Stories (2011) (94 page)

Also, the hearts (remember browns have two hearts instead of
one like green dragons, and like both kinds of dragons, they are large and
eight chambered) and the fatty livers are delicacies and require a different
approach to preparation than I am going to provide here, and some people
suggest that for them to be enjoyed one has to persevere, as they are something
of an acquired taste.

For chili, we are going to consider the head meat and the
tail meat. I prefer the tail meat, as I like my chili meat to be sliced and
then chopped, as opposed to ground. And once again, the white meat of a dragon
tail is so vastly superior to the darker meat of the head.

It is also necessary to prepare the dragon alive. Dragons,
the moment they die, begin to go bad. This is true of all meat, but with the
dragon it is a much faster process than with any other meat known. Within a few
hours, unless cooked, the meat becomes foul.

If the meat is cut from the dragon quickly, and deep fried,
or in the case of other kinds of recipes, boiled or baked, etc., for whatever
reason, the meat ceases to spoil and retains its sweetness, and will keep
permanently, though other ingredients in your recipe can go bad and make the
meat inedible.

The way to prepare the meat is to, well, catch the dragon,
of course. You should do this with a net. They can often be found shortly after
birth when the mother dragon is away, searching out cattle or other foods it
digests and then regurgitates into the baby dragons’ mouths. At this early age,
if you watch and make sure the mother is away, the dragons are fairly harmless
and the net is the best way to capture them. The net should be of strong wire.
The dragon’s ability to breathe fire does not kick in until the creature
reaches the age of a year or so, but even at an early age their tail can thrash
violently and they have more than a passing semblance to adult claws. Even the
beating of their little wings can cut you like a knife.

When the dragon has been captured, it is desirable to calm
it for a couple of days. After a day or two of calming the dragon down, it
should be placed on a diet of fresh milk and soft vegetables for about a week.
Then it can be stroked. Once its confidence is gained, it should be removed
gently from the holding pen. Do not excite the dragon, as its claws and tail
and wings could be dangerous. I know I have mentioned this, and I don’t mean to
overemphasize it, but it is an important thing to consider.

Keep the beast calm. This isn’t hard to do as the dragon is
by nature trusting. The best way to prepare the dragon is to lay it length-wise
on a sturdy board as wide and as long as the dragon. A neat trick to help with
the preparation is to coat the board with vegetable oil. Dragons will be
attracted to this and will begin to lick it. Very carefully place a long spike
at the back of the dragon’s head, where the neck joins, and with a well timed
and well placed strike with a hammer, drive the nail through the dragon’s spine
and into the board.

It is advisable to slip a rope over the tail of the dragon
before this strike, and to gently pull it taut while it is preoccupied with
licking the board. The strike, if properly performed, should sever the dragon’s
spine, and its ability to thrash its tail. The sounds it makes will be
excruciating, and it will be tempting to put the dragon out of its misery
quickly, but this will ruin the meat.

The thing to do is to whack off the tail at the base, saving
that bit of meat from contamination should your nail be slightly off the spine.
The head meat does not contaminate as long as the animal is alive, so it is
best to use a sharp and sturdy blade and pliers to slowly strip the skin from
the head before cutting into the bone with an electric bone saw, and then into
the brain. I should also add that wiring the wings together carefully before
binding the tail gently and striking the dragon with the nail or spike is
advisable. As I said, the wings can be as dangerous as the teeth or the tail.

But, I was saying about the stripping of the meat. Only at
this point, should the animal be allowed to die. They are sturdy and can
withstand having their skin removed. You can just let them bleed out, or you
can finish them with a few strokes of your mallet. I find wielding a mallet a
messy endeavor, and generally just let them bleed and die.

