A life less ordinary

An only child, he was born into a large family with several brothers and sisters. His childhood was the most peaceful period of his life. It was scarred with a series of traumatic events which in later years he recalled fondly. He remained a bachelor for all his years, eventually settling down with his third wife Jan, with whom he fathered several only childs. A devout family man, he was known for beating his children in violent rages, of which he flung into so frequently, that they almost never occurred. He visited Church on a weekly basis, but rarely bothered to show up. Being unable to afford access to amenities such as television and eyesight he spent most of his time watching classic movies on TCM. He passed peacefully in his sleep, no doubt experiencing horrible agony, leaving such a strong impression on the world, that old friends struggled to remember his name.

Old Habbits Die Hard (Part 1 of 2)

Club Zero--a must stop for any of Lexington city's A-Listers and wannabe stars--was packed that night. Patrons danced at a maddening pace to whatever techno or trance was being spun at the moment. The dance floor heaved in time to the music; others pushed and hustled at the overly crowded bar, trying to order drinks. The real losers, however, were the wall-flowers or 'dick moppers' standing against the edge of the back wall. These were, more often than not, clueless individuals who'd have more chance winning the lottery than getting laid. Rex and Charles stood casually amongst this group, drinks held carefully guarding their chests, and trying their damndest to look cool.

"Hey," Charles said.

"What?" Rex said.

"Did I take my Parkinson's meds yet?"

"Damned if I know," Rex pushed his hair out of his eyes which were now two red slits, "I'm drunk as hell."

"No matter," Charles pulled the bottle of pills out of his pocket and poured several, directly from the bottle, into his mouth.

"Better safe than sorry," Charles said, and washed the pills down his glass of whiskey.

"Amen to that," Rex said, and started to walk away.

"Where you goin?" Charles shouted.

Rex turned around, "To the bar to get a drink. You mind?"

"There's a bar 10 feet to your right. Why are you heading towards the one nearly 100 feet across the room?"

"The exercise." He patted his stomach as if to show he was carrying excess weight. “Gotta watch my figure”.

"Right." Charles snickered.

"You sure you're senile?" Rex smirked.

Charles shook his head, "I think I'm gonna try that line you taught me, on those babes over there."

Rex turned his head, and immediately knew who Charles was refering to. There were three good-looking black women at the bar, sipping on mixed drinks and talking on cell phones. They spoke loudly and energetically, laughing together and presented an intimidating target for even the most seasoned lothario. The thought of them being approached by a fifty year old, balding Elvis impersonator, would be nothing other than a disaster.

"I gotta see this." Rex thought to himself.

Charles strolled up to them with an exaggerated swagger, his fingers snapping and arms still flowing with the beat of the music.

"Excuse you, ladies," He said.

All three women turned around simultaneously. One of them snickered a bit, and the tallest girl in the back hit her.

"Yes?" The girl sitting nearest to Charles said, eyeing him with child-like curiosity.

"I lost my teddy bear..."The girls at first looked confused, but then they started to smile.

"Awwwwwwww!" She said.

"Want to fuck?" He asked.

Rex, standing 10 feet to the rear--next to a table of raucous frat boys--smacked himself on the forehead.

"Charles, you clown!" He murmured.

The women, now jaws dropped to the floor, said nothing.

Charles thrusted his hips into the air, as if he were in the process of cumming.

"I'm talking real deep, my nubian treasures!" He continued to thrust, much faster now.

Somehow he was oblivious to the stunned, speachless faces that now watched him.

Rex eyed Charles for a minute and chuckled knowingly. Whenever he spent the night out with his uncle there was always an absurd story to tell the next day. Rex judged that soon enough Charles would tire of trying to entertain these sumptuous beauties and retreat back to a quiet corner of the bar with his tail between his legs.

He turned to his right, expecting to face the bartender. To his surprise, in the place of the hairy ogre of a man who usually tended bar on friday nights, was the lovely Natasha Stansfield. Was she promoted, he wondered? Rex had always kept an eye on Natasha. She was a slender but athetically built girl, standing 5'7" with shoulder-length, thick curly brown hair. She had the face of a movie star. She was no Cameron Diaz or Scarlett Johansen, however, but more akin to the beautiful starlets of bygone eras, classic beauties of the 40s and 50s. Her Betty Grable eyes were her most distinguishing feature, and would make her stand out even among a thousand women.

"What'll it be, Rex?" She said, breaking the trance.

