Magnum Opus is a weathered soul with cowboy ghost features, sunburned skin and wrinkled flesh, a wide fat head and broad beastly shoulders. His hair is cropped close to his head and now salty where it was once all pepper. He smokes cigarette after cigarette and is disappointed that they haven’t killed him yet. He is a man of constant sorrow, a man with a bucket of blood on his hands, a man of killing and non repentance. He knows how to make a buck.
Magnum waits in a very private and out of the way alley deep in Chinatown. It’s not on the map. It is owned by the important. Magnum smokes a cigarette, leaning on the back door of his car. He guards over his prizes in the back seat of his common Toyota Carola, unconscious and worth a bundle. The kid who hit him begins to stir. Magnum opens the back seat of the car and punches him in the jaw. This breaks his jaw instantly, knocking him out.
“Are you fucking crazy?!” A small Chinese man in a black suit runs up to the car. He is Hung Xing. “Don’t bruise the product!”
Hung Xing is Seventy three but looks forty two. He is five foot seven and svelte. He wears a tailored suit that is not flashy but impressive in its framing of the man. He wears small glasses with oval lenses that fit his round Asian face. Hung has studied cooking under the best chefs on the planet at one time. He was an apprentice under a mysterious man who cooked for Mao Zedong. The chefs who refused to obey his food restrictions, he would have killed and cooked and served to the other chefs and himself. Mao was said to be a big hater of the Yam, calling it a candied devil root. There is an infamous dish for sweet potato fish that no chef dares make to this day, because of the many number of chefs who were slaughtered and eaten for daring to serve the venomous tuber.
Hung learned to kill a living human in many swift and specific ways, with blades of every shape, every size and splendor and with scalpel precision. Hung makes the best Adam’s apple soup any one has ever tasted.
Magnum responds to the dangerous little man, impeccably dressed in three-piece-suit. “He hit me first. I owed him one.”
“You probably fucking deserved it.” Hung pushes Magnum out of the way. He looks over the two young men in the back seat. “Their face is the most important asset!”
Hung Xing motions for two husky young men, seemingly in a daze of order, to take the first kid right away. “Take him to the freezer immediately and have B Mao look at him.” The husky servants do as told and disappear with the body.
Hung scolds Magnum for his brutish and careless ways: “You should know better than to damage the product.” Hung examines the boy closely. “Beautiful!”
The husky servants return for further instructions. “Take this one to the kitchen and be ready with the sedatives, also remove the other one from the freezer, cuff their joints to the carving tables.”
The two servants take the second kid away.
Hung is delighted with his nightmarish friend’s hunting; “I can give you one-fifty for both of them.”
“That’s very generous.”
Hung revels in the glory of his business, the adoration of his clients who happen to be some of the wealthiest and most influential people in the world.
INSIDE THE CANNIBAL’S CLUB
The audience consists of 20 members at a time who sit in a gallery five to six feet above the performance area and the kitchen. They observe the chef and his souse chefs when they cook, when they prepare the food. They watch the entire process of their cooking. However this is not television, there are no cameras, no announcers, only bouncers and the evil genius himself. The kitchen floor is well lit; the tables in the gallery are candle-lit. Each table has its own waiter. The members of the club observe the activities of the evening.
Two large men in souse-chef coats wheel the two boys out in chrome shiny tables obviously designed and shined for their aesthetic value; each identical in their elaborately futuristic and surreally medical appearance. They are followed by two other souse chefs.
The boys are wheeled naked and secured to tables that lock in their ankles, necks and wrists to the center of the kitchen stadium where they are displayed, waiting for the first procedure to be performed. The tables are then locked into place at their base and then tilted vertical. The audience gasps as they see how young the catch is this evening; their tender bodies smooth with ripe skin, rippled with virulent muscles; their faces thin and tight, kissable, lickable, young and beautiful like everybody wants to be forever. The audience clasps and cheers. They know that in the twenty years of the club, there have never been two fine and beautiful a catch as these two young men. Hung bows, smiling mightily, knowing this himself.