Let us return our attentions to the recipe. We now have the
tail, and the head meat. It is suggested that if dragons are not available,
that the meat of small children is equally satisfying and tasty, and they are
much easier to handle. With the large number of children being born, due to
restrictions in the laws, and those that are being placed in orphanages, this
is a perfect way to take care of them, and there are some butcher shops that
specialize in children already butchered and prepared, though this is not as
true of the dragon. Children are perfect substitutes for many dishes, and they
can suffice to duplicate, or at least take the place of, anything from pork to
chicken to beef to fish or dragon. It depends on the parts of the children you
use. It all begins to taste a bit like beef or pork if the child becomes too
old, so keep that in mind. And of course when they are adults they are free to
make their own choices. Eating adults is definitely out, as anyone in their
right minds should know.

Children as meat have become quite popular, and frankly, it
is a way the population can be lowered without it being an unnecessary death,
or some form of stem cell usage which goes against the laws of God and man.
Food is not a waste, and I say here, and without fear, we are all creatures of
God, and God believes we are the rulers of the earth, and though all life is
precious, and all babies should be preserved, it is obviously okay for them, up
until that certain age, to be eaten, as this activity, nourishing one’s self,
is in God’s plan.

Abortion clinics of the past gave women a choice, but there
should be no choice. All life is sacred and should be preserved until that
moment that it becomes meat, or it becomes an adult. No babies of dragons or of
human persuasion were killed in the womb for any dish I have ever prepared, and
I am proud of that. I use only fresh out-of-the-womb meat that no one wants, or
has abused, or taken a limb from.

I stress this because there are underground recipes that
make use of aborted embryos, and this is a foul blow against God, and I would
not want to be thought one of their ilk.

Forgive me my distraction, but since this cookbook is
designed for the church, I suppose its dictates and concerns were on my mind.
Hail to him that is love. Hail to God who knows all and loves all and wants us
to protect the defenseless children.

And remember, dragon chili, with the occasional substitute,
is one of the finest and tastiest meals that one can digest, for it, like the
child, comes from the egg of a female and the seed of male, and none of it has
been spilled and none of it has been violated in the womb. It is all meat,
fresh and clean and unwanted and unloved, except prepared in the manner that I
have suggested, adding plenty of black pepper and a smidgen of salt and lots of
chili pepper to taste.

Cook on.

Brother Canefield: Chef for the Church of ReligiousUnion and
Harmony and The Home of The One True God and his Minions.

I

The scarred face, bulky body, gnarled knuckles and
go-to-hell look seemed out of place with the green-and-yellow plain sports
coat, lavender slacks, white shoes and blue-and-grey striped tie the man was
wearing.

He closed the door of his shiny, black Lincoln, put a nickel
in the meter, and made his way up the hot mid-day sidewalk to a little bar with
a sign overhead that read The Idle Hour Lounge.

It was cool dark inside, just right for groping couples. Not
many couples were there to grope at the moment, however. Just one old man who
should have been with his wife and TV set, was putting the clutch on the plump
thigh of a bleached blonde working girl about twenty years past her prime. Her
plastic giggles were shrill enough to shatter a beer mug.

A couple of not-so-young, executive types with loose ties
and tired eyes were sitting alone at booths looking as if they might break down
and cry in their beer at any moment. A pot-bellied patron in a green leisure
suit with more quarters than good sense or musical taste was keeping the
jukebox in business.

The bartender, a young blond man in a red-and-white
pinstripe shirt with black elbow garters and a matching bow tie, was leaning
over the bar with a rag dangling from his right hand and a look as distant as
the Sahara in his eyes.

In the rear booth, Raymond Slater, private detective, was
passing an idle hour with a lukewarm beer and a cigarette. It was almost time
for the evening stampede and elbow war, coupled with the seemingly endless
coinage of the music lover, and Slater decided to break his routine a little
early. He was finishing up his beer when the big man in the expensively
mismatched outfit came in.

Slater wasn't the only one who noticed him. The ill-clad
bruiser pushed his six-three, 240 pounds up to the bar and called for a beer.
His voice sounded as if it had been fished from the bottom of a deep barrel.

He was interesting enough for the old man and the hooker to
stop their play for a look. The two lonely executive types checked him out.
Even Music Lover lost a few foot-pats over it.

