Story part 4 – The Butchery Chill

Benjamin pushed the door, but apart from a short creak, there was no significant sound. He was used to venues and stores in the capital where the owners often attached a bell above the entrance, which announced the arrival of the customers. Sometimes such a bell, obligatory with a small hammer, was placed on the front desks, where supplicants were expected. That way they could properly proclaim their visit.

At the Greasy Butcher’s, traditional solutions were relied upon.

“Good morning, is the owner in?” Benjamin called out, but no one answered.

After crossing the threshold, he felt the chill biting at his toes. Of course, such an establishment must have featured its own cold room, maybe a basement lined with blocks of ice from frozen lakes or rivers. He shuddered at the thought that somewhere beneath his feet were rows of chains and hooks piercing the yet unprocessed animal chunks. Cutting up stems and leaves was a daily routine for him, but gutting and draining anything other than plant juices was definitely beyond his expertise.

Deep into the room was a sturdy counter and a board displaying the current deals. Several types of meat, pork, beef, chicken and even “other”, whatever that entailed. Plus a handful of popular side dishes and condiments: salt, pink pepper or ginger. The prices were affordable, spread out so that anyone but the absolute poor could get a small feast. He read the amounts again. No, these prices were too affordable. After all, Slickhaven was famous for its plants, not its clearings and grazings. How could the butcher afford this and not go broke?

“Need a piece?” a deep voice sounded.

Behind the counter, coming upstairs from the basement, appeared a bald, smooth-shaven man, the face of which was mostly made of a stately snout. Benjamin didn’t want to jump into stereotypes, but the guy clearly had something of a boar in him. He was dressed only from the waist down, and wore a work apron. He was of considerable size, about two standard botanists or three skinny doctors. He rather resembled a bruiser, one which you didn’t want to meet in a dark alley.

His appearance was complemented by an equally imposing cleaver. It flashed ominously as the man approached the counter, and with every step he took, Benjamin had to stand his ground to not take a step back himself. The steel was speckled with brown spots, some of them smeared. Without a shadow of a doubt, that came from the victims who had the dubious pleasure of meeting the Greasy Butcher.

“No, thank you,” Benjamin replied, banishing the butcher-reaper from his thoughts. “My name is Benjamin Corvus, of the Imperial Botanical Association. I was told I could pick up the key here?”

“Will wait.”

As the butcher threw his bloody apron over his back and rummaged through the drawers, Benjamin noticed a distinct but healed scar near his shoulder blade, as if the man had cut himself with a hook from his own shop. Accidents at work did happen.

Without a word, the butcher handed him the key.

“You have most reasonable prices here, Mr. Greasy Butcher,” Benjamin tried the casual approach. “Isn’t it difficult to secure enough meat off-season?”

“Buying, or eying?” he replied coldly, cutting off the chance for a chit-chat the way one cuts off, well, a piece of meat.

“Ah, you know, to be honest, I’ve only just arrived in town and I just want to get rid of my bags, although another time I’ll certainly take up on the offer,” he answered diplomatically. “Thank you for the key, and goodbye!”

Benjamin turned around, but on his way to the exit he glanced at a dark corner which had escaped his attention earlier. There stood a pair of nice chairs, a table matching the set, and on it, an ornamental flowerpot with a cruel botanical negligence.

– I see you care about the decor, that’s admirable of course,” he said, taking on his academic tone. “Allow me to point out, however, that verbena needs much more light. Of course, everything grows quite well in Slickhaven, but if you move the table to the opposite wall, say there, closer to the window, the flowers will bloom to a greater extent. Just a small suggestion.”

The butcher threw him a murderous look which spoke ‘you either buy meat or you’re welcome to go to the basement to tour the meat hooks’.

“Maybe I’ll go now.”

And he quickly fled.