"Crown on the rocks."

She smiled, and retrieved the bottle from behind her. Pouring the drink into the tumbler full of ice, her hair was so close to his face he could smell it. He inhaled deeply into his lungs and allowed the sweet scent of incense and wildflowers to intoxicate him. Leaning forward, to get a better whiff, he didn't notice she was now staring up at him. She smiled faintly and her eyes seemed to twinkle. For a short time they seemed to be stuck there together, basking in the feeling of radiance and warmth that filled their bodies.

"You there still?" She giggled.

"What?” He said, still in a daze.

Her faint, perfect little smile had now grown into a tremendous, wide-spread toothy grin. In the glittering club light that intermittently illuminated her face Rex now noticed how moist her lips had become.

"Sorry," He looked flushed.

"So, what brings you in here tonight?" She said and eased the drink towards him, "I mean ... besides the booze," She eyed him inquisitively.

"Oh, you know. It's a great atmosphere."

"Bullshit." She laughed.

"Well, the boss does --"

"I know you come here because of work. But you don't have to come here this much because of work."

"Well --"

"And there's two bars in this place. Why do you always sit at mine. Mmmm?"

"Technically - it's not yours and --"

She rolled her eyes, "Stop being a smartass. Why do you always sit at my --" She caught herself, "the bar I work at?"

He smiled, sighed, and bolted down the drink.

"Well?"

"Good service."

Natasha rolled her eyes.

"Well, if you must know. I sit here because the scenery is better."

"God. You're such a smartass. You telling me you like sitting here because the paintings above my bar are any better. Because let me tell you something, mister, none of his stuff is true ar--"

"No," He raised his hand like a cop stopping a flow of traffic. "I'm saying I'd rather look at you."

"So, am I the reason you came here tonight?"

"You're part of the reason."

"Part?"

"Well, I promised my Uncle Charles that I'd --" He darted around on his stool and peered at the opposite bar.

"What's wrong?"

"My Uncle Charles. You know how he is. If those black girls didn't kill him, some others are bound to."

Natasha began laughing hysterically. Rex swivelled back around in his stool.

"What's so funny?"

"I think your Uncle Charles is doing fine."

"Oh yeah," He eyed her. "What makes you say that?"

She pointed behind him, and held her other hand over her mouth, blocking off any excess laughter from escaping.

He swivelled back around, and got a good look at what she was pointing at: Charles, drunk as ever, danced wildy with the same three girls around him. Amazingly, the babes were so drunk they seemed oblivious--or just didn't care--about the fact they were bumping and grinding with a man nearly 40 years their senior. Just as Charles started to do the butterfly, they heard the first shot. It was a large, zigging sound. A sound that Rex recognized immediately.

"What was that?" Natasha said, her eyes looking panicked.

Two more shots rang out.

The music kept on playing. But where before it had blended smoothly with the loud chatter and club noise the thunderous beats now played against an eerie silence. Isolated screams rang out through the stillness and a number of women began weeping.

"Sounded like a 38," Rex said cooly, not turning around to face Natasha. His eyes scanned the

venue, trying desperately to locate the gunman. Several feet in front of him, the pack of partying frat boys now looked more akin to a group of kids waiting at the school gate for their mothers.

"Indeed it did, boy," Charles said, now standing at Rex's side.

Natasha jumped back, and clasped her heart, "What the hell?" Natasha said, using a serving tray as a shield.

"It's just gun fire, my dear," Charles fluttered his eyelashes.

"No. How the hell did you get over here so fast?"

"What?" Charles eyed her with some confusion for a split second before his instincts kicked in. With a grace that belied his age he hopped over the bar in one smooth movement and placed a stern hand on Natasha's shoulder.

“Get down!” He grunted and eased her down to safety behind the bar. Now standing directly behind Rex he began to whisper instructions into his nephew's ear.

"Don't worry," Rex said and loosened his tie. "I've got this under contro-" Before he could finish his sentence a barrage of bullets went off, mowing down several of the bar's patrons, and hitting Rex square in the chest causing him to fly over the bar and land just to the the right of Charles and Natasha.

"Rex!!!" Natasha cried and turned her attention to Charles, who was busy openening a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes. He hadn't even glanced at Rex's lifeless form that now lay sprawled over the floor just a few feet from him.

