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Pigbeef
by Niles Koenigsberg (USA)
Frosted beard hairs stiffen against my throat. They are all incredibly long, but only a few have frozen. Exhaling appears to be the cause, agitating them against my skin. Sitting next to the dumpster I embrace the cold fully with my face. The rest of me is poorly covered. My torn jeans allow plenty of icy air through. My winter coat was a lucky find. Only ripped at the armhole, it provides almost full protection. The brown stain encrusted around the tear is not mine. In my situation a warm new coat is hard to come by; the junkie who died in it met his unfortunate end after stealing my needles.
The night has begun to set in; its minus chill grabs my body firmly. February’s ungodly weather is demoralizing, but I know if I hold out until morning the kitchen’s warmth and delicious food will revive me. However, the whole cycle will be repeated when night falls again. Hopefully, next time I can find a better sleeping location.
“Shit,” I think, “I can already feel my fingers turning numb. I stare into my hands, outstretched in knitted, fingerless gloves. By the magnificent moonlight, I can see little color at the extremities. However, the white lunar glaze causes everything to look pale.
Looking up into the sky, I spot the few stars that cover it. The light pollution of this city has neutralized the once stellar field and now only a few brighter ones can be seen through the man-made abyss. This growing darkness feels all-consuming, taking over my system slowly. I feel unable to react.
“Pigbeef.” I look up, startled, toward the foreign voice. A man, concealed by his own shadow, stands at the end of the alley. Just now realizing what he said, I reply, “I’m sorry?”
“Pigbeef,” he repeats, and begins to approach me. “It’s written on the dumpster.”
I lean forward and glance at what I have been sitting against. There it is in sloppy graffiti, “Pigbeef.”
“What does it mean?” he asks.
I turn back toward him, “I have no idea; I chose the spot at random.”
He comes even closer. As he squats down next to me I can finally see his face. It’s rough and handsome, with strong cheekbones and a dominant chin. His nose is long and pointed, making his face look distinguished. “But why not a house? What about this street is more appealing?”
“A house is out of my price range,” I say in an annoyed tone. I stare at him and find my way to his eyes. They are the only shadowed part of his face, hidden by his fedora, and somewhat sunken. Their gaze is dullish through the darkness; I think they may actually be a dazzling blue; it would go well with his build.
When he removes his hat I see their true color. They are a strange brown, making it difficult to tell the pupil and iris apart. It’s startling to see. My impressions are usually correct about bodily features. I see a strange concern on his face. I pull the cup from my pocket and proffer it to him.
“I am not here to give you money,” he pushes the cup back. “I’m here to help you. You see, I live in the neighborhood and I have noticed you everywhere I go.”
“Yeah, this isn’t usually my spot; mine is taken at the moment.”
“I have discussed this with friends; they all disagree, but I have the feeling that I have to do something.” He turns his gaze down to my icy hand. “Please come back to my house, I want to take you in and help you get back on your feet.”
I begin to get excited, but wonder whether I should trust him. This stranger has just entered my life and offered me a place to live. While his proposition is appealing, trust is a problem. Contemplating my options of either freezing or enjoying some cozy indoor warmth, I accept the invitation, adding a gracious thank you.
We arrive at the grand entrance to his house. The driveway is fenced off from the surrounding community members. His door is guarded by enormous Gothic busts with terrifying gargoyles crouched with their weapons. An odd sight compared to that in the usual suburbs I am surrounded by. We step out of his Chevrolet Cutlass; the car is the only piece that doesn’t fit the scene. His rooms are well furnished, though, with Colombian oak floors, dark brown room paneling, and a serene modern style. I find myself amazed at the high quality of my new home. I seem to be safe; I was going to be okay. The lovable presence of a new human being has calmed and revived my soul.
He leads me into the dining area, with an enormous chandelier hovering above the polished table. Soft chairs surround the serving area; he bids me sit in a chair by the side, next to the head. He leaves momentarily and retrieves two plates of food and champagne.
I scarf down my food while he chats.
“Where are you from?”
I look up. “I don’t really remember. I was over in Louisiana for a while, traveled up to New York, but then kept turning left and came up in Chicago. It just continued like that for a while. So just … everywhere.” Out of the corner of my eye I notice he isn’t eating his food, only drinking the champagne.
“What do you believe your purpose on this earth is?”
“To survive,” I laugh. “Right now it’s to survive.”
I finish the food quickly, and he says, “Come, let’s go to the living room. It’s much more spacious and relaxing.”
The room is full of leather couches and armchairs; the dark oak floor looks as though it is cleaned frequently – it has a sterile look to it. We sit on the couch and he asks me one more question.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fantastic!” I proclaim instinctively. But, I haven’t stopped to think about the rest of my body for some time because of the food. I realize that I am actually swaying uncontrollably on the couch. Soon I fall backwards into the cushions, my head begins to sink into the softness, and a strong melting sensation comes over me.
