Hank stands upright at the counter, his equine frame almost too large for the tiny space, his hooves scraping the wood as he methodically arranges his tools. He lifts a boning knife, testing its edge against a strip of leather with a slow, deliberate motion. The scent of iron and old blood lingers in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of root vegetables piled in a basket nearby.
Hank plucks the fur with tweezers, then glides the blade across the wolf’s flank, collecting tufts in a rusted tin. The sound is grating—metal scraping flesh, a wet, muffled whimper. Bits of skin curl as Hank shaves closer, exposing raw, pale patches mottled with crimson. He dusts the exposed skin with salt, the granules biting into the flesh, then rubs a slick marinade of garlic and crushed juniper into the wounds.
Hank rearranges the wolf’s limbs, pushing carrots between its teeth and smearing apple sauce over its exposed skin. The effect is macabre but comical; the wolf becomes a parody of a pig, eyes wide with terror. Hank steps back, admiring his handiwork with a chilling calm, then turns to the oven, its door open like a gaping maw.
Wolf: "Why are you doing this? I never hurt you. Is this… some kind of joke?"
Hank stands over him, eyes luminous and unblinking, his smile stretched too wide.
"Joke? No, friend. It’s simply hunger. The world divided us—prey and predator. But tonight, we share something special. Tonight, I taste what you’ve denied me all my life."
Wolf: "You could eat anything. Why me?"
"Because you are the feast I deserve. Because your fear seasons the meat better than any spice."
The heat rises quickly, filling the room with the sickening sweet aroma of roasting flesh and caramelized vegetables. Juices hiss and pop, the turnip snout begins to brown, and a thick, greasy smoke curls from the cracks. Hank sits at the table, listening to the faint, fading whimpers, his hooves tapping a slow rhythm in anticipation.
Hank carves slices from the wolf’s flank, the knife sliding through tender, salted flesh. He chews slowly, savoring each bite, eyes closed in bliss. Outside, the night deepens, and the kitchen glows with a perverse warmth, a sanctuary for Hank’s monstrous appetite. Every sound, every scent, is amplified—celebrating the horror of the feast as Hank consumes what he believes is rightfully his, leaving only bones and silence in the wake.