"Oh god he's dead. Don't you care!" Natasha screamed. Charles glared at her for a moment, lit his cigarrette and leaned over Rex, as if inspecting him for signs of life. Out of nowhere he threw a viscious punch that caused Rex's nose to make a horrible cracking noise. Thick streams of blood oozed from both of Rex's nostrils.

"What are you doing?!?!"

"He's not dead."

"What?!?"

"Dead men don't bleed, m'dear."

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!" Rex screamed and lunged up in one awkward motion, as if doing a situp on methamphetamines. "What the fuck!??!" Rex put his hand to his nose and pulled it away, staring wildy at the blood which covered his shaking palm. "How'd that happen?"

"You were unconscious, m'boy. I had to wake you." Charles said.

"Why the fuck couldn't you have pinched me, or poured some ice water on me?"

"Water in a bar?" Charles scoffed. "Surely you're joking"

Rex eyed Charles for a second and shook his head in disgust. He turned his attention to Natasha who was know leaning over him. "Are you all right?"

She stared at him, wide eyed but not responding.

"Natasha?"

“You're shot Rex." She said, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"What?" He looked down at his chest. "Oh, I'm fine!" He smacked an open palm against his chest causing a hollow thud. "I'm wearing a vest." He placed a hand lovingly on her thigh.

"Look, enough of the chit chat” Charles interrupted them. He stood hunched over the bar, leaning from side to side of a huge concrete pillar, trying desperately to get the best view whilst remaining unexposed to any possible gunshot. “I think something's about to happen” Charles spoke quietly so that only Rex and Natasha could hear. Just then a loud booming noise rang out through the venue, as if confirming Charles' instincts were bang on the nail.

"What the fuck was that?" Natasha said.

Charles leaned down towards Rex and Natasha and glared at them authoratively. Natasha read what his eyes said so clearly; keep your voices down or we're all fucked.

"Shhh!" He whispered. "I see someone coming in."

A dark, stout figure of a man slowly began to appear within the dull red light of the club. He wore rimless glasses and a large sword through his skull. The glasses lent him an air of intelligence, and the sword let you knew that this was a man who rarely backed down from a fight. To top it all off he seemed to be dressed in clothing more fitting for a street corner transvestite than a rutheless gangster: black knee-high boots, fish-net stockings, skirt and some kind of tank top that exposed his flabby man-breasts and hairy arms and shoulders.

Accompanied by two large thugs, both armed with AK47 assault rifles, he trudged slowly through the bar with an obvious limp; his right leg dragged behind him. In spite of the limp, and the assistance of rather large, armed men, his mean, scarred face seemed to radiate power. Raising his hands in the air, he clapped them together 3 times. One of the Armed men quickly brought him a shiny, black bullhorn.

"Move in!" The swordman shouted into the bullhorn. A thundering noise rumbled through the building, so loud that it shook the walls of the club. Bursting through the door, clad in helmets, kevlar jackets and thick steel capped-boots, was the intimidating sight of 8 foot soldiers, who quickly gathered around the swordman in a show of strength. They stood in a row, single file, directly behind the swordman and his two guards. Putting the bullhorn back to his lips, he continued:

"I know what you're thinking," He shouted into the bullhorn, a sly grin spread across his face. "Here I am, out having a good time, maybe I'll even get laid, and some crazy bastard with a gun has to come ruin my night," He shook his head, still grinning. "Allow me to apologize. I assure you, I have nothing against you. Play your cards right and you'll leave these premises with your lives” He paused, as if to let the weight of his words sink in amongst the minds of the petrified crowd.

“My name is Diego Mandor” He continued. “The owner of this club is a crooked son of a bitch. He killed my wife and my children right in front of me. Right now, as you sit here in danger, he is on the top floor hiding like a baby. For the next five hours, this bar is mine." Pausing abruptly, he gave the whole dance floor an ice cold stare, as if challenging anyone to disagree. The crowd stared on in silence, several people cowered behind overturned tables and tried their best to hide behind the assortment of fake plants that decorated the lounge area.

Food for Thought: The Secret Ingredient

Maria Petrinelli was an amazing chef and a rare beauty. Standing over the stove, preparing a hearty pesto sauce, she resembled a goddess more than the owner of a meagre, but highly acclaimed diner.

"What am I forgetting?" She wondered, aloud. "Ahh, I know!" She slid her arm under her dress, pushed her panties aside, and retrieved three cloves of garlic from deep inside her period-ridden vaginal cavity. "Now where is that garlic crusher?"

