Woody Johnson's meat

“Damn bleeding hearts!” Woody was furious. Well, furious was probably an understatement. He had almost been killed, or at least very nearly been maimed, and for a man that couldn't even handle the inconvenience of buying his own coffee, the thought that he could have been subjected to a life of disfigurement, death, or the worse outcome: an early retirement, filled him with the kind of rage that he could feel all the way under his fingernails.

“Of course sir! We’ll call the police but-” The security officer that currently had his knee on the neck of Woody's attempted assailant began.

“-He’s lucky we don’t call the morgue!-” Woody yelled, walking hurriedly towards his car, the anger he felt slowly being eclipsed by the only thing that mattered to him more than money.

The security officer grunted as he lifted himself and the potential assailant off of the parking lot ground.

“Wait! Sir, you may need to stay to give a report!” The officer yelled at Woody as he watched him open his car door.

“I’m not going to be late to my daughter's birthday because of some ecoterrorist! Give a report on my behalf and make sure that bastard rots!” Woody slammed the door to his 2036 Buggati Rhamnousia, physically blocking out the officer’s objections, and quickly pulled off.

He tried to calm down, realizing he was gripping his steering wheel so tightly the ridges and curves of his fingerprints were leaving impressions in the top of the line, ergonomic, memory-leather steering wheel.

“Call ‘Love of my life.’” He unclenched his jaw, relaxed his shoulders, and exhaled in a deep sigh, hoping he could steady his breathing enough that his wife didn’t notice his irritation.

“Yes sir, Calling sir.” The car confirmed before quickly transitioning to his wife’s ringtone.

*Click*

“Oh thank god honey, I expected you to be talking to the cops still! I already told Daisy you might not be here for a while, she was sad but she’s just glad you’re ok.” As upsetting as his day had been, he felt the vexation slipping from him at the sound of Angela’s voice.

“Ah- Who told you?” Woody felt the slightest bit of annoyance creep back into him; his attempts to be discrete already foiled. He hated how fast news traveled in this day and age.

“Oh, Jenny from the front desk. She called and told me what happened as soon as the cops showed up! Are you ok honey? How long are they going to need to hold you?” Woody made a mental note to have a talk with Jenny about confidentiality.

“I’m fine honey really, just some African thug trying to take a shot at the big boss.” Woody felt a smile form on his face as he realized he could still turn this around. “The police said I might be here for another 2 hours, just wait up a little, I’ll be home as soon as I’m done filling my report.”

“Well, I’m sure the guest will understand. What did he want? What could make a man do something as terrible as dumping acid on a person?” Angela whispered the last sentence, presumably to prevent any of the children that may have been near from being frightened.

Woody reflected on his company’s, “Woody Johnson’s Meats,” most recent, and most profitable, business venture. Woody Johnson’s Meats, or ”WJ Meats” for short, had just acquired over 12 million acres of land in West Africa for pennies on the dollar. The land acquisition wasn’t even the most lucrative part of the deal though: his company would appropriate over 17 million cattle over the next 3 month, and was, in fact, already in the process of butchering a shipment of bulls that had been sailed over earlier in the week. Not only would this make Wj Meats rival any American beef producer, the wild cattle that had been discovered deep in the heart of a previously unexplored area of dense African forest, had muscle and fat compositions that were sure to produce amazing steaks and roasts. Just the thought of the money John would’ve missed out on, had his would-be-assassin succeeded, nearly redoubled his anger.

“Something about the land being the resting grounds for his ancestors and a curse, the same tribal bullshit all these socalist try to claim. They hate seeing a man make money unless it’s a handout!” The audible stretching of the leather steering wheel reminded Woody to calm down. He steadied his voice then continued. “But they didn’t get me today. Speaking of, did those steaks get there?”

“Oh yes! One hundred t-bone steaks for our one hundred guests! They were set to be done in a few minutes actually, but we’ll hold off until you get here hon-.”

“-Is that Daddy!” His daughter’s voice blasted over the car’s speakers. “Let me talk to Daddy!” John almost chuckled thinking about how pleasantly surprised his two favorite girls would be when he got home early.

“Well that’s the sign that our conversation has gone on for too long. Don’t worry about me though, you guys start eating, I don’t want anyone going hungry and I know the place must smell amazing, plus that chef is hourly and I don’t need her lingering around. Tell Daisy I love her.”

“Your father loves you sweetheart!” She said loudly away from the phone. She continued in a whisper, “and when you get here I have a surprise for your ‘steaks’ too mister.”

*Click*

Woody’s smile was beaming as he merged onto the highway towards his two million dollar estate. In spite of the incident in his company’s parking lot, he was going to keep having a good day.

