Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar -

“Gene,” Pat said, his voice a gravelly whisper. “You want a taste?”

“Pat,” Gene said, stepping over a puddle of bourbon. “The health inspector sends his regards. And the ASPCA.” Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar

Tonight was the Rar's anniversary. Ten years since Pat, in a drunken, grief-stricken fugue after his cat ran away, had invented it. The crowd that packed the sticky floor wasn't here for the jazz. They were here for the sacrament. “Gene,” Pat said, his voice a gravelly whisper

This was the ritual.

The crunch was louder than a gunshot. For a second, Gene’s eyes went wide. His knees buckled. A single tear—of joy, of regret, of pure, unadulterated pork—rolled down his cheek. And the ASPCA

Pat didn’t stop playing. His solo turned vicious, angry.

“Eat,” Pat commanded, pulling the bacon from his sax and handing it to a trembling busboy. “Taste the sorrow. Taste the salt.”