As she started to reach for the drawer, she noticed a strange shadow on the wall directly in front of her. Though it was hard to see at this angle, she could just barely make out the faint silhouette of a man -- someone was behind her. Standing as still as a ancient petrified tree in some long dead forest, she contemplated running.

"Turn around, my dear." An extremely deep voice whispered.

"You know, I'd rather not."

"I don't like to hurt women. You, however, are leaving me little choice."

Slowly she turned around, clutching the large wooden spoon with both hands. Staring intently, she didn't know quite what to make of the man in her kitchen when her eyes first found his. Whoever he was, and however he'd got here, he cut a fine figure for a man. Tall with a well defined face and ruddy complexion, he possessed dark searching eyes. He was the definition of imposing.

"Reinhardt ... oh my god ... why'd they send you here?" She put her hand to her heart. "They sent such a big bad man for little old me?" She dropped her hand and smirked. "Honestly, I feel a little flattered."


"You know my name?" He looked troubled. "How do you know this?"

"Word gets around. You're quite the character."

"You hear much, woman?"

"Yes. I've heard quite a bit. If you're here, I'm probably about to die," She said rather nonchalantly.

Reinhardt slowly lowered the gun. "I'm not here to kill you, Maria. I'm no hit-man. Hell, you might even say I'm a ... how you say? Um. Oh yeah. A diplomat," He smiled coolly.

"And I'm the pope," she burst out thunderously in a loud fit of laughter, far too loud for such a petite woman.

"What does his mean?" His face was red.

"Oh nothing. Look Reamhair --"

"Reinhardt."


"Yeah, whatever. Look, I'm not giving my recipe to you or anyone. You got that? It's been in my family for hundreds of years. It was my birth right. I'm sorry, but I can't."

As he walked towards the stove, Reinhardt looked more like he were strolling on a golf course than being in the process of committing multiple felonies. He was totally at ease.

"You know, it fascinates me." He said, now standing inches from her, leaning down to smell her hair.

"What?" She cringed and pulled away.

"I've eaten your food before. I've also eaten at some of the finest restaurants in both Europe and America. Your sauces, in particular, are exquisite. I really mean that. Honestly, I would have taken this assignment for free." He blushed. "I really must know what's in the sauce.

"I'm sorry but the answer is still no. I just can't do --"

"Oak?"

"What?"

He was staring at one of the cabinets, a dazed expression on his face.

"The cabinet."

"Ahh, yes."

"Very nice. You have a lovely home."

"Thank you." It was all she could manage. That and a forced a grin.

"What is the secret ingredient, whore?" He asked, seemingly unfazed by her flattery.

Her body repelled, as if for one brief second words were bullets, and whore was a 50 calibre. If it weren't for the washing machine directly behind her, Maria Petrinelli would have likely cracked her head open on the linoleum.

Reinhardt stood above her. He held the same cold visage as earlier.

"The ingredient?" He said, extending his hand.

After several seconds of silence, she took his hand and lifted herself up off the floor.

"I'll never tell," She sung.

"Fine. I give up." He sighed, held his head down and headed for the door.

Her eyebrow raised and she started to move, but seemed frozen in her tracks. She couldn't figure out if she should run out the side door, and leave through the alley, or just stay there and wait for Reinhardt to leave.

About halfway to the door, he spun around. Within a blink of an eye, Reinhardt dashed across the room, closing the 10 feet distance between the two of them. He slammed the gun butt into her temple and she fell to the floor. Rubbing her temple, and experiencing an awful mix of shock and confusion, she stared up at him.


"You bastard," She said, gasping and holding her chest. He slammed the butt down again, this time causing a stream of blood to come gushing from the chasm he'd created on the top of her head. She looked up at her assailant through a stream of blood and tears that now covered her face.

"I really had you going, didn't I?"

She stared up at him angrily.

"Talk bitch! Where is it?!"

"Please st--"

He slammed his foot into her abdomen. Her body jarred and she held back the desire to vomit, fighting not to reveal any signs of weakness.

"Okay, okay, it's down the hall in the red room." She whimpered.

"Red room?" Reinhardt said, leaning down and eyeing her suspiciously.

"The red door," She pointed down the hall. "The only red door in the hallway. It's the last door on the right."

