The Recipe

A Story by exotic flotsam

A story about innocent consumption of rotticeried human flesh.

"My first taste of human flesh was accidental."
Seriously.

I burped. We suffered. She stayed. Awhile.

I make no excuse for eating humans, because I swear I did not know. I was seduced. But hey, I have endless southern recipes, right here in my little noggin. Ah,the simple pleasure of rotisserie mystery meat under the captivating southern sage sky. Sprinkle with all the finest herbs and spices, except basil. Basil just bugs me, and causes the meat to become tasty. Which is exactly why I hate it. Sitting somewhere in the dark bayou roasting squirrels, and other meats, I sighted a flickering, delicate glow. There she now sat, stunning in low light. How could I know within her captivating oregano eyes, green as mowed lawn, lurked a twisted mind, fatally bent on my gastronomical and spiritual destruction.

My finely tuned menace detector shorted out shortly after she summoned the catatonic twin cayenne cats. I freaked. What if she thought to rotisserie the cats, just like my squirrels, or partially decomposed, sweet meats? They were cool cats to be sure. But only one squirrel has ever been truly cool. His name, was Rocky. I’ve never knowingly cooked any of Rocky’s direct descendants. I’d no idea who was for dinner. Or whether they were cool. Nor do I know any descendants of the human meats.

I must concede a romantically inspirational vanilla moon provided no real insight into either her nature, or her flip flops. Maybe I should have seen the green eyes as a malevolent troll voodoo zombie. I saw only her alluring, now haunting stare. My infatuation with the angel turned vicar of the dark moon magic, I’d best keep at distance for now. Her visage made me fear. I think she wanted my delicious spicy nutmeg nuts. I remain irrationally attached to my nutmeg nuts. Since I clearly did not get the lesson here, I lingered for her persuasion. Here was the day. The day. The day she made me mistakenly believe, I was cool enough to eat some of her molten pepper pots. Mistakenly, I hesitated.

Something must have snapped inside voodoo angel, or, she is really like this all the time. Covered in live tattoos , all of her skin moved like a dozen snakes under a thin blanket. Her neck charm, or curse medallion, represented a cinnamon sun, or a cinnamon bun. It was off color, darker that the sun. As is she. The voodoo zombie princess. My imminent dilemma caused a headache to sprout. It felt like a popsicle brain freeze. I decided that she was like the picture on a frozen dinner, which looks pretty darn good. Heat, eat and find that reality looks and tastes nothing like the delicious glossy carton picture. She was not the pretty box picture. She was the nasty fish sticks inside.

She spoke in whispers. Murmuring, chanting "Pepper pots. People pepper pots". Flesh eating cacaphony. She claimed to have the perfect recipe for the meat blister pots, using basil bugs, thrown into the simmering brew like a bouquet garni. For subtle essence saffron in a bottle is lifted over the pot, just not actually used. It’s too expensive to really use. Basil? Basil? Then again I did not actually see her toss in the basil bugs.

Watching all this voodoo zombie cooking under the potent whiff of tumeric trees, while listening to Bob Marley, started to give me an unplanned voodoo rush, whatever that was. The vanilla moon, her green eyes piercing dark native skin, she now brewedpots. I was still grooving on the human rotisserie. She had an undeniably attractive, yet carnivorous aura. She emanated magical macabre mystery, and all possible voodoo doll construction. Maybe zombie voodoo dolls. Importantly, I needed to know how this worked. What if she made a doll of me? Or my Mom? Or my fourth grade teacher’s mother’s uncle Clodd? Could she effect magic upon virtually anyone? How about a pickle? Lost in that thought, a rare thing at all for me, I began to think globally. Could I make a doll of Kim Jong-un, the North Korean president with the rocket wreck program, with which I could make him become smart? Maybe he would be forced to produce food instead of a series of very low altitude exploding rockets.

Still, I began to fear this apparition. My throat felt like I had smoky slow cooked human toes stuck to my uvula. At least it wasn’t basil. I secured nutmeg nuts and escaped. I turned as I ran. She was gone. By pots, she left me a gift. It was a voodoo doll, of Rocky the squirrel. I think. I wouldn't know until I used it as a pin cushion. So you see, I was victim of a flesh eating voodoo priestess. I didn’t know I had eaten human meats until I reluctantly conceded the horrid truth. I liked it. Accidentally.