I’ve worked in kitchens all my life. I was a porter straight out of high school, working the dishes at a small Italian restaurant. I made my way through culinary school, interning as a junior chef at a hotel grill in Minneapolis. Over time, I’ve worked pretty much every position there is in a kitchen. Expediter, saucier, sous chef… hell, I had a short run as an executive chef at a hotel in downtown Milwaukee.
In 2014 I got a job at a place called Charcutaria Nobre. It was a high-end Portuguese restaurant known for their amazing, cured meats. I think they’ve been featured on one of those travel shows. You know, the one with the tall guy? I can never remember the name.
Within a month, I was assigned to the butcher station. I worked almost exclusively with one of the most famous pieces of the restaurant; the Presunto de Barrancos. We served this amazing dish with a queijo da serra crostini and a fig compote. Probably one of the best dishes I’ve worked with.
Over time, I got good enough to work the station in my sleep. Dado, the executive chef, took notice. Within a couple of months, I was promoted to sous chef. As the second-in-command, I mainly organized the other stations and made sure all relevant information was relayed. But I always returned to the meat station. Cutting the presunto was, and always would be, my job.
I was happy there. There is something amazing about doing something you’re good at and seeing that labor put a smile on someone’s face. Running a kitchen is an absolute pain in the ass most of the time, but Charcutaria Nobre was a home away from home.
We were planning for a particularly busy night. Dado was running back and forth like a madman, blaring like a siren. One of our deliveries had been stuck in customs for two days, and our reserves were running out. Add to that a particular set of high-end clients who were expected to show up, and you got a recipe for disaster.
I was doing inventory with the pastry chef when Dado came in and took me by the arm. He gave the pastry chef a look that she knew all too well. She promptly left the room.
“Are you good?” Dado asked. “You good to work?”
“What do you need?”
“They called. They want to order, eh… off-menu. Special order.”
“Alright, is it a substitution, or-“
“No no, quiet. Another dish. They want to feel important. You got this?”
“Dado, I’m not sure-“
“You got this?”
He pressed a piece of paper to my chest and waited. I sighed and accepted it. He pulled me in for one of his trademark hugs, kissed my forehead, and patted my cheek.
“I love you. Do great work.”
Most of their orders were from the menu, but there was a particular item that stood out to me. Amêijoas à Bulhão Pato. A style of Portuguese clam cooked with coriander, white wine, and drenched in garlic. It’s an acquired taste, but to a particular palate it can be divine. We had four orders and little time to make it happen. Dado was counting on me, so I got to work. It’d be done by the time they arrived.
It took me a trip to the fish market and a call to a sommelier friend of mine, but I made it happen. Later that night, as the guests arrived, I had everything ready. The fish station helped me prepare everything, and I arranged the presentation myself. Before sending it out, Dado stopped to do quality control. He took one sip with his tasting spoon, frowned, and nodded.
“Is perfect,” he nodded. “Good. I love you.”
Having Dado say little or nothing was always the best outcome. It was when he had a lot to say that you were in trouble.
Once our prestigious guests had finished their meal, I saw one of our servers come back to speak with Dado. I could hear him halfway across the kitchen, right past all the pots and pans.
“No no!” Dado said. “Not me. Don’t care.”
He pointed at me from across the room. The server came over with a big smile on her face.
“They want to see the chef,” she said. “And yes – they’re big tippers.”
I washed my hands and slipped out of the kitchen, following the server to the reserved table. There were four guests in total, all with the same order. There were two men in their mid-50’s, dressed in a kind of business casual. Between them was a woman in her mid-60’s. She didn’t seem to have any qualms about showing off her vast jewelry, or her intricately detailed hair.
Finally, there was a very old woman. She could easily have been in her 90’s. Wispy white hair carefully brushed and styled. She had these bright green eyes that almost shone. The moment I approached, she locked her eyes to mine. It felt like a lion staring me down; considering me for a meal.
Then, she smiled.
Her gums were completely black, like she’d been chewing tar. Her teeth were bright white and impeccable; something I’d never seen in a woman her age.
The party turned to me with an appreciative clap. The bejeweled woman offered me her hand, and I took it.
“Thank you so much for your efforts,” she smiled. “It is rare to be treated with such reverence.”
The two men agreed, nodding to each other.
“Mama knows her cuisine,” said one of them.
“She says it’s good? It’s good,” added the other.