“Now if you will please excuse me. I must change into my work clothes and execute a wonderful dinner.” He smiles, everyone laughs at his pun. “While I’m away please feel free to examine the fresh catch of the day.” He smiles most sinister as if he had a secret cure for cancer he couldn’t wait to share with the world; “I might remind you however that the bodies are still warm – as they are still alive.” Hung clasps his hands together, bows and runs off the floor of the stadium. Everyone cheers his triumphant departure, not expecting them to be alive.
Examination: The twenty gormandizers touch, fondle and eye the specimen that they are about to eat. Hung is delighted by the avarice, lust and intent of the gluttonous murderous bunch before him. He would swim in the black aura of their souls if they would let him. He would rather kill the last human woman and consume her than reproduce with her and perpetuate such a wretched species.
Senator Stormstrom yells at his wife; “Trudy! Get your mouth off of the boy’s penis.”
Trudy does and reveals that it is pumped with blood and muscle.
Hung has just returned wearing his famous red chef’s jacket and pants and hat and is excited! He demands every one return to their seats. “Everyone return to your seat! – “This is a special occasion!”
Everyone returns to their seat at once to watch the master chef. He quickly takes a butcher knife from the counter in his left hand. He goes to the boy and massages his penis with his right hand, as if he were a seductive patron of the arts, as if he was a hot jelly pop tart. The cock is full of blood and ready to come. Hung raises the knife to the crowd to silence their chatter and gossip. Hung continues to stroke the boy’s penis with his ungloved hand; his fingers working the trumpet’s valves an exciting up and down; the cock throbbing hotter and harder. Hung knows the danger of this. He doesn’t want the boy to trigger, but he also wants us much of the pre-semen head cheese into the shaft as possible before making the cut.
The audience gasps.
He demands silence by raising his eyebrow and clenching his jowl. The boy groans with pleasure at Master Hung’s liquid grip and strong revolver. The boy is regaining consciousness. He is about to awaken to the horror-show of which he is the sacrifice. Hung places the cold steel of the blade beneath the boy’s balls. The boy gets harder, groans louder. Hung removes the blade from his sack. He continues to stroke the cock with pornographic efficiency.
The boy dribbles the first of the semen from his snake’s eye. Hung wants the boy to almost, but not quite…
Quickly and without hesitation Hung slices the wakening boy’s stiff as-a-board erection off with a blade that no hair wouldn’t split on. Blood vomits forth a crimson tide of cellular syrup into a collection trough at the bottom of the table. The boy wakes up in anger first: Why am I restrained? Who are all these people? Where am I? He then feels the first waves of pain, but not before the warm sensation that slides down his leg. Is that urine; His own blood? of god – oh god- oh god – oh god – ohfuckingod
Hung uses enormous hemo-clips to keep the cock fresh and full of blood and the first traces of semen and stretched muscle. Oh boy; it’s going to be delicious. The boy awakes in total horror. Hung gives the boy’s hemoclipped penis to the head souse-chef. He then slices off his scrotum, sure to get as much of the skin as he is able. The boy now slips into a painful shock.
Other souse-chefs return awaiting further instruction. Hung hands them each a sterling empty bowl, kidney shaped, like a bed pan, to fit around the boy’s neck. Hung takes the large butcher knife and steadies his right hand.
Hung yells to the shocked and traumatized boy with sweaty timber lupus teeth, “Look at me!” The boy cannot focus his eyes on Hung, but hears him. Hung grabs the boy by the face and looks into his eyes, “I’m doing this so that you will cook for me in Heaven.” He quickly and mercifully slices through the first three inches of important arteries and says; so that it will be the very, very last thing the dying dead-boy ever hears “I mean Hell.”
Hung releases the boy’s face from his powerful grip, laughs and turns around to face his audience. The boy’s eyes close drowsily, giving up the ghost by way of shock. Hung believes that in this way he has transformed the boy’s soul into a ghost, an indentured him as a servant to his beck-n-call in the afterlife.
