“When you say beef-steak you really mean beef-heart, so stop mincing words.’ The shamble leg man disliked nothing more than someone who changed one word for another word, an idea for an idea. He liked his world straight-up and simple, not addled and punched with confusion and error. (Author’s note: I will spare you the insufferableness of italics, for now at least). ‘There is no room for error, none.’ That morning, the one in query, the shamble leg man awoke with a fly in his eye. It, the fly, wove a bracket of eggs in the seam of his eye. The fly (the one in his eye) frittered in the seam of his eye. (Amendment to author’s note: I will use italics only when in brackets). No salve could soothe the itching in his eye; no ointment, balm or liniment. His eyes, the corners and the part that points inwards, were larval with roe.
When the shamble leg man was a boy his mother stewed beef-heart in tripe with eel-tails and calf’s tongue. His mother slow cooked the beef-heart in a cast-iron skillet whisking the tripe into the heart, making it soft and chewy. The shamble leg man abhorred the smell, an acrid stink that filled he house with offal and boiled calf’s tongue. His mother insisted that he eat a plateful, bowering over him like a crazed alewife, hissing and biting at her lip until she drew blood, which only maddened her worse. ‘People would die for a bowl of beef-heart’ she’d say hissing. ‘Children cutting they’re arms off for a mere taste’.
He held his nose and swallowed, forcing the offal beef-heart down his throat and passed his taste buds, praying that it wouldn’t touch the side of his own tongue or get stuck in the craw of his throat. ‘Mama’ he’d whimper ‘I can’t take another bite.’ She’d press his fingers round the fork, twisting the beef-heart into the tines, and lever the fork to his mouth, his eyes watery with the stench and boil. ‘Mama I’m going to be sick’. ‘Enough’ she’d hiss ‘enough of your stupid tricks, now eat!’
When the shamble leg man was a boy his mother stewed beef-heart in tripe with eel-tails and calf’s tongue. His mother slow cooked the beef-heart in a cast-iron skillet whisking the tripe into the heart, making it soft and chewy. The shamble leg man abhorred the smell, an acrid stink that filled he house with offal and boiled calf’s tongue. His mother insisted that he eat a plateful, bowering over him like a crazed alewife, hissing and biting at her lip until she drew blood, which only maddened her worse. ‘People would die for a bowl of beef-heart’ she’d say hissing. ‘Children cutting they’re arms off for a mere taste’.
He held his nose and swallowed, forcing the offal beef-heart down his throat and passed his taste buds, praying that it wouldn’t touch the side of his own tongue or get stuck in the craw of his throat. ‘Mama’ he’d whimper ‘I can’t take another bite.’ She’d press his fingers round the fork, twisting the beef-heart into the tines, and lever the fork to his mouth, his eyes watery with the stench and boil. ‘Mama I’m going to be sick’. ‘Enough’ she’d hiss ‘enough of your stupid tricks, now eat!’
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