Finally, the eyes fell on the matriarch at the table. With one finger, she waved me over. As I approached, she painstakingly got up from her chair. The others were ready to step in, but she held up a hand. They stopped immediately.
She reached out towards me, and I took her hand gently. She smiled at me with those death-black gums.
“We will come back.”
A voice that carried decades of smoking. And although it was a promise, it felt more like a… threat.
They’d come back about once every three weeks the following months. Every time, their requests would get more peculiar, or specific. Cozido à Portuguesa. Arroz de Cabidela. Salted codfish, deep-fried pork ears, cow stomach lining… hell, once we were asked to serve roasted goat kid. It took me ages to get the Sarrabulho texture just right. Dado had other things to deal with and asked me to officially make them “my” table. I couldn’t say no.
Every time they came by, they’d tip me at least a day’s salary. They’d rant and rave about the dishes, and the evening would always end the same way; a firm handshake by the women at the table, and a thank you. I can’t say I disliked it, but there was something about the oil-black gums of the old woman that gave me the creeps.
It was turning into late autumn. Leaves had long since shifted color, and the trees were just a few weeks from dropping them completely. There was that musky smell of moist earth in the air, and people had brought out their winter gear. Dado had started to wear his hand-crafted Italian fedora, which was the official signal that winter was just around the bend.
I’d been prepping for days to get the next dish right. I’d never worked with lamprey before, and I can’t say it was very pleasant. It’s like the offspring of an eel and a garbage disposal wrapped in a rubber tube. But still, I did what had to be done. They want Arroz de Lampreia? They get it. Sauce, rice, and a fantastic red wine.
That night, I was out helping Dado bring in some boxes for the freezer. When we finished, we stayed on the loading dock to have a smoke. Dado usually offered me a cigarillo on calm nights, and this was looking to be one of them.
“You know who they are?” he asked, nodding at the restaurant.
“No idea,” I admitted. “But with money like that, they don’t need to say their names.”
“Machado,” Dado nodded. “Big family. They run, uh… copper mines.”
He finished his cigarillo and stomped it out.
“Do not disappoint.”
“Never would.”
“I know. I love you.”
I was a bit nervous about sending out my Arroz de Lampreia, but I think I nailed it. It’s hard to tell if you’ve done something right when you haven’t worked that ingredient before. But I trusted my team and palate, and Dado gave me the go-ahead. I kept my head down and worked the presunto in the meantime, hoping for the best. Not long after, like clockwork, the server came to fetch me.
“You’re up,” she said. “They’re eager.”
That time, as I approached, they all got up from their chairs. It startled me a little, which seemed to amuse them. When the old woman joined them, I got a short burst of applause.
“Our savior!” smiled the woman in her 60’s.
“Magnificent!” added one of the men.
And finally, the old woman in the back took my hands, smiled at me with her death-black gums, and said;
“Join us, please.”
I looked back at Dado, who approved. I could use a break.
The family officially introduced themselves as the Machados. The two men were Cristó and Cezar, sons of the woman in her 60’s; Erica. She in turn was the daughter of the matriarch; Octávia.
They poured me a glass of wine and congratulated me on another dish well served. I insisted that I couldn’t take all the credit, but they wouldn’t hear it.
“Mama has worked in plenty of kitchens,” said Cezar. “She knows a good job when she sees it.”
“A pro, is a pro, is a pro,” emphasized Cristó. “You’re an artist.”
Octávia, on the other hand, just stared at me. It felt like those green eyes would pierce right through me. She glanced back at Erica, who nodded in understanding. Octávia cleared her throat, and the table fell silent.
“I’m getting, eh… old,” she said. “It takes time to… get out, like this. Can you cook for me?”
Out of something resembling instinct, I said no. I didn’t even consider it. The Machados were perfectly pleasant, but there was something about them that just didn’t sit well with me. They were almost too pleasant.
Then they explained.
It would be a part-time thing. Once a month. They would provide the recipe and ingredients, and I would have free reign in their vast kitchen to make it. One night a month, and they’d pay me the equivalent of an entire week. Tax-free, of course. Hush-hush.
Octávia wouldn’t take no for an answer. Erica and her sons insisted on how much they loved my work, and how they wanted to introduce me to the rest of their family. They swore I would want for nothing, and that if I asked, they could open any number of doors to any number of restaurants; world-wide.
