And then red, marbled with pink, around two imperfect circles of bone-white with dark centers. A space where there shouldn’t be one—ground visible, covered with grass, and some clover. Red again—an image of the tomatoes on the kitchen counter flashed across Beatrice’s mind—surrounding two more bone-white circles. The hand bearing the peacock was severed, that was why Beatrice could see a sliver of ground where basic biology dictated there should be skin. There was a clean cut five inches or so above the wrist, just missing the edge of the peacock’s tail, the muscles and tendons—the bones—neatly sliced through like a Swiss round steak prepared by an expert butcher.
The butcher, baker, and candlestick maker have been around a lot longer than supermarkets and Wal-Mart.
One of my illest villains was the Butcher from 'Gangs of New York,' Daniel Day-Lewis.
Only the stupidest calves choose their own butcher.