Reinhardt leaned down even lower, pushed the gun against her temple, and met her eye-to-eye. "If this is a lie," he pulled back the hammer, as if to emphasize what he might say next. "This will have seemed like a day in the park, whore." He winked. "Be right back."


Reinhardt inched his way towards the red door, moving slowly with heavy feet. He looked remarkably at ease, his face and hollow eyes showed no signs of anxiety or fear about what he was about to do. Without hesitating, he pushed the door smoothly open, revealing a darkened room, empty save for a cat perched on an arm chair. The cat licked its lips, eyeing inquisitively the stranger that had stepped into his world.

"What the fuck is going on woman?" He shouted towards the kitchen. "Nothing in here but a pussy cat."

There was no response. Reinhardt turned his attention back to the room and the cat.

"Is that your secret ingredient, whore?" He said, staring directly at the cat. "I thought felines were reserved for oriental dishes." He said, still watching the cat with a childlike wonder.

The cat held its gaze, staring him directly in the eyes. Most animals aren't fond of direct eye contact with humans; they'll usually back down. Reinhardt knew this. Majoring in animal husbandry in college, he was all too familiar with the psychology of beasts, and had even taught an evening class on methods for seducing gorillas.

He finally turned his head, forfeiting the staring contest with the house-cat. He began to search the room with his eyes. Decorated in a post-modern style, complete with pink lace curtains and a Mcfly bread-spread, it looked like any other bedroom in your ordinary American household.

He wasn't worried a bit. After all, he was an expert in finding things that were meant to be lost -- that was his job. He pulled all the drawers out of the dresser, all of the cheap, Van Gough copies off the wall, and even pulled up part of the rug. It had been nearly a half an hour, and he was frustrated, tired, and looked like an absolute mess. His slick, gelled-back hair was completely out of sorts, and his calm exterior had been replaced by a look of frenzy and agitation.

"I'll find it woman!" He cocked his head to the side, as if trying to hear if she were speaking back. He heard a strange giggling sound, and turned his head, instinctively, to the right. It was the cat. Somehow, it managed to laugh.

That's crazy, he thought, cat's can't laugh, you fool.

He stared at the cat, who was still in the exact same spot as when he entered the room, squinting his eyes.

"You think that's funny, pussy?" He said, staring directly at the cat.


"Whry, yres, rye dro! Ree-hee-hee!" The cat seemed to respond. Still not quite sure of what he was hearing, Reinhardt scanned the room for some alternative explanation. A microphone? A hidden person? He had, after all, been tricked before. In his business, all manner of psychological warfare was used. He wouldn't past, even a innocent looking house-wife, to employ such methods.

"Herro broyy, rim trakrin tro yrou!" The voice seemed to say again. His head darted all around the room, a desperate attempt to find the source of this peculiar voice.

"Yrou ristening, ridiot?" This time he was staring directly at the cat. He saw its lips move in unison with the impaired speech.

"Oh my god!" He said, barely audible in a horse, faint whisper.

"Grod?" The cat said, and stood on its hind legs. "Hrardlry!"

The cat leaped directly at him, and with a mix of top-notch reflexes and the experiences of over thirty years as a hardened killer, Reinhardt raised his gun and fired three shots. The cat flew back against the wall, slowly sliding down, stuck to the wall with a mess of blood and gore.

Reinhardt stood there, for several minutes, seemingly awe-struck and perplexed with what just happened. In his years as a professional hit-man, Reinhardt had experienced a lot. He'd shot old ladies out of a cannon, coldly slit the throat of a toddler whilst the mother looked on, and even one time, fucked a gorilla. But nothing he had experienced in the past could have prepare him for this. A talking cat. Was it really possible?

After several minutes of staring at the talking cat's carcass, he turned around and walked back to the kitchen.

"What kind of witchcraft are you pulling, whore?" He said, staring at Maria, who was still tied up and lying on the floor.

She stared back, directly in his eyes and began to laugh hysterically.

"You fool," She winked "My ancestors created that cat, from ancient spells and the blood of toddlers."

"Speak sense, whore," He slammed the butt of the gun into her head.

"You're going to die."

"From what?" His head flew back, and he burst into a laugh so loud it'd crack a dick. "I killed your fucking cat. And next I'm gonna fucking kill you. Unless you have any other tricks up your sleeve? A dog that throws its voice maybe?"

"What?" He screamed, his, normally, cool façade, obviously broken down. "What?!?!?"