He arrived at his home no more than an hour later. He admired his car’s completely nuclear powered soundless engine, being grateful for the ease at which he could stealthily pull into his driveway. He stepped out of his car silently, then proceeded to carefully reach back into the vehicle, quietly grabbing the large beautifully wrapped gift from the passenger seat. He approached his house like a cat, staying alert, ready to duck if he saw movement in any of the manor’s numerous windows, until he found himself at his front door. He pondered how quiet it was while his door scanned his retinas. He had expected to be able to hear festivities, music, talking, the clinking of forks and knives coming from inside, but the numerous cars going down his family's half-mile driveway was the only indicator that there were other people on his property.

The door clicked open, he grabbed the handle before it could creak, peeking his head into the foyer before cautiously slipping inside, removing his shoes, and sneaking towards the dining room. The aroma of seasonings and cooked meat got stronger as he walked down the hallway that led to his kitchen and dinette, but there was another smell hitting his nose that he couldn’t quite grasp. Had Woody turned around he would’ve seen a large figure skulking through his house.

Iron? Rust? What is that? He thought to himself before springing into the large doorway of the dining room.

“Surpris-Oh!” He tried to brace himself as he slipped on something wet on the tile of the dining room floor. It was blood.

Woody stumbled, dropping the gift as he stopped his fall with his hands. He shut his eyes tightly but the image that he saw felt like it had been tattooed on his irises. There was blood everywhere. Patches of skin, tufts of hair, and bone fragments sat on top of crimson tide that pooled in his dining room. He tried his hardest not to vomit as his nose was assaulted with the smell of death, and not the processed, pungent, refined death he was used to being around, this was human death. His stomach, which had been rumbling in anticipation just moments ago, was beginning to cramp as he started to panic. He tried to stand up and nearly fell again, sobbing as his heel squished into something that he knew wasn't ground beef.

“D-daisy?” He stuttered, he tried to say more, to call out for his friends and family but he could hardly stay conscious, much less coherent.

He tossed his arm across his face and backed out into the hallway in despair. He slipped a third time, staggering backward until he felt the cold textured hallway walls on his back. He slid down the wall, coming to rest in a heap on the floor as he succumbed to his anxiety attack. He tried to catch his breath, to ground himself, to be present in any way, but his mind was completely overwhelmed.

Crick. He was so utterly distracted by his own collapsing mentality that he barely heard the faint cracking and crunching of breaking tile that was coming from the far end of the hallway. Crick… Chink. Woody inhaled quickly, holding his breath as he shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He quickly turned his head towards the sound. A few summers ago his mother-in-law had complained that his house was too big. She had scoffed at the idea of a three person family living in a 11 person home. He had nearly agreed with her, willingly admitting the house was more of a vanity purchase than one of necessity, but at this moment, as he stared at the monstrosity 300 yards down from him, he doubted he had ever made a wiser decision in his life.

He was paralyzed with fear, unable to move as the monster down the hallway made a couple of motions forward. Click Crack. The end of the monster's front limbs were bony and heavy and sunk into the tile, crushing it under the weight of its massive body. The creature was unbelievable, truly, it’s physiology, while familiar, defied reason. It was huge, almost as wide as the hallway was, and easily 3ft taller than Woody’s own impressive 6ft frame. It had large, pronounced shoulders that lead into muscular front legs, ending in hard hooved feet. He could see that it also had a pair of hooved back legs as the beast reared back slightly and bellowed, shaking it’s head from side to side. It had a face like the devil, complete with a pair of horns. No, not the devil. Woody thought to himself. A bull. The gargantuan bull exhaled loudly, blood misting from its fist-sized nostrils as it stomped its front legs and lowered it’s head. It was preparing to charge.

Woody looked around for anything he could use, not knowing if he planned on trying to fight the bull or distract it. The bull began to charge, running with such lumbering force that it casually tore through the sections of the hallway wall it would inadvertently slam into as it ran. Woody knew he wouldn’t stand a chance facing off against the monster. He also knew he had less than 10 seconds to come up with a plan. The kitchen! The door frame was steel, and, more important, was only about 3 feet wide, much too small for him to be followed into. He willed his body to stop shaking as he scurried across the hallway floor, scrambling on his hands and knees towards his sanctuary.

His eyes widened as the bones of his sternum separated. He felt his heart get pushed to the side and his lung get punctured as a jagged horn pierced his chest. The bull's momentum caused them to slam into the end of the hallway. He coughed up blood as the bull raised its head, lifting his body up with it. As the last bit of his consciousness faded from him, he wondered if the blood loss might be causing him to hallucinate. He reached out, weakly touching the bull to confirm his suspicion: the surface of it’s entire body, save for it’s rigid, dense horns, was made of t-bone steaks.