The audience, the cannibal club members stand and applaud the Master Chef’s slaughtering skills. None of these people are strangers to watching peoples’ lives end horrifically. They are the successful monsters of the world who have succeeded rightly according to their own edict. They are the deciders of fates; the liars of words spoken without modesty; the builders and rulers of empires and monarchs that treat individuals like nature does, with little to no concern.
Hung addresses his audience, “Tonight, thanks to Trudy;” Trudy in the audience waves and looks at everyone else. She is excited to have participated in the meal, “I will have the opportunity to serve to you, for the first time in my career in New York -;” The audience gasps “Cock sausage.” The audience applauds the very sound of the meal. “And as you can see he was quite well endowed; so everyone will be getting a taste.” The audience applauds louder.
Hung turns from the audience in full applause and is swiftly again on his victim. He examines the silver neck curved blood bath tubs. “Ok” The two souse chefs take the fresh blood away. They each walk to one cooking station and prepare the beginnings of blood pudding; cutting onions and salting the blood. Two more souse chefs enter the dining room stage carrying platters.
A faster knife does not cut through flesh on this planet. Hung carves beneath the chin removing tender meat, huge chunks, as close to the bone as possible without even a grain of calcium deposit being removed from the skeleton. Hung slices off the meat from the head revealing more and more of the red face. Hung feels the warmth of the spotlight on his back as he peels away layers and layers of fat and flesh from the boy’s face and neck. He is a demon performer. He is an ancient alchemist who has found the vampyric source of immortality. His heart and mind are strong but he can feel the first twinge of disintegration in his joints, in his hips and his knees. He is displeased and yearns to kill more, always wanting more. He slices off the ears. He carves out the eyes with more brutal than usual digs into the bone with a knife that rarely sees anything harder than tendon; sharp, thin and long. Hung flings the sticky tendons and veins into the bowl, they octopus his fingers but finally splash with inertia into bowl. He flings himself clean. He is careful with his placing of organs into the right bowls. He is known for utilizing every part of the person and showing off its own uniquely tasting part.
Hung wipes the blood from his knife onto his apron. He places his knife down. Souse chefs run from the protein source with bins and bowls full of ingredients and are replaced with a new set of souse chefs.
A large Mongolian souse chef hands Hung a small (1inch dm) hand-held circular-saw. Hung motors the blade and daftly applies it to the back of the boy’s skull. Hung walks around the boy sawing into his skull as if about to perform brain surgery. Hung is satisfied with his circumnavigation of the boy’s cranium. He turns off the hand-held power-tool and has a sip of wine. He raises his glass to the audience. They applaud.
“Here! Here!”
“Chin! Chin! Darling!”
“Fi Sahitak!”
“Sante!”
“Salud!”
“Gia Sou!”
“Kong Chien!”
He sets his glass of wine down on the blood soaked table. He licks a drop of the boy’s blood from his cheek to mix with the Bordeaux. He removes the top of the boy’s skull; exposing the brain of the dead boy.
Hung scrapes the brains out with a large serving spoon. The brains are placed in a bowl. A souse chef takes the brain and is replaced with another souse chef; a young Thai woman who was born into prostitution and is incapable of love. She brings the master chef a fresh bowl. Hung now goes for the throat. He slices out the Adam’s apple for his famous soup. He carves down the line for the delicious flesh of the boy’s throat. He stops there. He loads the Thai whore’s bowl.
He faces his audience. The boy behind him is starting to show the ferocity of Hung’s mutilation. He looks like a cadaver designed for second year med students learning the muscular system; red and haunting like a butcher shop prop. “Tonight I will cook for you my famous Adam’s apple soup.”
