He was The Buthcer.
He held his namesake’s knife,
Gripping tightly, angrily. Anticipating
The imminent hacking.
He licked his lips
Visualizing the seeping redness
Soon to come. His
other hand sadistically caresses
The atypical victim.
He brought down his raised
Hand, the knife gleaming with intent,
Ripping through the soft skin.
Stopping at the wooden block. Repeat.
Repeat. Repeat. Until nothing was whole.
The Wife sat across the room. Smiling
At her victory. She comes to take
The knife from The Butcher using it
To scrape the diced
Tomatoes into the now full salad bowl.