The Butcher’s Block

March 26, 2013 § Leave a comment

Tethered to the drunken, old man, the checkered, worn wooden block, slightly sunken in from perpetual use waits in aggravated anticipation, reeling him in every morning through the snow covered hills west of the Rockies, singing the same shrill tune that makes even his blades quiver as he endures yet another never ending saturated battle, slicing, drinking, sweating, slicing, drinking, until finally, at night fall, after the two have had their fill, retire soundly into the dreams of those, belly full and plumped but tethered and waiting for the shrill sound of their own.

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