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.