I hadn’t even noticed Dado approaching the table. At first, I thought he’d give me crap for having a glass of wine. But no, he patted me on the back.
“For esteemed guests, he has my blessing,” Dado smiled. “He’ll do great work.”
With that, I couldn’t say no.
Dado was invited to the table, and he stuck around to speak some Portuguese with Octávia. I knew a few words, but I was far from fluent. I just sat back and observed. Having known Dado for years, I could tell when something affected him, and there was something the old woman said that made him visibly nervous.
Dado doesn’t get nervous.
Later that night, as we closed up, I asked him about it. At first, he seemed reluctant to answer. He put on his hat, adjusted his coat, and took a deep huff off his cigarillo.
“It, eh… it doesn’t translate well,” he said. “But that woman?”
He shook his head.
“She’s the fucking devil.”
From that point on, I spent every last Sunday of the month with the Machados. I’d prepare all kinds of traditional Portuguese dishes alongside their house-staff. And yeah, they had house-staff. The Machados had a huge place on the outskirts of town. Had a proper gate and everything. Always felt like I was in a spy moving driving up there, having to check in at the guard house.
The house itself wasn’t that big in relation to the surrounding yard. It was two stories and had a vast wine cellar. It was the first thing Erica showed me on the house tour. It looked to be a refurbished turn-of-the-century mansion, and you could tell it’d seen better days, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t impressive.
Family photos lined the walls, along with pictures from various achievements. Signing a contract with the Hatchet investment group. Meeting the president. Sitting in at the Nobel prize dinner. There were always shifting faces in the center of the picture, but you could always spot Octávia in the background. Didn’t matter if it was Cezar or Cristó standing in front of the camera, you could tell who was really pulling the strings.
Autumn turned to winter. At the first snowfall, I got a call from Erica.
“We have a business dinner coming up next week,” she said. “We need something special.”
“Alright, what do you need?” I said, scrambling to get a pen and paper.
“We have very rare and precious meat coming in,” she said. “I don’t know the name. Something portuguese.”
“Can you read off the box? It would really help.”
“Mother wants it simple,” she said. “Oven-bake it, add a sauce. You can come by and inspect it.”
“You have it?” I asked. “Can you send me a picture?”
So she did.
I had no idea what I was looking at.
It looked like the leg of a horse, but slightly smaller. It was completely black and skinless, and there were blotches of blue staining the freezer they’d put it in. In the place where one might expect a hoof, it instead had this mass of spaghetti-like frills. Running up the side of it, I spotted what looked like barnacle mounds.
That was no fish, and it was no animal I’d ever cooked. I thought there was something wrong with the picture, like a lighting thing. I asked Erica to send me another, and she did. Same thing, other angle.
What the actual fuck was it?
The Machados were very busy, and I couldn’t manage to drop by to see the meat for myself. Instead I had to wait for the day of the cook. I had no idea what to bring, and after several texts from Erica, I resigned myself to just accept that I was going in blind.
Driving up there, I noticed about a dozen cars in the driveway. Some people were standing outside, smoking, others were lounging in the nearby gazebo. All of them were dressed in combinations of black and grey. Men and women of all adult ages, all dressed up.
The moment I stepped out of my car, Cezar was there to greet me. He shook my hand and lead me inside, talking as we went.
“The meat is for guests only,” he said. “No taste testing.”
“Then how can I-“
“No questions. No tasting. None. Understood?”
I nodded as we squeezed past two men going out for a smoke. Cezar could be pushy, but this time he was outright demanding. This was clearly a big night for him.
As we got to the kitchen, he handed me a pair of gloves. I didn’t immediately put them on, but he gave me this cold stare until I did.
“Those stay on,” he said. “Until you’re done.”
“Sure thing.”
“So what rules are we up to?”
“No tasting. The gloves stay on.”
“That’s right.”
We rounded the kitchen island and went past the pantry. They had a small walk-in freezer, which Cezar had the keys to. He unlocked the door, went inside, and waved me along.
“If it is expensive, you shouldn’t freeze it,” I said. “I could’ve-“
“It’s not frozen,” Cezar interrupted. “It doesn’t freeze.”
The box was bigger than I’d anticipated. It was made of this green aluminum-reinforced plastic casing, with some kind of ice-box interior. The label clearly said “Carne Azulgruta”, which I believe can be translated to something like “blue cave meat”.
