Okay, I got a story’s gonna kill ya, right? You’ve heard the old saw, the one about the butcher and the string of sausages? Like, it’s supposed to be an urban legend, like something that just gets passed on from a friend of a friend’s cousin’s chiropractor.
Well, the story is true. Right, right, I know, but, I swear it happened in my hometown. Let me just tell you how it all went down.
There was this new kid working at the butcher shop. he was some stinky, sweaty, pig-like guy, some meshuggah meat head–so maybe it’s fitting he should work for the butcher. Kid always smelled like Vitalis and cheap cologne, cigarettes. I think he was probably one of the first guys I knew smoked grass, but that’s neither here nor there, right?
Anyway, this old bat Grizelda Van Bilderbutt or some such, comes in one day, and the kid is just looking to get fired. Doesn’t like real work, right? So he has this string of sausages, and he slips the end of it under his apron, so the last sausage is hanging out the bottom of the apron he’s wearing, which is all bloody anyway.
So he goes to make his deliveries, and he’s got this thing hanging out the bottom of his apron, which looks like…well, you know damn well what it looks like. And he delivers a pound of liverwurst this way, and the woman opens the door, and she sees his…sausage hanging down. Oh man! She could just barely contain her embarassment as he put the package of beef livers or whatever on the end table in the foyer, and this middle class wifey is standing there with her hand over her mouth.
So this chump goes back to the butcher shop, and he’s laughing all day until this old bat comes. Well, let’s go back to where we started. Old Grizelda or whatever comes in, and he’s standing at the butcher shop counter, and she wants some liverwurst or whatever, and then she sees his sausage-schlong hanging out the bottom of his apron. Her head spins, but she thinks it’s all some kind of terrible mistake.
“Young man!” she says, snapping her fingers. “Young man, you, you’re…you must really…” but she can’t get the words out. He suddenly grins a big grin, looks down at the sausage hanging out the edge of his apron, and then, grabbing it, says, “Oh, this old thing? Here, let me cut you off a slice!”
And he throws his phoney shlong up on the counter, and whacks the end of it with his cleaver.
The old bat suddenly turns as white as a sheet. Her old, skinny, withered body goes as stiff as a board, her hands splayed out above her head in terror…and she drops dead on the spot!
Well, the Mook is suddenly kind of scared. Gee, I mean, he didn’t MEAN to kill her; it was just a joke, after all.
Now, back then, there was this case of this guy, what stole a corpse from the cemetery and lived with it in his house. After he died, the cops found out all about it, and that he was…ahem, well, you know what he was doing to that dead body. But the Mook butcher’s assistant must have had some odd ideas that this is waht he could do to…I don’t know.
Anyway, he gets down. Maybe he starts to perform CPR. I dunno. But he starts kissing this old bat, he sort of starts…liking it. And then he starts vigorously rubbing the chest. You know, CPR and all.
Well, before you know it, there’s a sausage being slipped beneath his apron, a one hundred percent MAN MEAT sausage! Yep. You guessed it: a little necrophiliac lovemaking.
And, much to his surprise, after a few moments of this, the old bat (who was as dead as corned beef) starts to…move! And she’s breathing, coughing up some nasty bile, and the Mook, who can’t believe it, jumps up from, er, ah, his activity, and says, “I-I thought you were dead!”
And suddenly, the Butcher, who was rumbling around in the back, cutting wind and liverwurst, I dunno, comes out and says, “Whatsa goin’ on around here? You–”
He points to the old lady, who has sat up and is getting up slowly from the dirty floor.
“I was dead,” she said flatly.
“You,” the Butcher said again, astounded, “you tellin’ me you was…dead on my floor?”
She nodded her assent. The Mook nodded too. It was a darn strange day.
“Well…did you see Heaven, or Hell?”
The old lady cussed, spat, and said, with a bitter look on her face, “Heaven? Hell? Hell! I saw this big oaf humping and jumping me, is what I saw! Him and his dirty jokes…”
But the Butcher, instead of calling the cops, which he probably should have done, said, “Well…it must have been some magical lovemaking, because it brought YOU back from the dead!”
And they both agreed. The Mook, who was sweating bullets, standing there, certain he was headed to state prison, breathed a sigh of relief. The Butcher suddenly turned to his resurrected customer, said, “Hey, you know, we really ought to try and cash on on this thing. Dontcha think?”
And Grizelda Van Bilderass smiled, a horrible, toothless grin.
Soon, the Mook was standing all day in the exhibit in the back, his “Miracle Member” thrust through a glory hole in a canvas curtain, adorned with pictures of a male Adonis whose love making could bring women, even old and gnarled grannies with one foot in the grave and one on a banana peel, BACK FROM THE DEAD.
And Japanese tourists with brand new Polaroid cameras ALL wanted their pictures taken with the mook’s…eh, you know what they wanted their pictures taken with. I guess those pics still circulate. Underground, you know. Anyway, it’s all true. Honest.