“Amazing,” he says. I attempt to look over to him, but find I cannot turn my head. I begin to panic and try to move my mouth to complain about my lack of feeling, but I can’t even use my vocal chords. My arms don’t work and lie there at my sides like the tentacles of a deceased squid. My eyes seem to be the only things that can move, oddly enough. I see him out of the corner, and I try to express my terror through my stare.
“It reacts quickly in the human digestive system, yours even quicker than the others.” He stands and walks over to examine me, “I never told you my profession. Would you like to know it?” He looks into my eyes and I attempt to scream for help, but my throat feels glued shut.
Ignoring my silence, he continues,: “I am a man of science.” He picks me up by the legs and throws me over his shoulder, carrying me in a fireman’s lift. “So you will have to forgive me if I drop you.” Bumping along we arrive at a table that I am slammed onto. I realize I can still feel pain as my back lights up in a firework effect of agony. He grunts with the effort to move me into a lying position. Straps crisscross my body and tape me down onto the table; I can feel their pinching sensation.
“Now, this shouldn’t hurt a bit,” he says, “But, of course no one has ever been able to tell me if it did hurt. I just assume it doesn’t because of the paralyzer.”
I spot the glint of a sharp scalpel. I try to scream with terror, but my fear can only be communicated by my eyes. I feel the sting of a sterile utensil piercing my skin. He cuts deep down through the epidermis and to the tissues below; my eyes bulge with the bright color of pain. He slices a line down my stomach. I feel the trail blaze into my muscles. He pulls away the skin in Superman style, as if trying to reveal the “S” inside. The suffering exceeds all limits of description. Pure agony echoes throughout my system. Soon I feel his hands tearing at my muscles, trying to get through. He claws away like a dog digging a hole, shooting up parts of the dirt of my abdomen. Then he sticks his terrible claw up under my rib cage. I can feel his scythe-like hand gripping my pulsating heart. I sense him taking violent control of it. My blood pumps faster as the maniac’s hands move swiftly. I can only express the sensation through my wide-open eyes jettisoning streams of tears.
* * * * *
I wake up, sitting up sharply. I am back in the alley. The glare of the street lights pierces my perception and I quickly look back at the dumpster I had slept on. “Pigbeef” is nowhere to be found. I lean back and collect my breath. The chill night air prevents me from returning to sleep, but I begin to relax once more. Putting ideas together I begin to accept that this is the reality.
I gaze into the starless sky, realizing that dawn is approaching. I stand up and walk to the edge of the alley, looking to the east where I see the first red streaks of morning. I had survived the night and feel ready to seek out nutritional substance. But first, I shed myself of the dead man’s coat.
So much confuses me at this moment of time. I am glad to be free of my nightmare. Our realities are of our own design; no one else is to blame for my situation.
The night has begun to set in; its minus chill grabs my body firmly. February’s ungodly weather is demoralizing, but I know if I hold out until morning the kitchen’s warmth and delicious food will revive me. However, the whole cycle will be repeated when night falls again. Hopefully, next time I can find a better sleeping location.
“Shit,” I think, “I can already feel my fingers turning numb. I stare into my hands, outstretched in knitted, fingerless gloves. By the magnificent moonlight, I can see little color at the extremities. However, the white lunar glaze causes everything to look pale.
Looking up into the sky, I spot the few stars that cover it. The light pollution of this city has neutralized the once stellar field and now only a few brighter ones can be seen through the man-made abyss. This growing darkness feels all-consuming, taking over my system slowly. I feel unable to react.
“Pigbeef.” I look up, startled, toward the foreign voice. A man, concealed by his own shadow, stands at the end of the alley. Just now realizing what he said, I reply, “I’m sorry?”
“Pigbeef,” he repeats, and begins to approach me. “It’s written on the dumpster.”
I lean forward and glance at what I have been sitting against. There it is in sloppy graffiti, “Pigbeef.”
“What does it mean?” he asks.
I turn back toward him, “I have no idea; I chose the spot at random.”
He comes even closer. As he squats down next to me I can finally see his face. It’s rough and handsome, with strong cheekbones and a dominant chin. His nose is long and pointed, making his face look distinguished. “But why not a house? What about this street is more appealing?”
“A house is out of my price range,” I say in an annoyed tone. I stare at him and find my way to his eyes. They are the only shadowed part of his face, hidden by his fedora, and somewhat sunken. Their gaze is dullish through the darkness; I think they may actually be a dazzling blue; it would go well with his build.
When he removes his hat I see their true color. They are a strange brown, making it difficult to tell the pupil and iris apart. It’s startling to see. My impressions are usually correct about bodily features. I see a strange concern on his face. I pull the cup from my pocket and proffer it to him.
“I am not here to give you money,” he pushes the cup back. “I’m here to help you. You see, I live in the neighborhood and I have noticed you everywhere I go.”
“Yeah, this isn’t usually my spot; mine is taken at the moment.”