The bartender brought him a beer, snapped up the change, fed
the register and went back to his bar leaning. The old man and the hooker
returned to the business at hand. The sad boys returned to the bottom of their
glasses for comfort, and Music Lover clacked two more quarters.

Beer in hand, the man went directly to Slater's table and
sat down across from the detective.

The neon light was dim, but not so dim for Slater to get a
look at the man's features. They looked as if they had been chiseled out of a
coral reef. He had a flat nose, wadded ears and dark, liquid eyes that looked
eerie in the pulsating blue and white of the neon sign that blinked BEER.
Later, in better light, Slater would see that the man's close-cropped black
hair was peppered with grey.

"You Raymond Slater?" he asked.

"Uh-huh," Slater said cautiously,
"You're...?"

"Yank Callahan, Ray," the bottom of the barrel
voice said. "Call me Yank." He shoved a hand the size of a catcher's
mitt at Slater. They pumped. Slater thought it was like shaking hands with a
mechanic's vise.

"How do you know me?" Slater asked.

Yank drank the beer down almost in one glug, licked his
lips. "Burn down at the cop-shop told me this is where I'd most likely
find you this time of day. Gave me a good description. Said you looked like a
well dressed street fighter."

"Flattering!"

"You see, Slater, I checked with the cops in GulfCity
and here in Pasadena about advising me on a private dick. When I found out that
my buddy Burn worked for the Pasadena bunch, I asked his advice and quit
looking. We used to be pretty tight buddies, me and Burn. He told me this was a
Monday through Friday routine with you. Want a beer?"

Slater said that he did. Yank turned and yelled over the
wailing of the jukebox-no minor feat-at the bartender for two beers.

A skinny waitress who had just come on duty brought them
over with an exaggerated wiggle and a smile that would have looked more at home
in a beaver's mouth. Yank gave her a bill. She set the beers down, took his
empty glass and went away, the wiggle still at work.

Slater drank some beer, got out another cigarette, offered
Yank one. Yank declined.

Slater lit up.

"What exactly do you have in mind?" Slater asked.

"I need you to find someone, Slater. My trainer, Jason
Krim."

"Trainer?"

"Uh-huh. I'm a fight manager. Do a little promoting,
too. Maybe you've heard of my man. Anibal Martinez."

Indeed Slater had. Martinez had been a nothing until
recently. His surprise victory over the number-two contender for the crown had
jumped his ratings by more than a few notches, and since he was a Pasadena,
Texas, fighter, the papers had been chock full of it.

"I've heard of him," Slater said. "Seen him
fight on TV a couple of times. He's good. Probably got a good shot at the
championship."

Yank nodded. "Real good chance. Listen, Slater, Burn
told me you were the best private detective in Pasadena-Houston for that
matter."

"Burn told you that?"

"Sure did. But I don't imagine he wants you to know. He
doesn't like to let on he likes anybody."

"Doesn't do a bad job of it, either."

Yank laughed shortly. "That he don't." Then:
"About the job, Slater?"

"I'm listening."

"You see, I got my own gym. It ain't much, but I'm
proud of it. I used to fight some-hell, a lot. I didn't get this mug from
tennis. Wasn't ever a number-one contender or nothing, but I was pretty good. I
had the size and the strength, a little talent. I was good enough so that when
I retired from the ring I got some training jobs. Trained some pretty good
fighters. Remember Kit Miller, Miller the Killer? Ted Niven?"

Slater nodded. "I remember. They your boys?"

"Yep. I trained those pugs. Made some pretty good bread
on account of it. Bought this gym in GulfCity. It ain't much, but it's paid for
and I've lined up some pretty good local talent."

"One of them is Anibal Martinez."

"That's right. Anyway, I've done okay, and I got myself
one fine trainer, Jason Krim."

"And Krim's missing?"

"Almost a week now. The police haven't found a single
lead, least not anything that's helped."

"And you saw him last, when?"

"A week ago Tuesday."

"Krim ever do this before?"