The audience applauds. Hung continues; but only four of you will be sampling it;” They groan. He knew they would. “There will also be sautéed testicles in a cherry brandy reduction; also for four,” Hung seems to invent the menu on the spot, perhaps he does, “and eyeball ceviche, also for four. Following the course of the head this evening I will prepare for you crisp tamarind ears. They will be served on a bed of stuffed Squash blossoms. I will tell you what they are stuffed with when I figure it out.” The audience laughs, “I will prepare crisped cheek that will be served with one hundred and twenty year old balsamic vinegar on brazened apples and endives. The portions will be small and everyone will have a taste this evening.” The audience politely applauds. “Everyone will get to try brain tonight and also Kidney pie.”
The audience really responds to the kidney pie. The crust that Hung makes to bake on top of the pot is out of this world. The kidney, Hung spices with secrets, cumin, cinnamon, nutmeg and wine. He is a master of flavors with garlic Amarone reduction for the crisped cheeks.
Table #1:
Greek shipping Magnate Paris Onanasis sits with General Custard’s great granddaughter Julie McRae. He is three hundred pounds of olive oil and never takes off his ostentatious sunglasses, not even when he is giving it good and slippery to his wife Julie. She is a spoiled princess of no province. She enjoys shopping for clothes and discussing reality television shows with her Botox companions, who all married wealthy and fear each wrinkle. She is the face of several charities and can’t wait until those particular photo-shoots are over so she can relieve herself of those disgusting panhandling children and their starving odor.
Table #2:
Chinese real-estate developer Sun Li-Kaching sits with his business partners Sum Yun-Gi and Bruce Li-So. Together they have cornered the market on high rise, low grade housing for the lower middle class in Hong Kong, Shanghai and Beijing. They have made billions and recently run out of luxurious objects to buy, experiences to have. They have free jumped into the cave of the swallows in Mexico. They have traveled into space aboard Virgin1 with playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne Branson and screwed the youngest prostitutes in Thailand. They have eaten every source of protein known to man, including man and believe that there is no chef to rival Hung Xing in spectacle and taste. They drink two hundred year old saki from the emperor’s private collection and enjoy special privileges with countries all over the world due to their government connections. They have each murdered themselves, simply to watch the life leave a body. They believe that the world’s problem is too many people, which is ironic due to their success in storing the population explosion of their native country.
Table #3:
Lillian Gishenstein married the wealthiest perfume maker in France. When he died she became the wealthiest woman in the country and had to be hospitalized for stomach cramps due to her exhaustive laughter. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. She was thirty-nine and had the rest of her life to spend her former husbands twenty-seven billion Euros. She laughed for six days straight until one of her abdomen ruptured.
Lillian sits with two boys named Tommy who are both deaf and blind. This type of boy has become necessary for her particular type of lifestyle. She has learned to communicate with the boys by typing into a hand held computer that is actually equipped with a brail ticker tape printer. Anything she wants or demands is read by the Tommies with sensitive fingers that scroll the tape and do exactly as they are told; sexual, criminal, or blasphemous; it doesn’t matter. They were born for her servitude.
Table #4:
Arabian Prince Alwaleed Bin-Linen sits in full white regal gear including red-and-white checkered headscarf, and black headband. He is quiet and still. The evil he radiates is the silent frightening ‘kill everyone’ bad you would expect from Dick Cheney or Darth Vader. He sits with three young women dressed in Versace, Gucci and Lauren. They refuse ancient rituals and want only the best on the planet. They are sisters and the most beautiful women in his country. They expect nothing less from the infamous chef and aren’t the least bit enthralled by the theatrics of his murderous display. They expect flavors worthy of the million dollar price tag.
Table #5:
“Do you think you can keep your mouth off the rest of that boy now that he’s dead?” Senator Stromstorm is not pleased by his wife’s performance, even though he will be able to try cock sausage for the first time ever; the one menu item the good law maker has been dying to try for the last twenty-two years; since he has been a member of the Cannibal Club.
“OK” Trudy Stromstorm has more dirt on her husband than anyone. She doesn’t give a shit. She uses his credit card to hire male escorts and doesn’t give a fuck if they steal his napoleon brandy and Cuban cigars. She would sell her soul to the devil to live forever on the money of the wealthy and the semen of the young. She might one day be institutionalized or murdered for her behavior, but so far she has not gone too far.