Reinhardt turned slowly, weary that the woman may be pulling some kind of trick on him. She was bound tightly by the wrists and legs, but the way things were going tonight Reinhardt wasn't even sure that would guarantee she couldn't escape.

Suddenly he jolted. Taking a step backwards, he couldn't quite believe what his eyes were seeing. The cat was not only alive. But it sat, directly behind him, on the chequered linoleum, ears back, fur standing straight on end, ready to attack. And, if that wasn't strange enough, it showed no signs of the bullet wounds from earlier.

"How many cats do you have, woman?" He pleaded, not risking turning his back on hellish carnation, masquerading as a kitty-cat.

The woman merely cackled evilly from behind him. His mind was overcome with a diabolical image – the beautiful woman he had been looking at before replaced with the wretched figure of a witch; foul, ugly and wart-ridden. Suddenly, he was forced to snap out of his reverie.


“Whry dridnt yrou knrow??” The cat began with satanic glee. “Rall crats hrave nrine rives! Reeheeeheeee!”


“This is a trick! An illusion!” He bellowed back, not sure if he was answering the cat or merely trying to reassure himself; to regain control of a situation that was rapidly

Ron thre contrary mry friend...thris is realitry” Before he had time to interpret this cryptic comment the cat launched itself off its hind legs and flew through the air towards him, with enough force to land claws-first on Reinhardt's face. It sank its rotten teeth directly into Reinhardt's eyes with deadly accuracy. The intense pain made Reinhardt flail his arms with rage; trying in vain to make contact and detatch this foul beast from him. But the cat's claws and teeth merely sunk deeper, sending jolts of pain through Reinhardt's face and neck. He stumbled back and fell awkwardly to the floor. Now he lay on his back, sprawled uncomfortably on the blood-soaked linoleum. He tried once more to force the cat's body off of him, but the more he pulled on its tail or hind legs the more it resisted and the more his flesh was ripped to shreds. Slowly, the pain became too much, and everything went black.

Reinhardt slowly began to regain consciousness. His eyes opened and fluttered, trying to adjust to the light. The cat was directly on top of him now, and it was tearing open his pants.

"What the hell is going on?!?" He tried to scream, but all that came out was a hoarse whistling sound.

He started to get up, but the cat forced him back down to the floor with one paw. It felt like a thousand pounds of pressure pushing down on his shoulder. The cat seemed to be eyeing him suspiciously, checking that the desired effect was taking place. Reinhardt knew he was losing his strength, but exactly why, he couldn't say.


The cat, still staring down at Reinhardt, lifted his right paw and extended a single, long and sharp claw. Pointing it up in the air, it smiled at him.


"You are so beautiful," Reinhardt smiled.

The cat moved his claw at warp-speed, in a circular motion, across the crotch of his pants, and then lifted up the round patch of fabric, tossing it aside to the floor, and exposing Reinhardt's massive, uncut penis. "Cramrandro hruh?" The cat laughed hysterically. "Prrerfrect!"

"Oh fuck yes!" Reinhardt screamed.

"Arirse," The cat said, and seemed to will Reinhardt's penis to a state of full erection without laying a paw on it. It lowered its head to his crotch and ran Its sand-papery tongue against Reinhardt's shaft. Each lick rewarded with sighs of ecstasy from Reinhardt, who was now looking very odd: His skin had taken on a sickly, gray color, and his hair seemed to be getting thinner by the second. The cat raised its head above Reinhardt's bulging erection, and opened his mouth revealing dozens of decayed and slimy fangs. With one smooth motion, it lowered its head and engulfed the whole of Reinhardt's manhood.

The look of joy on Reinhardt's face was replaced with a nightmarish mixture: confusion, panic, grief. "What's happening to me?!?"

He held a hand up and stared at it. His skin wasn't skin any more. Instead, it was a gray slime oozing off his bones. He reached for the cat, and Maria--now standing directly above him, watching this all with a shit-eating grin on her face-slapped his hand away with her wooden spoon. The flesh from his hand flew off and onto the wall. He screamed. He screamed so loud that it was heard for blocks, and in doing all the skin fell off his face. Worse yet, he was still alive. His eyes were darting back and forth, inside his naked skull, from Maria to the Cat. Maria knelt down next to him, and scooped up some of the small remainder of melted flesh on his left cheek-bone. "Mmmmmmmmmmm! Delicious!" She said, licking it off her finger.

With his last fading breath, it dawned on him. The secret ingredient.