El Beardo had been squatting. He had this round body with no discernable distinction between his upper and lower torso like a squishy melon with arms and legs wearing a pineapple print shirt. As he sat down crossing his legs, I saw his sandals and socks were caked with dried blood, dirt, and hair.

He wanted to talk. I wished I wasn’t so fucking wasted. On top of the serious concussion I probably suffered, the pills and whiskey didn’t mix very friendly-like, and I was feeling beyond screwy.

“I don’t sell the people meat.”

He spoke very matter-of-factly. His blond hair was thick and wavy, knotted with clots of congealed blood and grease. He had that beach bum look, the leathery, tanned skin, and light facial hair. His hands were like mitts with thick, overworked sausages for fingers. I tried not to think what those hands had done.

“What ya mean you don’t sell it?” I asked buying time.

Psycho Beardo shook his head. “People meats for personal use,” he said proudly. “Customers get pork and beef BBQ.”

“Why is that? People meat too special for customers? They might like it too, you know?”

“Paw said people meat’s for just us, just us special folks who know the truth.”

He didn’t sound so sure about that last part. He spoke like a parakeet repeating a hard-learned phrase.

My head was spinning. I could barely stay awake. I didn’t have a clue what to say to the cannibal. I just wanted to bash his head in with a hammer. Hand out a little payback for the bleeding knots on my head.

While I kept him talking I tried to work a small piece of wire into the cuff lock, but I couldn’t get leverage. Behind the killer, Mrs. Hughes had begun to come to. Her eyes were fluttering. The boy, however, still stared wide-eyed, blank. He was in shock. If he didn’t get help soon, he’d crack for good.

The killer was slumped, sitting right in front of me on the filthy floor of the backroom slaughterhouse and all of a sudden, despite the blood, he looked like a big-ass baby sitting there. He was even poking at his knee with the scalpel like a pouting child.

“What’s the matter, Margaritaville?” I asked. “You got a hunk of that kid’s dad caught in your throat?”

“Nobody never talked to me before,” he said with a straight face. “All they ever do is scream.”

“Well, maybe that’s because you’re killing them.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

I gestured toward papa Hughes on the table. “You done with that one?”

El Beardo looked over his shoulder at the half skinless man, then quickly back at me.