Table #6:
The Hamilton triplets; heiresses to the global hotelier’s multi-billion dollar a year business speak with less than one mind.
“I think that man is a genius.” To Brittany, everyone is a genius who has her attention for more than six seconds.
“I know. I am so glad that Mr. Hung knew our granddaddy Hamilton.”
“Who was he again?” Berlin is the dimmest of the triplets.
“Our Father’s father.” Lindsay was actually lucky enough to have dated a Greek importing heir who taught her to read books and stuff.
“Oh.”
Hung returns to the stadium kitchen stage to find Trudy Stormstrom once again sucking on the second boy’s penis. “No luck huh?” Trudy shakes her head with the cold limp penis of the unconscious boy in her aging mouth. “Well it’s a special thing to get any of these terrified boys to become erect at the time of their death. You did good to get just one.”
Trudy looks at hung with big pitiful eyes that do not want to uncork the cock from her sad wine bottle mouth. She spits the caterpillar out with a long string of saliva. Plop. She walks back to her table where the judge has finished the second bottle of wine. He could kill her. He contemplates what crime he could have her convicted of… oh but her father’s fortune, and her knowledge of his actions.
Hung removes the penis first with a swift action. He will incorporate the tough morsel into the tender erect muscle for an added texture to his cock sausage. The souse chef takes the penis and some of the blood spillage away.
The lights glimmer and shine dramatically from his cleaver. The crowd all breathe in as one entity. He then suddenly, quickly, expertly, with great ease and skill slices through the boy’s skin, meat, jugular, hollow, meat again, the whole time blood, and again skin CLAINKM! The decapitated meat was lucky to have not experienced shock. Hung knows what he is doing. He only wants one of the protein sources to be tense with shock before death.
The souse chefs take the same ingredients as the first boy into the kitchen to prepare.
The sweat builds upon the master chef’s face. He drinks his beautifully aged and stored; ’80 Bordeaux; Chateau Petrus. He licks the now streaking blood on his cheek with a devilish tongue that would sup on the guts of the entire species and every species if he could. He turns to face his adoring audience. They applaud, not the least bit horrified by the spectacle behind Hung of two faceless boys red to the head and opened at the top like beer cans to get at the precious juice and sauce, the wonderful meat and tissue. The naked lifeless boys even more terrifying with ruby skulls and spines beginning to show the butcher work of the master chef.
“And now the vitals,” Hung swings swiftly around and connects with the first young man with a ninja grace, slicing with his right hand from the umbilicus to the abdomen. In the next motion Hung thrusts his left hand into the boy and grabs a hold of the kidney. He struggles a second but yanks the organ down enough, so that the next incision would free the vital waste filter into his hand. He removes the knife, plunges again and frees the product. He performs this surgery three more times. The souse chefs carry the food away.
“Kidney Pie!” The crowd cheers his menu.
Hung now slices open the first boy and removes the stomach. The taste of the stomach is not good, but it is excellent for cooking in. See: haggis – See: bladder – See: intestines. Plus removing the stomach makes it easier to remove the liver. This takes some time. He removes the second liver. He has decided to reduce this in a beer porter and pair it with pear and pearl onion.
The heart is next, it comes out the easiest, and how Hung wishes it were still beating so he could show it to the amazed audience. Plop! Into the next pan, blood in the bottom to cook with; the heart falls unbeating ready for its steam and sear.
Hung slices off long chunks of the boys’ thighs. He puts the meat in a pan. He now examines the breast. They are thin and sinewy. They are young and underprivileged. However he will stuff his guests with the meat of these young men. He pinches the boys’ nipples as he pinched their cheeks, with demanding thumb and index finger. He pulls for all they’re worth and slices as much of the breast as he can.