“I have discussed this with friends; they all disagree, but I have the feeling that I have to do something.” He turns his gaze down to my icy hand. “Please come back to my house, I want to take you in and help you get back on your feet.”
I begin to get excited, but wonder whether I should trust him. This stranger has just entered my life and offered me a place to live. While his proposition is appealing, trust is a problem. Contemplating my options of either freezing or enjoying some cozy indoor warmth, I accept the invitation, adding a gracious thank you.
We arrive at the grand entrance to his house. The driveway is fenced off from the surrounding community members. His door is guarded by enormous Gothic busts with terrifying gargoyles crouched with their weapons. An odd sight compared to that in the usual suburbs I am surrounded by. We step out of his Chevrolet Cutlass; the car is the only piece that doesn’t fit the scene. His rooms are well furnished, though, with Colombian oak floors, dark brown room paneling, and a serene modern style. I find myself amazed at the high quality of my new home. I seem to be safe; I was going to be okay. The lovable presence of a new human being has calmed and revived my soul.
He leads me into the dining area, with an enormous chandelier hovering above the polished table. Soft chairs surround the serving area; he bids me sit in a chair by the side, next to the head. He leaves momentarily and retrieves two plates of food and champagne.
I scarf down my food while he chats.
“Where are you from?”
I look up. “I don’t really remember. I was over in Louisiana for a while, traveled up to New York, but then kept turning left and came up in Chicago. It just continued like that for a while. So just … everywhere.” Out of the corner of my eye I notice he isn’t eating his food, only drinking the champagne.
“What do you believe your purpose on this earth is?”
“To survive,” I laugh. “Right now it’s to survive.”
I finish the food quickly, and he says, “Come, let’s go to the living room. It’s much more spacious and relaxing.”
The room is full of leather couches and armchairs; the dark oak floor looks as though it is cleaned frequently – it has a sterile look to it. We sit on the couch and he asks me one more question.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fantastic!” I proclaim instinctively. But, I haven’t stopped to think about the rest of my body for some time because of the food. I realize that I am actually swaying uncontrollably on the couch. Soon I fall backwards into the cushions, my head begins to sink into the softness, and a strong melting sensation comes over me.
“Amazing,” he says. I attempt to look over to him, but find I cannot turn my head. I begin to panic and try to move my mouth to complain about my lack of feeling, but I can’t even use my vocal chords. My arms don’t work and lie there at my sides like the tentacles of a deceased squid. My eyes seem to be the only things that can move, oddly enough. I see him out of the corner, and I try to express my terror through my stare.
“It reacts quickly in the human digestive system, yours even quicker than the others.” He stands and walks over to examine me, “I never told you my profession. Would you like to know it?” He looks into my eyes and I attempt to scream for help, but my throat feels glued shut.
Ignoring my silence, he continues,: “I am a man of science.” He picks me up by the legs and throws me over his shoulder, carrying me in a fireman’s lift. “So you will have to forgive me if I drop you.” Bumping along we arrive at a table that I am slammed onto. I realize I can still feel pain as my back lights up in a firework effect of agony. He grunts with the effort to move me into a lying position. Straps crisscross my body and tape me down onto the table; I can feel their pinching sensation.
“Now, this shouldn’t hurt a bit,” he says, “But, of course no one has ever been able to tell me if it did hurt. I just assume it doesn’t because of the paralyzer.”
I spot the glint of a sharp scalpel. I try to scream with terror, but my fear can only be communicated by my eyes. I feel the sting of a sterile utensil piercing my skin. He cuts deep down through the epidermis and to the tissues below; my eyes bulge with the bright color of pain. He slices a line down my stomach. I feel the trail blaze into my muscles. He pulls away the skin in Superman style, as if trying to reveal the “S” inside. The suffering exceeds all limits of description. Pure agony echoes throughout my system. Soon I feel his hands tearing at my muscles, trying to get through. He claws away like a dog digging a hole, shooting up parts of the dirt of my abdomen. Then he sticks his terrible claw up under my rib cage. I can feel his scythe-like hand gripping my pulsating heart. I sense him taking violent control of it. My blood pumps faster as the maniac’s hands move swiftly. I can only express the sensation through my wide-open eyes jettisoning streams of tears.
* * * * *
I wake up, sitting up sharply. I am back in the alley. The glare of the street lights pierces my perception and I quickly look back at the dumpster I had slept on. “Pigbeef” is nowhere to be found. I lean back and collect my breath. The chill night air prevents me from returning to sleep, but I begin to relax once more. Putting ideas together I begin to accept that this is the reality.
I gaze into the starless sky, realizing that dawn is approaching. I stand up and walk to the edge of the alley, looking to the east where I see the first red streaks of morning. I had survived the night and feel ready to seek out nutritional substance. But first, I shed myself of the dead man’s coat.
So much confuses me at this moment of time. I am glad to be free of my nightmare. Our realities are of our own design; no one else is to blame for my situation.
