You arrived on a cold day. Duvet warmth is cheap, so you went to bed and stayed there until the Boys came.
They’d heard the rumours. Eight month dry-aged small-town meat was available, locally caught.
They built a fire using your eviction notices and your unpaid bills. Made a hammock out of your bed sheet, with you in it. Erected a spit. Cooked you, slowly, until a smoke ring penetrated your small-town flesh.
They served your limbs and belly with mac & cheese and collard greens on the side. Diced up your innards for burritos. Boiled down your bones for broth.
Over beers and eats, they had a brain wave. Boy Broth Enterprises. They started a pop-up restaurant in your bedroom. Franchised the brand across the bedrooms of other small-town peeps in the city. Had queues out the doors, into the streets so the City Boys got wind of it and came in their droves. Booked the whole place for lunch every Friday afternoon, to celebrate the latest trades. Got blind drunk and pissed all over your toilet seat. Didn’t wash their hands. Slurped Boy Broth Ramen until your truffle-infused particles got caked onto their Armani shirts.
Every week, they’d stumble out of your place, into the chilly big city night, hailing taxis to take them for cocktails.
Their laughs and howls would blend with the sound of sirens. Their breath, warmed by your small-town marrow, rose high above the big city skyline – the one you never got to see by night.
Neil Clark is a writer from Edinburgh, Scotland. His work has is published or forthcoming in The Molotov Cocktail, Okay Donkey, Philosophical Idiot, The Open Pen, Occulum Journal and other cool places. Most days, he posts very short stories on Twitter @NeilRClark. Say ‘hi’ to him there, or visit neilclarkwrites.wordpress.com.