Roasted Whore.
Madame Souflaire was handling fresh slaughtered meats between plump stumped fingers that ironically resembled sausages. I was in the kitchen. Solitude was often sought within this one room, for hours I would humbly sit and witness what i found to be the beautiful transformation of food, whether it be grains of flower sugar and eggs that manifested into towering cakes, or a chicken that is beheaded stripped and seasoned, leaving the oven in the form of a crisp golden pie.
Screams. A crackled cry of distress awoke me from my drunken slumber whilst i lay motionless on the grass where my consciousness last left me. Through smoke and quinting eyes I looked upon a dancing flame frantically swaying, rising and falling in swift and sudden movements until it collapsed upon the floor not 2 feet from me. The flame had eyes pierced with pain and a look of death that I had seen not long ago.
Sprawled out before me was the body of Monsieur’s Mistress, Madamme Florein. Any Venetian would have envied natures craftsmanship, for fires delicate fingers had disguised her features with dense layers of crisp discoloured skin, and scathed flesh that still sizzled with the stench of over cooked animal fats. Stomach renching odors crept through my nasal passage and poisoned my mind with sadistic thoughts, for I was suddenly misplaced at a grand Venetian Ball in St Marks Square, mimicking footsteps of my partner in the shadows, wearing the skin of Madamme Florein, masked as a tasteful whore.
Another scream, and another. Merde. My senses were fully awakened by a choir of pitiful distress. Figures flocking towards and figures fleeing from my act of destruction. Time was limited.