Up close, it looked even more alien. There was a heat coming off of it, causing plumes of steam to rise from the box. It was clear that it was a limb of some kind, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Was the frills the foot, or the hip?
“Every portion should be fist-sized,” Cezar continued. “Oven-baked. No longer than 40 minutes. Use whatever you see fit for garnish and side dishes.”
“How am I supposed to work with it if I can’t taste it?”
“Look!”
Cezar put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. He talked to me using his full hand, never letting up with the eye contact.
“Not your concern,” he said. “You bake it, you serve it. Make the best of it. Okay?”
“Okay,” I nodded. “Yeah, I’ll… okay.”
“And no tasting!”
As he left me alone with the box, a thought hit me. I brought out my phone and compared the images that Erica had sent me. It wasn’t that the box was bigger; the meat was.
Had it grown?
Working with the house-staff, I could tell they were anxious. There were close to 25 guests in total. Some Portuguese, some American, all ridiculously wealthy. The tires on their cars probably cost more than my apartment.
But I did as I was told. I kept my gloves on, and I had the house-staff help me unbox the meat. We laid it all out, and I started to cut it. I was surprised to learn just how soft it was; there was literally no bone. There was something resembling thick lines of cartilage, but it was on the outside of the meat. I could pull it off like a thick string, with some effort, leaving something akin to fillets to be harvested.
The meat was blue all the way through. It dripped these ink-like blots onto the floor that just didn’t seem to scrub out. My elbow-high gloves had a lot to live up to.
We prepped the meat in fist-sized portions, alongside olive and tuna salad, and corn-fried rice. As instructed, we oven-baked it for 40 minutes and garnished it with cilantro, oregano, and dried garlic flakes. We plated it with fresh peas for garnish, alongside a house-special virgin olive oil.
I have a hard time describing the smell. While raw, it had this strange tinge of ammonia, but when cooked it was almost completely scentless. But even scentless, there was something about the heat coming off it that singed my nose. I almost sneezed all over one of the servings and had to excuse myself.
Stepping out for a smoke, I saw something peculiar in the back yard. About a dozen men and women, all in their mid-50’s, running and playing across the snow-covered yard like excited children. Some singing, some throwing snowballs. There were two grown women playing tag, screaming as they sprinted across the yard.
I hardly noticed the man directly to my left.
“Hey,” he said. “You the chef?”
A man in his early 60’s, full black-tie getup. Gray hair combed and oiled. I nodded at him, and without a hint of hesitation, he flung his arms around me.
“Thank you,” he sniffled. “Thank you so much.”
It was time.
As the aperitifs disappeared, the wine glasses were filled, and the plates of Carne Azulgruta made their way out to cheers and applause; but no one dared touched their plates. I remember standing by the door, waiting to be excused. Octávia rose from her chair, as the room erupted with stomping feet.
“Today, I resign my post,” she said.
The sound was deafening. Screams and cheers all across the room. Grown men and women screaming like children. I saw a man in his early 70’s at the end of one of the tables, crying his eyes out.
“We dine together. We enjoy the fruit of what is to come. We drown this cycle in joy; together.”
Octávia raised her glass, and the others followed suit. They waited her final words with bated breath.
“Eo,” she said.
And throughout the room, the same word bounced off the walls. It was sung, screamed, cried, and praised. An all-encompassing word for all ages and creeds, sung with an unnatural vigor.
I could see their eyes widen as they grasped their utensils. Forks and knives ferociously cutting into the strange meat, stains of blue pouring out onto their plates. All to a single, unifying chant;
“Eo! Eo! Eo!”
I had to step out. They were getting uncomfortably riled up. Some of them didn’t even bother with knife and fork; just stuffing the meat into their faces. Some took their time, savoring it alongside the corn-fried rice. There was this one woman who cut the meat into thin slices, painstakingly wrapping each pea from the garnish in it, and savoring it like it was her last meal on this earth.
One of the house-staffers pulled me aside with a whisper.
“Don’t look,” she said. “It’ll get worse.”
“What the fuck is going on?” I whispered.
“Stay quiet, take your money, and go,” she continued. “Don’t make them like you.”
The rest of the night turned into something else entirely. The guests retreated to one of the lounges. At first it was just like any other party; drinks and music. Then things started to escalate.
