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concerned the caverns beneath the town filled with the
industry of cannibals. They were busily sectioning hundreds
of preserved corpses into isolated and type-specific parts,
which they proceeded to package in a variety of ways,
ranging from the ornate to the industrial. Finally, and
perhaps most interestingly, the flesh eaters passed their
bundles into the hands of strange beings apparently called
up from the very guts of the earth. It seemed the cannibals
had transformed their rancid hunger into trade, distributing
human meats to creatures hidden away beneath the ground. I
was immediately curious as to the specific remuneration such
inhuman things might use to compensate the cannibals—
besides human flesh, what could such creatures want? Of
course, my principal curiosity regarded the flesh trade’s
relationship with Miss Patience. She seemed a considerably
less purposeful creature than was suggested by all the
frenetic and subterranean commerce.
Another discovery concerned my dreams, or lack thereof.
Strangely, my many attempts to conjure them from sleep
had failed. Each effort summoned only the stinging absence
of memories, of this or any other world. I began to interpret
the void as a possible indicator of my quarry’s proximity, as
no further nocturnal hints were needed to bring the two of us
together. If my theory was correct, she was certainly nearby,
likely abiding in the darkness living beneath the city.
As for my latest piece of art, it had been hoisted upon a
large flatbed truck and taken to an open field just outside
the city limit, where it was left to float amidst the golden
breakers of rolling, unkempt grain. I’m certain it was placed
there to lure me into some kind of trap, which of course did
more to cement my low opinion of the creatures’ intellect
rather than stimulate my curiosity. Naturally, I decided
to reprimand the beings for assuming me so foolish, and
ultimately to avenge my fallen tears—they had been wasted
on creatures barely worth the flies that played at their slack,
stinking mouths. Still, there was something behind the soft,
118 | Mark Anzalone