Peeler
“Man is only man at the surface. Remove the skin, dissect, and immediately
you come to the machinery of God.” — Anonymous
Western New York, July 1994
“What the fuck ya doing, Baxter?”
Brian Mitchell, the head chef here at Ashbury Creek (if you could call this dump a kitchen, and this perpetually angry cook a chef) was screaming at Randy again. Mitchell was a big black slob of a man, about 6’2” and easily pushing 300 pounds, aiming for a coronary before his 50 th birthday the way he ranted and raved all day. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, as far as Randy Baxter was concerned.
Screw him!
This was just a shitty job to add to his resume so he could move on to bigger and better kitchens, and he was sick and tired of this fat bastard always breathing down his neck. He needed the paycheck and the experience though, and loud mouth or not, Chef Mitchell was a hell of a cook and could actually teach Randy a thing or two if he’d learn to just chill a little. After all, how good did the food really have to be? They were working in an asylum for the criminally insane for God’s sake.
“What’s wrong?” Randy asked. “It’s roast beef, mashed potatoes, and carrots. Same bloody plate I’ve been making for two hours now and I haven’t heard any complaints.”
It was 7:00 p.m. on Friday night and suppertime at Ashbury Creek Asylum was officially over, but there were always special order meals to be made for the men in the infirmary or the various bad boys on lock down in their cells.
Rooms,
Randy reminded himself.
Rooms… not cells.
This wasn’t a prison, but it was close enough, as far as he was concerned.
A prison filled with fuckin’ loonies!
“Wrong? Do ya know who dat supper’s for?”
“Sure. It’s for…” Randy glanced over at his menu chart, having absolutely no idea. “Theodore Dorsey in Badass -10. So what? What makes him so special?”
Badass –10 was actually room B-10, the “B” meaning Basement, but seeing as it was where they housed the most violent of patients, anything with a “B” designation was affectionately referred to as badass. Hey, if the shoe fit…
“Son of a bitch! Ya that stupid, Baxter, or jus pulling my leg? Worked here fer two weeks now and ya never heard of the Peeler?”
“Peeler? Nope. What’s his deal?”
“I’m not saying shit. Means nothin’ to either of us. All ya gotta know is ya can’t give Peeler knives and forks and shit.”
“But they’re only plastic crap. All the other inmates… I mean patients, get the exact same–”
“Well Peeler doesn’t, so get it into yer thick head. Hell, for six months we only made him protein and veggie shakes, the boss man had his jaws wired shut.”
A chill raced down Randy’s spine, a familiar shiver that made him wince and nearly had him reaching to check the old scars on his arms and belly again. They’d long since healed and he liked to think they’d faded away to unnoticeable, but at the moment they were throbbing hotly, getting itchy, and causing him to shake ever so slightly. Maybe it was just in his head. He ignored the cuts, swept all that old shit away and hoped Mitchell hadn’t noticed. Those pathetic days were long behind him and the last thing Randy wanted was a trip down memory lane.
“Umm… Couldn’t they just segregate him or something? I mean if he was trying to hurt people I’m sure they–”
“He was biting hisself, fool. No one else. Wired him so he no hurt hisself anymore, I guess. What do I know?”
“Seriously? Why would he do that?” Randy asked, more curious than he wanted to be, sweat starting to form on his forehead, but trying to appear casual.
“With a name like Peeler, yer guess is good as mine? All I know is he used to be a magician or some such shit. Now he jus crazy, like you and me and everyone else here in dis madhouse. Look… makes no matter, jus cut his food into little chunks and leave it at dat. Some things are best not known,
“Man is only man at the surface. Remove the skin, dissect, and immediately
you come to the machinery of God.” — Anonymous
Western New York, July 1994
“What the fuck ya doing, Baxter?”
Brian Mitchell, the head chef here at Ashbury Creek (if you could call this dump a kitchen, and this perpetually angry cook a chef) was screaming at Randy again. Mitchell was a big black slob of a man, about 6’2” and easily pushing 300 pounds, aiming for a coronary before his 50 th birthday the way he ranted and raved all day. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, as far as Randy Baxter was concerned.
Screw him!
This was just a shitty job to add to his resume so he could move on to bigger and better kitchens, and he was sick and tired of this fat bastard always breathing down his neck. He needed the paycheck and the experience though, and loud mouth or not, Chef Mitchell was a hell of a cook and could actually teach Randy a thing or two if he’d learn to just chill a little. After all, how good did the food really have to be? They were working in an asylum for the criminally insane for God’s sake.
“What’s wrong?” Randy asked. “It’s roast beef, mashed potatoes, and carrots. Same bloody plate I’ve been making for two hours now and I haven’t heard any complaints.”
It was 7:00 p.m. on Friday night and suppertime at Ashbury Creek Asylum was officially over, but there were always special order meals to be made for the men in the infirmary or the various bad boys on lock down in their cells.
Rooms,
Randy reminded himself.
Rooms… not cells.
This wasn’t a prison, but it was close enough, as far as he was concerned.
A prison filled with fuckin’ loonies!
“Wrong? Do ya know who dat supper’s for?”
“Sure. It’s for…” Randy glanced over at his menu chart, having absolutely no idea. “Theodore Dorsey in Badass -10. So what? What makes him so special?”
Badass –10 was actually room B-10, the “B” meaning Basement, but seeing as it was where they housed the most violent of patients, anything with a “B” designation was affectionately referred to as badass. Hey, if the shoe fit…
“Son of a bitch! Ya that stupid, Baxter, or jus pulling my leg? Worked here fer two weeks now and ya never heard of the Peeler?”
“Peeler? Nope. What’s his deal?”
“I’m not saying shit. Means nothin’ to either of us. All ya gotta know is ya can’t give Peeler knives and forks and shit.”
“But they’re only plastic crap. All the other inmates… I mean patients, get the exact same–”
“Well Peeler doesn’t, so get it into yer thick head. Hell, for six months we only made him protein and veggie shakes, the boss man had his jaws wired shut.”
A chill raced down Randy’s spine, a familiar shiver that made him wince and nearly had him reaching to check the old scars on his arms and belly again. They’d long since healed and he liked to think they’d faded away to unnoticeable, but at the moment they were throbbing hotly, getting itchy, and causing him to shake ever so slightly. Maybe it was just in his head. He ignored the cuts, swept all that old shit away and hoped Mitchell hadn’t noticed. Those pathetic days were long behind him and the last thing Randy wanted was a trip down memory lane.
“Umm… Couldn’t they just segregate him or something? I mean if he was trying to hurt people I’m sure they–”
“He was biting hisself, fool. No one else. Wired him so he no hurt hisself anymore, I guess. What do I know?”
“Seriously? Why would he do that?” Randy asked, more curious than he wanted to be, sweat starting to form on his forehead, but trying to appear casual.
“With a name like Peeler, yer guess is good as mine? All I know is he used to be a magician or some such shit. Now he jus crazy, like you and me and everyone else here in dis madhouse. Look… makes no matter, jus cut his food into little chunks and leave it at dat. Some things are best not known,
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