I saw a man in his early 30’s passionately making out with a woman in her late 70’s. There were a whole circle of women just taking turns screaming at and pushing each other. One man just sat by the window, reciting an entire book from memory.
Then the lights were dimmed, and things got even worse.
Some were getting undressed, right then and there. Screams of passion, rage, fear, or just… because. In the middle of the room, a group of older men arranged a circle and took turns beating the everliving shit out of one another.
There was this one man who took a hit to the temple and went down like a brick. He was spazzing out, like he’d gotten a brain hemorrhage of some kind. The others just laughed and kicked him. Even in the dim light, I could see him bleeding out on the expensive carpet.
But the fucked up thing?
He was laughing too.
I retreated to the kitchen, where the house-staffers were finishing up the dishes. I was at a loss for words. I pointed back at the corridor leading to the lounge, but they just shrugged.
“We should… call someone!” I yelled. “There’s a man bleeding out on the goddamn carpet!”
“Go ahead,” one of them said. “Call the police.”
I brought my phone up, dialed 911, and was about to hit the call button. I looked up, but there were no reactions. No one seemed to care. It gave me pause.
“Why… aren’t you doing anything?” I asked.
“Because there are no victims. Go on. Look again.”
I did, reluctantly. I went back into the lounge, which had devolved further. There was blood on the carpets and walls, and I could barely see where one body began and another stopped. I could feel hands tugging at me in the dark, and hear the snapping of teeth. From somewhere behind me, I could hear the unmistakable sound of fork and knife sliding against one another.
That one word, repeated as a mantra. It was screamed, whispered, moaned, and cried. In unison.
Eo.
I felt like a sheep in a pit of lions. There were threats all around me, and making too much noise would draw their attention. This wasn’t just a party; this was something wrong. I started to realize just how much danger I was really in. That feeling sunk into the bottom of my stomach like a stone, leaving my pulse to bounce back and forth up my spine.
I didn’t even think about looking for a victim, or a dead body. I was leaving, and I was calling someone. Money be damned. But as I got to the door, I ran into someone I hadn’t anticipated.
Octávia.
Just her, no one else. No chaperone, no daughters, or grandsons. And for some reason, this did little to calm me. I firmly remembered Dado telling me, in no unclear words, that this woman was the devil. After seeing what I’d seen, I was inclined to agree.
“Come,” she said. “You get paid, you can leave.”
“You can, uh… just send it,” I said.
“Come,” she insisted. “Don’t worry.”
“No, I think I’ll-“
She turned to me, and behind those youthful green eyes, something moved. Like a slight shift in her skull, dropping half of her face half an inch, like a melting candle. She flashed me her blackened gums as she gritted through her teeth.
“N O W”
That wasn’t the voice of an old woman.
And she wasn’t asking.
I followed her to a private study. An intimate room with hardwood floors and musky furniture. Decades of files and folders, all neatly organized in oak bookshelves. Octávia pointed at a slip of paper on a coffee table, next to vase of dried blue sunflowers.
“Take it.”
I did. It was my salary for the evening, as agreed upon; rounded up. Octávia picked up a small plate from her desk.
“You’re diligent,” she said. “An eager servant. Traditional, but flexible.”
Something in her bones shifted with a crack. I could’ve sworn I saw her left arm grown an inch longer.
“I want you to stay on for longer,” she continued. “For my daughter.”
“I’m, uh… honored,” I said. “But I am committed to my job.”
“This is not a question of work. This is a question of worth.”
She handed me the plate, where a single bite of Carne Azulgruta remained.
“I think you’ll like it,” she smiled. “Everyone does.”
“I’m good, thank you.”
“Now now, one bite won’t hurt.”
“No thank you.”
Another audible snapping sound. This time there was no mistake; it was definitely something wrong with her. Her jaw unhinged like a snake, and one of her eyes rolled back in her skull. Something dark started to run out of her nose, and I could see her skin shrivel. It all went so fast that I barely had time to step back.
She was still holding the plate out for me.
I was about to run when I realized we weren’t alone. At least eight of her guests were standing in the doorway, bawling their eyes out. Not from sadness, but an unimaginable joy.
“No no no,” Octávia muttered. “ oo oon. Ou a oo oon!”
I could see every flap of her tongue as she tried to form the words, but the words didn’t come. She pushed the plate against me, but I hindered every instinct in grabbing it. Instead, it dropped to the floor, and shattered.
