and holds his open palms above the rump. Plump. Succulent. He’ll roast this cut first, he thinks, with Hassleback potatoes and baby carrots.

He takes a breath and licks his cracked, eager lips.

“Are you ready, boy?” he asks, wiping his palms carefully down his stained, leather apron. He gathers the skinning knife and sharpening steel in his large, steady hands. The boy, terrified and so very alone, thrashes in his manacles once more, finding the energy to once again yell through his muffle, as he had been all morning, and Chuck begins to whistle.