Soul Mates: Higher learning through Cannibalism by Hatchell Dane

Author:Hatchell, Dane [Hatchell, Dane]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-11-10T16:00:00+00:00

It wasn’t difficult to break into Chef Barque’s tiny office. All he had to do was work a credit card under the tang of the lock. The spring popped, and he was in. He rummaged through the desk drawers and filing cabinets until he hit pay dirt. Chef Barque lived at 2418 Chartres Street, in the Faubourg Marigny district of the French Quarter.

Haley gathered a variety of utensils and supplies from the kitchen and placed them in a large trash bag. He left the hotel and got into his car. The first stop was at a convenience store for an energy drink, some ice, and a case of beer. Then down the street to his house, where he removed his license plate, and retrieved his ice chest from the garden shed.

Fifteen minutes later he parked his car in front of Chef Barque’s quaint little one story house. The property lines were narrow. The houses set close enough that it might have been possible to jump from rooftop to rooftop. Even though Barque’s house was small it would have sold for ten times more than Haley’s. Location, location, location.

It was 3 a.m. on a Monday morning. He hoped everyone was asleep. Haley slipped on a knit cap and pulled it down just above his eyes and as far over his ears as it would cover.

He eased out of his car, gently pushing the door to, and made a causal stroll around the area. The streets were empty and the neighborhood quiet. The brightest light came from a billboard over a half block away. A few porch lights were on. The lights dulled by an accumulation of dead bugs seeking salvation in the night.

Convinced that it was now or never, Haley softly stepped to Barque’s door and gave it an authoritative rap. He waited and knocked again while peering into the peephole. On his fourth round of knocks the light came on in the room.

“Go away! I call police!”

“Sir, I am the police,” Haley lied, masking his voice.

“I don’t call police. You go away.”

“Sir, we have a report that you are holding someone hostage. We need to come inside and talk to you.”

“No one else here. You go away,” Barque demanded.

“Just let us come in and talk to you for a minute. If everything’s cool, we’ll be along our way.”

“Step in front of peephole so I see you.”

“We are in front of the peephole. Now, let us in.” Haley had his thumb covering the small one way window.

“Damn humidity,” Barque huffed.

The deadbolt rattled and the door swung open in a jerk. Barque was face to face with a grinning Haley Deucett.

‘Piss man?’ was the last two words Barque ever spoke. Haley raised a sixteen ounce meat tenderizing hammer and crashed it down between Barque’s beady, dark eyes. The chef dropped like a ton of bricks to the floor without even a whimper.

The kill went a lot easier than Haley imagined. He was glad he didn’t have to use the large kitchen knife he had shoved between his belt and pants.

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