Money was scarce, and they couldn't always afford to feed everyone, but the stepfather always had his fill first; having seconds before the kids had their first helping. At times there was enough for the kids to eat, others there wasn't enough to go around after the drunk ate.
Not having eaten for a few days, surviving off scraps he could scrounge for himself and his siblings on the streets of Cleveland, Poppy, a mere 12-year-old boy, confronted the man - with his mother in audience. He flew off the handle, screaming at the sorry excuse of a human for letting his siblings and himself starve. Enraged, the man stood, looming over my great grandfather.
"The hell ya theekin rasin yer voyse ta me boy? Sumun's gutta put food on the table, an' I suresheet gon' git my fill furst," the man drawled, barely coherent in his drunken stupor. Removing his tattered belt, he continued "Yawanna be a big man, les' see how big yar af'er I beat the disrespeck outta ya."
The man attacked Poppy, whipping him with the belt, lashes landing across his side and back – his arms taking the brunt as they were wrapped across his face trying to shield himself. After the stepfather finally quit pelting him with the narrow piece of leather, Poppy ran into the kitchen, sobbing, with his mother quickly behind him.
Dropping his hands from his face, welts across his arms and his hands, he asked between choked sobs "Why can't we kick him out momma. Why does he gotta stay here?"
Quicker than the blink of an eye, a resounding SMACK rang across the room as her open hand met his cheek, catching Poppy fully by surprise and abruptly ending his sobs.
"You EVER disrespect your stepfather like that again, and you will not be welcome in this house again. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?"
"Yes, ma'am," Poppy muttered, barely audible.
Head hung low, a mixture of defeat and confusion bathed over him as he walked out, aimlessly patrolling the streets. How could his mother slap him? She had never laid a hand on him before, always soothing him after his stepfather finished with the seemingly daily beatings.
The sun was beginning to set, cold washing over his body with the growing shadows. He stopped outside of a glass window, pressing against it with the tips of his fingers as he leaned forward, watching the man behind the counter work.
SCHWING! The sound of metal striking metal reached his ears, slightly distorted after passing through the glass panes. SCHWING! Another blow landed; the butcher splitting the large section of red meat into three smaller roasts. Each slice witnessed caused a fog to appear on the pane from the short, sharp exhalation out of Poppy's nostrils; his eyes widening in realization, until they closed slowly into a determined trance; jaw clenched before turning upward into a grin.
You really want to see who the big man is, don't you stepfather? Tonight, we'll find out.
Every night the drunk would go work down at the dock yards off Lake Erie – getting paid every day and spending half or more on booze on the walk home. The prohibition was winding down, but still enforced, so he had to stop at a fruit stand that fronted for bootlegger selling moonshine: one of the only places in the city you could get "take home" alcohol. Not being able to wait, the drunk would go deep into an alley and drink one of the jars, far from loud street in the mornings, until heading home and berating and beating his family.
Here. This is the perfect spot, a fitting final resting spot for the drunk Poppy thought, while planning out the ensuing attack. Never again would he be beaten by this piece of human filth. His only task left; he had to find a knife, and he exactly where one was.
It was dark now, the air now cold enough to see Poppy's breath. He made his way back to the butcher store; checked every window and door, but all were locked. Looking around for any witnesses, he grabbed a rock found by the back of the shop and threw it through the glass door, shattering to a million pieces. Stepping through, careful to avoid the jagged edges, my 12-year-old great grandfather stepped behind the counter, eyeing the gleaming steel hanging just out of reach. Trying to find a way to reach the blade, he overturned the small trash can from behind the counter and stood atop it.
Now at eye level, he hesitantly reached out. He imagined himself Arthur pulling the sword from the stone – handle in hand he removed the knife from the hook. As he laid the blade flat in his palms, he noticed the imperfections on the edge, a dullness with dings and small dents. But it would serve its purpose, and that was the important part.
"Who the hell is there?" boomed a voice, followed immediately by a CHU-CHAK of a shotgun being cocked.
Poppy sprinted out of the store; scrambling around the corner and through the broken door, cutting his arm on the serrated edges of the shattered glass.
"Get back here you damn thief!" The store owner shouted into the night, in no direction in particular, as Poppy was already 'round the corner, far from sight.
Back in the alley, he waited through the cold night in nothing more than his pants and a shirt. Poppy alternated between sitting and pacing, unable to reach relaxation. The darkness began to unnerve him, so he we out to the streets and walked an endless loop around the city blocks, waiting for the sweet rays of sunlight to bring both warmth and his unsuspecting target.
