ya hear? No cutlery. No bullshit. Even if ya feeding him cream corn, he eatin’ it with his fingers. Got it?”
“Sure…whatever man. We’re here to please, right?”
Mitchell walked away scowling, looking anything but.
***
Randy Baxter would never describe himself as overly curious. He tried to just let it go; he really did. I mean, what difference did it make to him, right? He was just a 25-year-old average Joe, really, a 5’10, 170 pound slice of white bread kind of guy most people wouldn’t look twice at. He’d had a few seriously fucked up teenage years but he’d fought through all that nonsense and came out a stronger person because of it. The drugs, and anger, and well, all that other stuff were only bad dreams now, mostly kept under lock and key inside his head, exactly where they belonged. Walking the straight and narrow now, Randy kept his dark hair and goatee neatly trimmed, his hands and fingernails obsessively clean, and his average sized body fit and healthy. He minded his own business, didn’t bother anyone, and basically did his own thing most of the time. Sure, he had ambitious dreams of working in a first class restaurant in New York or Paris someday, but was also realistic enough to know it probably wasn’t going to happen. He more than likely would end up in a small town somewhere in the South slaving away over a hot stove for sun burnt tourists or overweight truck drivers just passing through, but he was okay with that. He’d be happy with his lot in life as long as he had someplace to cook and hungry people to enjoy his food. In all honesty, after everything he’d been through he was just happy to still be alive – everything else was gravy. Maybe he’d eventually be able to buy his own place.
Baxter’s Bistro
had a nice ring to it, or possibly
Baxter’s Bar and Grill.
Whatever, it had to be better than spending time in this dump. Still, something about this Peeler dude really interested Randy.
Interested him more than he should, and he knew it.
Ashbury Creek Asylum, a federally funded institute, sat on twelve picturesque wooded acres on the fringe of Western New York’s Allegheny State Park and was filled to the brim with over 200 wildmen ranging from paranoid delusional schizophrenics and violent habitual arsonists all the way to the worst of the worst batshit crazy serial killers. Hell, they even had Reverend Floyd Bailey staying here, one of the worst serial stranglers and killers the country had ever produced. That son of a bitch scared everybody, even here, where he was under maximum-security watch. No, Ashbury wasn’t a fun place to hang out and Randy was smart enough to lay low, knowing he was better off being afraid of the patients here than curious, but Jesus, an old magician that was into extreme self-mutilation to the point they had to wire his mouth shut? Even when things had been at there worst, he’d never been
that
fucked up. This Peeler guy was just too bizarre to ignore, and against his better judgment telling him to walk away and not get involved, Randy was determined to dig a little deeper into this strange man’s twisted story.
***
The following day, after serving the unimpressed lunch crowd (house salad, chili with garlic toast, and a choice of rice pudding or apple pie for dessert), Randy washed up and told Mitchell he was taking his break. The big chef glared his disapproval, actually growled a little bit (believe it or not), but dismissed Randy with a wave of his meaty hand without saying a word. Randy grinned and ran for the door.
Normally he would head outside to the small interlocking brick patio beside the visitor’s parking lot. It was on the exact opposite side of the facility from the heavily guarded fenced-in patient courtyard where they let the loonies run loose for a few hours each day if they behaved themselves. Over there in “The Yard” as it was called, some nutcase or another was always yelling and screaming and
“Sure…whatever man. We’re here to please, right?”
Mitchell walked away scowling, looking anything but.
***
Randy Baxter would never describe himself as overly curious. He tried to just let it go; he really did. I mean, what difference did it make to him, right? He was just a 25-year-old average Joe, really, a 5’10, 170 pound slice of white bread kind of guy most people wouldn’t look twice at. He’d had a few seriously fucked up teenage years but he’d fought through all that nonsense and came out a stronger person because of it. The drugs, and anger, and well, all that other stuff were only bad dreams now, mostly kept under lock and key inside his head, exactly where they belonged. Walking the straight and narrow now, Randy kept his dark hair and goatee neatly trimmed, his hands and fingernails obsessively clean, and his average sized body fit and healthy. He minded his own business, didn’t bother anyone, and basically did his own thing most of the time. Sure, he had ambitious dreams of working in a first class restaurant in New York or Paris someday, but was also realistic enough to know it probably wasn’t going to happen. He more than likely would end up in a small town somewhere in the South slaving away over a hot stove for sun burnt tourists or overweight truck drivers just passing through, but he was okay with that. He’d be happy with his lot in life as long as he had someplace to cook and hungry people to enjoy his food. In all honesty, after everything he’d been through he was just happy to still be alive – everything else was gravy. Maybe he’d eventually be able to buy his own place.
Baxter’s Bistro
had a nice ring to it, or possibly
Baxter’s Bar and Grill.
Whatever, it had to be better than spending time in this dump. Still, something about this Peeler dude really interested Randy.
Interested him more than he should, and he knew it.
Ashbury Creek Asylum, a federally funded institute, sat on twelve picturesque wooded acres on the fringe of Western New York’s Allegheny State Park and was filled to the brim with over 200 wildmen ranging from paranoid delusional schizophrenics and violent habitual arsonists all the way to the worst of the worst batshit crazy serial killers. Hell, they even had Reverend Floyd Bailey staying here, one of the worst serial stranglers and killers the country had ever produced. That son of a bitch scared everybody, even here, where he was under maximum-security watch. No, Ashbury wasn’t a fun place to hang out and Randy was smart enough to lay low, knowing he was better off being afraid of the patients here than curious, but Jesus, an old magician that was into extreme self-mutilation to the point they had to wire his mouth shut? Even when things had been at there worst, he’d never been
that
fucked up. This Peeler guy was just too bizarre to ignore, and against his better judgment telling him to walk away and not get involved, Randy was determined to dig a little deeper into this strange man’s twisted story.
***
The following day, after serving the unimpressed lunch crowd (house salad, chili with garlic toast, and a choice of rice pudding or apple pie for dessert), Randy washed up and told Mitchell he was taking his break. The big chef glared his disapproval, actually growled a little bit (believe it or not), but dismissed Randy with a wave of his meaty hand without saying a word. Randy grinned and ran for the door.
Normally he would head outside to the small interlocking brick patio beside the visitor’s parking lot. It was on the exact opposite side of the facility from the heavily guarded fenced-in patient courtyard where they let the loonies run loose for a few hours each day if they behaved themselves. Over there in “The Yard” as it was called, some nutcase or another was always yelling and screaming and
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