The ideal specimen is not the same for each individual. Some men prefer their victims small and dainty, while others strive for the larger and more voluptuous ones--they call it a challenge. However, despite their differences, no man can escape the allure of going after a naive, unsuspecting victim. There is nothing quite like the muffled and heavy breathing that dragging one’s target into the back of a well-prepared car induces.
For the novice, excitement will bubble over, and he won’t help cracking a smile. There will never be a time like your first carving. In the back of the car, the body rolls around with a heavy thud at every turn--a reminder of the deed soon ahead.
The car rolls to a stop in front of the house. The neighborhood is quiet. The path leading to the door is illuminated by nothing more than the light of the moon. The butcher opens the car door with fervor, but not before peering behind his seat to ensure the fruit of his labor is intact. He breathes out, rubbing his hands together to combat the cold. Slowly, approaching the second door, he licks his chapped lips and opens it. The figure lay sprawled in the backseat, no movement to indicate anything other than defeat. He smiles and gentle caresses its smooth, cold flesh before he grasps it by its sides and lifts.
Inside, he retrieves his tools he bought especially for this occasion and gloves. He had always found the body’s natural fluids to be noticeably disturbing.
The body lay as it had before he left. He smiles and begins to to kneel next to the fallen figure. The cold steel of the blade burned in his hand and he itched to pierce his victim’s flesh. Instead, he calmly drew a marker, drawing on the body all point of entry. While it was his first, he still had to ensure perfection.
Drawing in a deep breath, he stabbed the victim’s throat and watched as its wrecked body bubbled over with its own blood and fluids. The smell was as rancid as he remembered and he quickly blocked the smell from its perversion of his senses.
The first cut was the hardest and he found himself struggling to cut through the body. With an irritated whimper, he forced the knife through, breaking the carcass’s flesh as the knife slipped from his hand. Pulling the knife out, he quickly seized the body by the gaping hole of its neck and reached in, grasping the organs and guts that reside within.
With each handful placed into a bowl, he couldn’t help but smile at the thought of his children delighting over his creation. The guts stained his clothing with its warm color contrasting against the cold autumnal air.
Wiping off the sweat on his brow, he began the painstaking final process.
The marker lie by his side, its open tip a stark reminder of his job. Picking the instrument up, he began with mapping his creation out, something he had been designing for months now. Taking the scalpel, he took the first plunge with the greatest care. The skin was very sensitive to pressure. He carefully sliced at the flesh, stopping every so often to inspect his work.
The cold and his nervousness caused his hands to shake too much, ruining his straight and crisp lines. He frowned at the haggard, splintering lines on the pristine flesh, but continued. He worked until the sun rose, priding himself on his commitment. As he heard the familiar stampede of his children down the stairs, he hurriedly wiped his hands on his dirty denim jeans. He looked down at the orange mess and regretted not finishing earlier to clean up the gore surrounding him.
His children excitedly looked for their father and seeing the glimpse of him outside, rushed out to join him. As they saw the scene before them, they all stopped and stared. As the cold air blew away traces of the slaughter, the children beamed at their father and ran up to him, assuring him of his victory.
Seeing the smiles of his children, he finally realized that there was nothing quite like your first pumpkin carving.