There was a shriek.
Some from the guests, some from Octávia. Her guests rushed into the room, pushing me aside. Some threw themselves on the floor, stuffing their faces with whatever drops of sauce they could find. Others headed straight for Octávia.
They tore at her. Ripping away clothes, revealing slouching flesh. Her fragile form laid bare, and they just… attacked her. Tearing at her hair and skin. With barely any effort, it all started to come off. The chants returned as they all descended on her like wild animals.
“Eo!”
I could see splotches of blue, not red, as they tore her open. It wasn’t like butchering an animal; it was like a snake shedding its skin.
“Eo!”
I heard snapping joints and crackling bones as she grew in stature. From a measly 4’9, something birthed itself from her body. Something at least 9 feet tall, slouching to even fit in the room.
“Eo!”
Oil-slick and blackened blue, what remained of Octávia couldn’t form words.
But it didn’t need to.
The stench was so strong that I must’ve gotten a contact high. There were these flashes where I saw myself as if in different worlds. One where I was just a pile of black ooze, barely even resembling a human. Another where I was covered in teeth. One where I was burning in an endless hellscape, screaming from exposed nerve endings.
And through it all, in every existence, and every living nightmare, that chant persisted.
I snapped out of it. A single drop of blue had spattered on my cheek. I wiped it off, trying to catch my breath. Octávia, or what remained, was distracted by the pile of guests.
I ran.
I got to the door when I heard something stumbling behind me. Looking back, I glanced at this massive humanoid clumsily making its way out of the study; throwing guests like paper dolls as it chased after me. It had barely learned to walk, but it already knew that it wanted to chase; to attack.
I saw its featureless face, looking more like a strange growth than a head.
I made my way down the stairs. I hadn’t even realized I was screaming, but the screams just… blended in with the rest. For a moment, I sounded like one of them. Just another guest.
It didn’t even try to get down the stairs; it flung itself forward. It haphazardly tumbled down, almost bowling me over as it crashed against the wall. I had to choose; front door, or kitchen.
I chose the kitchen.
I could see them lining the rooms. Naked guests, smeared with blue handprints, bruises, and blood. Some with grievous wounds which seemed to close as little blue frills sewed them shut from the inside. As soon as Octávia revealed herself, there were cheers and praises coming from them. I ran screaming down the hall, to the sound of applause.
There was no one coming to help.
I made my way through the kitchen, throwing myself past the kitchen island. There were three house-staffers there, who didn’t seem to understand what was going on. The moment Octávia stepped through the door, everything changed. They turned to run, to keep up with me. This was not part of their plan. This was far beyond the paycheck, or anything else. Decadence was one thing, but this?
No.
I didn’t stop to look, but I heard bones break. Joints snap. I heard one scream cut off as something heavy was thrown across the room.
Reaching the back yard, I just kept running. Looking back one final time, I could see Octávia being swarmed by her guests. They held her back, hugged her, kissed her, and caressed her. Like a swarm of maggots piling on a wound.
The last thing I saw of her, of that mansion, was that 9-foot-tall monstrosity standing tall; swarmed by insignificant maggot people.
It did not care for them.
It wanted to hunt.
I made my way to the end of the estate and managed to climb the fence. I just kept going, crying my way all the way to the highway somewhere around 3 am. I almost wandered into oncoming traffic, only to be picked up by a newspaper van.
So… yeah.
I called the police. Turns out, the family had called ahead about this being a wake for their late grandmother. For all intents and purposes, it seems like the world had already registered Octávia Machado as being deceased. I tried to skirt around the insane details of that night, instead focusing on the missing house-staffers. But since they were there illegally, and not being paid on the record, there was little to no enthusiasm in investigating it further.
I tried. I really, really tried. But after having Cristó and Cezar making a house visit, and making it known in no small terms that they’d destroy my life if I even looked at a police car, I had little choice but to stay quiet.
The fuckers even reminded me to cash my check.
The family moved earlier this year, which is why I can finally share this with the world. I’ve moved since as well, and they won’t find me anytime soon. I just want you to be aware of the kind of people you’re dealing with.
There’s another level to their depravity, and I don’t know how to live with it. I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. If there is anything that can be said that would make this feel normal, I don’t want anything to do with it.
If you remember anything from this, anything at all, I hope it is this;
Don’t eat the blue meat.