The courses would satisfy the evilest and the holiest among men; though often it is difficult to tell the difference between these two classes. Hung practically removes every piece of choice meat from the skeleton; the violent violet and burgundy mess of a humanoid, with eyelids, eyes, lips and ears missing, scalp and brain missing, with large chunks of their form missing.
Although the kitchen is just directly behind the stage, Hung excuses himself from his audience to prepare this evening’s courses. The audience begins to whisper and discuss amongst themselves the glorious horror of the scene. They one by one and two by two walk down to the stadium floor to witness the warm bones of the freshly deceased.
THE KITCHEN
In the kitchen Hung operates in a massive yet contained kitchen space 1200sqft. Every refrigerator, fryer, oven eye and cutting board is observable by the audience who sits in the tiered gallery and looks on at the slicing dicing broiling and sizzling in the kitchen.
Hung prepares the eyeballs first. They must chill and rest in the acid of grapefruit, lemon, grape and pepper. Hung knows that the eyes should marinate over night but they only have tonight. He is attracted to the idea of the kill and the feast being on the same evening, it should always be. The modern man has forgotten how to hunt.
He finishes his cold plate of citrus heated eyeballs and places them in one of the small refrigerating units. Each unit is set at a different temperature for a different purpose; some are chilling melon, some are freezing ice-cream.
He runs to the next station and immediately begins working on the testicles. He coats them in a bourbon honey ketchup sauce and sears them in hot grape-seed oil. Hey only wants to flash fry them in a hot temperature. He wants the inside to be a little runny, like yoke, like roe, like grape or the best omelet. He wants to feel the floundering fatality of the seeds as they die on the tongue, the sperm warmed by the internal cooking, just right. He serves them with purple cauliflower and hazelnut puree. The hazelnuts roast in the wok. He lets the testicles rest in the strainer, dripping from the fryer and cooling. The hazelnuts begin to smell of their roasting. He picks up the wok with one hand and frees the base from the flame. He swirls the wok around in circular motions away from the flame and rolls the nuts around in the pan. This cools them from the burning, but keeps them coking on all sides evenly.
Hung rests his roasting hazelnuts on a lower flame. The chestnut resonation continues. The pounding drumming of the mallets flatten the breast meat for frying crisp, creating drum sounds resembling a requiem, a ceremonial procession.
The music continues as Hung prepares the four ears. He first coats them in a light tamarind sauce with garlic and salt. He then coats them in flour and then a secret batter sauce. He next fries them in peanut oil, slow and long, letting the oil penetrate the mass to full crunch. He flash fries the squash blossoms in grape-seed oil and prepares the plates.
The Adam’s apple soup is served first, along with the crispened tamarind ears and the grapefruit eyeball ceviche, along with the flash fried testicles, the tongue pate and the blood pudding with jerk spiced throat muscle with quail egg.
The appetizers are a smash and the audience drinks more and more expensive red wine, expensive rare whisky and Saki and Scotch.
The next course is kidney pie. The crowd loves the individual pie crusts, the blood sausage gravy with spring garlic and summer onions; with truffle oil, truffles and fiddlehead ferns.
Cock Sausage is next, because the best dish should be right in the middle, not too anxious to show off, but wanting the customer to still be salivating; cock sausage. The sausage was spiced with ground rhinoceros horn, La Mancha saffron, smoked aged paprika, baby Cheyenne peppers, baby garlic, and baby onion roots, salt and pepper of course, and the fat from some of the intestines. It was served with a baby potato gratin of cream and nutmeg.
After that it didn’t take much to please the gluttonous members of the Cannibal Club. They had consumed the most scrumptious of all dishes.
Hung is only happy when he is cutting or cooking the human being. Everything else pales in comparison to this monstrous activity. He would give up sleep if he could continue killing. He would kill himself in the attempt to kill everyone on the planet. His only passion in life is cooking what he has killed. He is planning on being Satan’s personal chef. He laughs to himself this thought – knowing – the coldness of the ground – the loneliness of death and the eternal solitude of the afterlife.