As if King Midas himself had reached out and touched the sky, golden rays began to spread across the horizon, quickly engulfing the sky.
It was time. Around the corner of the alley Poppy lurked, sweat beading along his furrowed brow. Butcher's blade in his right hand; the flat side tapping against his leg in built anticipation. A rustling sound caught his attention, hyper focusing his senses as he peeked around the corner.
There he was, that abusive asshole that would be the origin of the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run. The drunk who turned my great grandfather's own mother against him. I could feel his emotions. The anger boiling over into pure energy, years of bottled up rage, untapped until just now.
Poppy waited until his stepfather was closer. The man stopped, setting the bag – undoubtedly filled with alcohol – down on the ground next to him, only feet away from the corner where Poppy hid, ready to pounce on his prey. The drunk opened a mason jar of shine and began to consume the drink with such haste that he spilled a good portion down the front of himself. It was time for Poppy to make his move.
Poppy rounded the corner, weapon in hand, and lunged at the object of his animosity, wildly swinging the dull blade at anything and everything. He hit his stepfather's arm, knocking the jar from his hand; but the blade didn't cut him, too blunt to pass through the fabric of the man's shirt.
"Wut the hell are ya don' boy?! Ya gutta death wish doncha?" the drunkard hollered, infuriated by the unraveling attack. Charging forward, arms stretched with wide open hands reaching for my great grandfather's neck, Poppy did the only thing he could, he swung again. But this time the corner of the cleaver caught his stepfather in the temple; the blade pulling from Poppy's hand, lodged in the man's skull, as he crumpled to the ground.
Trembling, Poppy grasped the handle and tried to retrieve the knife, but it remained stuck in his stepfather's head. He pulled, and pulled, and pulled, but the slack in the dead man's neck cushioned each pull, not allowing retrieval. Poppy stepped on his neck, applying enough force to keep it from moving, and tried again. He pulled, but nothing. He tried again, but it wasn't until the third attempt that the weapon dislodged.
Blood seeped from the open gash, travelling along his hairline and pooling inside his ear before spilling over onto the dirty alleyway. A fitting end for this filth, dead in a dirty alley.
But Poppy hadn't finished. Foot still on his stepfather's neck, all he could imagine were all the times this drunk piece of garbage had screamed at him and his mother and his siblings. He lifted his foot, bringing it back down with as much might as he could muster. With the first stomp, he felt the throat collapse under his foot, but he didn't stop there. Three … five … eight times he brought his heel down into the throat that vocalized years of abuse. His next strike crushed his stepfather's jaw; misshapen and dangling across the neck with teeth littering the ground in front of him. Again, he brought down his foot, this time in the spot the Butcher's blade hit. A sickening crunch emanated as the thin bones around the eyes fractured, caving the right side of the skull in. His foot came down again, crushing the drunk's face, rewarded with a sickening squelch as brain matter was forced out of the preceding damage. Again, the foot came down as he smashed the face into oblivion, until nothing was left; a flattened mixture of meat, blood, and bone where a face once was.
"WHO'S THE BIG MAN NOW?! HUH?" Poppy screamed; the fury not yet gone from his body. "So big and bad! Now look at you!" He took hold of the cleaver again, and swung with all his might, determined to destroy the appendages that mercilessly beat him time and again. It didn't cut him; the blade still too blunt to cut through the fabric, but there was the telltale CRACK of bone breaking. Not stopping, he struck again and again, finally rewarded with the shirt tearing and the blade embedding in flesh. He ripped the knife back out and dropped to his knees, chopping without hesitation or reprieve. Hacking away until he was all the way through, but there was still a small piece of meat connecting the arm on the bottom side, so Poppy jumped, grabbed him by the hand. Yanking with as much force as could exert, the arm tore the rest of the way off causing Poppy to fall to the ground with the sudden release catching him off guard. Holding the now severed arm, he threw it off to the side and ran back up to the mutilated body; his rage not yet diminished.
My great grandfather got a look in his eyes of revelation. He grabbed the Butcher's blade and stood over the body.
"You always thought you were such a big man. Let's see how big you are now," Poppy sneered while removing the leather belt that left me welted and bleeding so many times. Staring at the belt, he wrapped it up and shoved it in his pocket, knowing now, as its new owner, it could never harm him again.
