(Day 3 of a week of retelling traditional folktales.)
What a beautiful dog! But did it have bad manners or what? It walked straight into a butcher’s shop, tail wagging, and stole a leg of lamb.
The butcher asked a lawyer, “Can I sue a dog owner?”
“I don’t see why not,” said the lawyer.
“Well,” said the butcher, “it’s your dog. You owe me twenty-four dollars and eleven cents.”
“My consultation fee is eight hundred,” said the lawyer. “You owe me the difference.”
When Trixie Caldhurst was offered “half a pig for the freezer” from a neighbouring farmer she was delighted. Half a pig was more than enough to keep her going in pork for a long, long time. It was going to be such a saving. What a kind and thoughtful neighbour! Trixie wouldn’t be able to thank them enough. She bought a bottle of wine and a thankyou card to express her thanks when the meat arrived.
Arrive it did! Trixie was most grateful. Except… it wasn’t chopped up. Half a pig was half a pig.
Trixie phoned her friend, Monica. They were both nearing their mid-seventies. Together they could hardly lift the half pig. Trixie looked up on the internet as to how to chop up a pig. The first thing was to split it in half. That was already done. As for the rest, the problem was even if they had the right tools they were in no position to weld them efficiently.
Monica went home and came back with a tomahawk and a hacksaw. Over the course of the next five hours they had the time of their lives. And a few wines. Monica was able to take home a good half of the half pig for herself.
“Necess… neceess.. nesissity is the muvva of invenshin,” declared Trixie at the end of the day. The pork chops were nothing like one would buy in the shop. But, my word, said Trixie pouring a celebration wine, there’s nothing more delightful than a home-chopped chalk pop!
And it had been only three weeks since Amelia had buried her husband, George. Admittedly, the marriage had long shrivelled up, but Amelia had never had a fling. She hadn’t as much as glanced at a passing man. But now, now (and it had been only three weeks, as I said, since Amelia had buried her husband, George) Amelia had become infatuated with her local butcher, Erwin.
She was forever popping into the butcher’s shop to get meat – a leg of lamb, a porterhouse steak, a few chicken drumsticks, even the occasional pork rib. And, of course, Erwin always gave it to her for nix. Getting her meat for nothing was a sign, surely, that he liked her. One day she went into the butcher’s shop and only the apprentice was there. Nigel looked after the sales counter on Wednesdays and Fridays. Amelia learnt not to go shopping for meat on those days. The first time Amelia encountered Nigel he asked what she wanted, and she said “tripe” because that was the first thing that came into her head. She hated tripe and when she got home she discovered that not even the cat would eat it.
Anyway, it was now winter and things had progressed rather quickly. Twice Amelia had gone out the back to watch Erwin chop up a carcass so dexterously. Amelia was in awe – it showed strength, precision, skill and (dare I say it?) masculinity. Even with his blood-drenched apron still on, Amelia couldn’t refrain from giving Erwin a casual cuddle. He flung his chopper around with such legerdemain.
And then the worst happened. Erwin, unbeknown to Amelia, got the flu. When Amelia went in to get a beef brisket for Sunday a strange woman was behind the counter.
“Who are you?” asked Amelia.
“I’m Erwin’s wife,” she said. “How may I help?”
Trent went to the butcher’s. He’d never been to that butchery before. It was a square, high room with walls painted light blue. There was no meat on display, but there were four wooden chopping butcher’s tables arranged in the centre of the room. An older woman – clearly the butcher – sat in a chair against the wall.
“Can I help?” she said.
“Yes,” said Trent, “have you got any lamb chops?”
“Not at the moment,” said the butcher.
“What about beef patties?” asked Trent.
“I suppose you want two?” she said.
“It depends on the size,” said Trent.
Trent stood there. The woman continued to sit. Trent looked around the room. It was very plain. There was nothing hanging on the walls. Not a picture! Nothing! Trent thought she should have hung a carcass of a dead animal there; it would have improved the ambiance.
“This is a nice room,” said Trent.
The butcher continued to sit, like Trent wasn’t there. Then she looked at him.
“Well?” said Trent.
“Well what?” said the butcher.
“The beef patties,” said Trent.
The woman stared at nothing in particular. Trent left.
He kind of felt all wonky in the head. Sort of surreal. To this day he has no idea what was going on.
© Bruce Goodman 10 June 2015
Harvey had to cross a busy street to get to the butcher’s. Why walk another hundred yards just to use the pedestrian crossing when you can jaywalk?
He went to the butcher’s because the butcher said he had a pile of offal that Harvey could have for free: kidneys, livers, brains, hearts, tongues. It was a large bagful. Harvey was delighted. He would freeze them and use them as needed.
Re-crossing the road to get back to his car, a bus went Wham! Bang! Kapow! The mess! The mess! My goodness! You’ve never seen such a mess! There was blood everywhere and bits of heart and liver and kidney and tongue and brains and testicles. Bystanders were screaming and shouting and phoning for an ambulance. Ambulances turned up in droves.
The police cordoned off the area and first aiders began the gruesome task of picking up the pieces and putting them into plastic bags. The ambulance driver, who had years of experience, had never seen anything like it. He was behind the hearse heaving his guts out.
Were there any witnesses? You, sir? Did you see anything?
Not a thing, said Harvey as he went to his car and drove off home. It looks like it’ll be left-overs for dinner.
Weave a Web 