Poppy pulled down his stepfather's pants, revealing underwear that looked as though they have never been clean. He removed the underwear as well, displaying the drunk's manhood. The final well of anger overflowed as he grabbed his penis in the left hand, pulling as with all his strength, stretching it to the maximum, until THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! Chop after chop after chop rained down on his groin until the signifying feature of being a man was removed.
"Who's a big man now?" Poppy asked, out of breath as he looked at the scene before him. Disgust welling within, he spit on the corpse, picked up his butcher blade, and walked away, deeper into the alley. He was covered in blood, with no way to make it home and avoid detection. His only thought was to make it to the water. If he could get to the water, he could wash off and evade suspicion. There were a few different paths to the water through the alleyways he could take and circumvent the main streets. Cramming the penis into his free pocket, he ran for the water.
When he finally arrived, he dove in, taking the member out of his pocket and l throwing it as far as he could while wading the water. He kicked his shoes off, letting them be carried away by the current, with his pants and shirt to follow the same fate, but he made sure to retrieve the belt before letting the evidence be swept away. Getting out of the water, he hid his butcher knife under one of many rocks in a large formation near the bank.
Going home, his story was simple; he roamed the streets for the day, hoping to let his stepfather cool off. He went for a swim this morning, and some thieves ran off with his clothes that he left up on the shore. His mother sent him to get dressed, but before heading into his room, he turned to her.
"When he gets home from work, please let me know; I would like to apologize to him," he told his mother, a smile across his face.
When Poppy's stepfather still didn't return the next day, his mother began to worry. Not knowing the reality of the situation, that he was gone because her son had killed him, his mother sent him out to the dockyard to ask around if anyone knew where he was.
Keeping up the appearance that he had no idea where his stepfather was, Poppy went down to the water and asked a few people, none of whom had seen him. They told my great grandfather that they he had left the previous morning but had not returned to work that night.
Feeling he had enough information to pass off his "attempt" to find his stepfather, Poppy made his way back to the water to retrieve his butcher blade, making sure to steer clear of the back alleys and stay on the main roads. Strangely, he had not heard nor seen any type of commotion, disturbance, or irregularity down the main road the alley branches off from, but didn't want to take any chances of being near the scene if the police were around and draw suspicion to himself.
After about 20 minutes he found himself back at the water. There was a full moon reflecting off the lake, illuminating the scene and making the reclamation of his butcher blade simple. There was no fumbling in the dark, just a determined route to his destination. Poppy pushed the rock aside; there it lay, calling out to him in the moonlight, awaiting his embrace.
Grabbing the blade, inspiration stuck him like a thousand bolts of lightning. In a frenzied haste he ran along his previous days route – straight to the spot he had decidedly avoided just prior.
The body was still there, undisturbed. The sight was sickening, but Poppy appeared as indifferent as if it were trash on the side of the road. No excitement, fear, delight, repulsion. Just a thing that was.
He reached down and scooped up a few of the teeth on the ground. Holding them in his palm, he ran the tips of his fingers across them, stroking them softly. Poppy stared blankly as he gently pet the teeth, until finally focusing and putting the teeth in his sock so not to lose them.
The last thing my adolescent great grandfather did was baffling. Turning away from the torso, he walked over to one of the severed arms lying in the alley. He took his butcher blade and hacked away until the thumb separated, placing it in his other sock for safe keeping. When about 30 feet away from the body, he suddenly stopped, turned back, and grabbed the severed arm he just took the thumb from. Holding the limb by the wrist, he drug it out into clear view of the main road.
Looking around, the street was mostly empty, minus the few vagrants just beyond shouting distance. Poppy sprinted as fast as he could, trying to gain as much distance between himself and the body as he could before anyone saw surprise he left behind.
Arriving home, he quickly went inside and hid the trophies he collected in his top dresser drawer. He found his mother and told her there was no news; no one had seen her husband. He kissed her cheek goodnight, then laid down in his bed, waiting for her to go to bed.
Hearing the unmistakable creak of her bedroom door, followed by ensuing click of the metal latch securing the door, Poppy snuck to his dresser and took his prizes in hand. Laying back down, he pulsated his hand, rolling the teeth and thumb around, completely transfixed with the trophies he held. Poppy gently stroked the thumb with his fingertips before bringing it directly under his nose and inhaling deeply.
The last thing I heard before being thrust back to the kitchen table in present day was a gut wrenching CRUNCH.