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The hunt is one of the first things they had ever talked about.
They had met for the first time at a shared colleagues party, the invitation to which Ging had tried to decline about fifty times, but the promise of grants for his next expedition was too enticing in the end.
He shook only the hands he needed to, grabbed any drink that was offered to him, and mentally prepared himself to make an Irish exit within the twenty minutes that followed. Less than gracefully he dropped himself into an open seat in the host's study and nursed another glass of champagne.
“Ging Freecss, what a surprise to see you in the flesh.” A tall blonde man with an almost devilish smile stood in front of him, one hand lazily extended for a shake even before Ging acknowledged him.
“Don’t get used to it. You are?”
“A sponsor of yours, Pariston Hill.”
Ging shook the man's hand, briefly appreciated in the motion how soft skin like that felt in the rough palm of his hand. With a perfect manicure and not a single blemish, these were the hands of someone who could afford to load off any dirty work onto others. Others like Ging. The name Hill had definitely popped up once or twice on his research papers, though the list of sponsors was a copy pasted mess that his editor would send him usually a day before a deadline.
“Ah, thanks for...the support.”
“The money, you mean, but you’re welcome. It looks good to invest in the arts, culture, the likes.” Pariston waved his hand around languidly, but his eyes hardly moved off of Ging.
He wasn’t surprised that this guy was just another rich snob who didn’t really care about research and more about spending money in a lavish way for bragging rights. But the way he was eyeing him down made Ging squirm in his seat uncomfortably.
A waiter passed with a tray of prosciutto canapés, he grabbed one and proceeded to chew on it just to be occupied. The other man grabbed one as well, but only held it as if to pose for imaginary cameras with it, the illusion of eating.
“I thought all of you-” Pariston waved his hand again in a flamboyant way “-artsy, eco, explorer types go more for vegan cuisine.”
“I’m more one of those self-sustaining, hunting, drinking dirty rain water explorer types.”
“You hunt ?”
“When I’m out of provisions.” He finished the rest of his champagne and put down the glass somewhere behind himself on a bookshelf. “You can preserve any meat you won’t eat immediately, whittle the bones down to something useful, stuff like that.”
“So you will gladly shoot poor poor Bambi for your own gain.”
“I’ll gladly do whatever for my own gain. And like all cute things in life, Bambi is damn delicious.”
“I’m sure your palette is quite extensive.”
“You have no idea.” Ging couldn’t suppress his own grin as his mind wandered to messy and yet delicious places.
“We-” Pariston started, but from across the room, a group of people beckoned towards him, they grew more insistent with his hesitation to leave his current conversation.
“Ah, it seems my presence is still needed elsewhere.” Pariston initiated another handshake, and as their palms met, he pressed a business card into Ging's hand. “Maybe I’ll have the pleasure again.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.” He snorted and pocketed the card.
When Pariston had disappeared into the crowd, the host of the party had pulled Ging aside, spoke of how Pariston gave him the creeps, how he was bad news. The sentiment would be echoed by anyone else he’d casually mentioned the man to.
Ging called him the next day.
For a successful hunt, you have to know your prey.
Ging and Pariston managed to get closer and yet know as little as possible of each other.
Ging would give vague hints when he’d be in town or when he’d be away, never gave away his exact location or time spans, when asked about his research he shrugged and referred to a high priority paper that was way too boring to discuss. Pariston mentioned offices and work on occasion, without ever going into detail what exactly he did for work or where his seemingly endless fund of money came from.
Pariston would take him out to lavish dinners with exotic ingredients, Ging would mention how each thing tastes better in the wild when harvested yourself. Oysters, caviar, lobster, imported meats from across the world, he made a point of mentioning how of course he has had all of those before, taken apart with his own hands, seasoned with what grew around him and probably in a less wasteful fashion than a restaurant could ever achieve.
During one of those dinners the final course was a plate of fugu sashimi, presented in the form of a blossoming flower.
Pariston had picked up a piece with chopsticks and contemplated it, “In order to be allowed to sell and prepare fugu, chefs will have to undergo a three year apprenticeship and apply for a specific license.” He swallowed the piece. “Because fugu contains a lethal amount of toxin. If prepared incorrectly, consumers will have their muscles paralyzed and will find themselves unable to breathe. They die of asphyxiation and won’t even get to utter their last words.”
Unimpressed, Ging took a bite as well, savored the soft meat as it melted on his tongue. “In the wild, no one cares about a license to kill a fish. You just do it right or you don’t. They could have at least saved the skin and served this with yubiki. ”
“I’ll find something you haven’t had yet one of these days, just so you can stop being a smart ass.”
“I love seeing you try so hard. I haven’t had to worry about getting food while I’m in the city because of your vain effort, so I’m not complaining.”
“I thought you never have to worry about food period , mister expert hunter.”
“The city is not exactly perfect hunting grounds.” They took turns taking food off the platter. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had pigeons and rats before, but people will give you looks if you start grabbing them off the street.”
“That’s why people invented grocery stores and restaurants .”
Ging chewed a bit longer on his piece of sashimi, debated his next move. He rarely went to grocery stores because the transport out to his cabin was a hassle- But he refused to give clues that he lived that far out of the city. And restaurants- Well, Pariston probably knew that Ging wasn’t as wealthy as he was, but Ging also refused to give a clearer picture of their financial divide, his personal expenses were all cut to invest more in expedition ressources.
“Half the taste of food gets lost through processing.”
“Ah yes, devilish processing like adding seasoning and fully cooking meat through. How often have you gotten food poisoning before?”
“Only once,” Ging stole a piece of sashimi before Pariston could grab it “and I learned from that experience.”
“I assume you didn’t learn to not eat whatever you can get your dirty hands on.”
“I learned to be more thorough with my work.”
Observation is key .
The last communication that Ging gave towards Pariston was that he’d be out in the tundra for at least another week, attached with a picture of his rifle, cleaned and taken apart after he had successfully secured a reindeer for himself and his crew.
That had been three days ago.
Ging had arrived back in the city, felt the cold finally leave his hands and feet after it had made its home in the stiff digits.
He’d go back to his cabin soon to write his reports, send them out to sponsors and commissioners. But before then, he wanted to start research on his personal project.
On the plane back he had tracked down any and all offices and companies that were affiliated with Pariston in some way, found a handful of gossip articles on supposed tax fraud, connections to a corruption scandal in trading and claims of scandalous affairs; Though all articles lacked a strong argument or basis, no charges ever stuck.
There was a shareholder meeting for a tech company that Pariston had strong connections to. A tech company with a laughably low-security garage for visitors. Pariston had insisted on inviting Ging multiple times in his personal limo before, so it had been easy to locate and with the flick of a wrist, a small tracking device had been attached.
Easy in, easy out.
Ging made the day trip back to his cabin, a small thing he had strenuously built himself almost a decade ago, so far out in the woods that not even the most misguided hiker may find it. When he arrived, he tracked Paristons car throughout the rest of the day, made note of the places it lingered. Multiple corporate buildings, a café downtown, a high end restaurant of which Ging would receive a picture of (“I’m also having reindeer tonight.” With a picture of a pink steak served with red wine and mushrooms.). But at night, when Ging had hoped to see where it would stop, it instead circled the city until morning, where it stopped for the first time again at the café.
That day Pariston seemed to be exclusively stationary at a particular high rise. A number of companies listed it as their headquarters. Ging picked up his phone, dialed the listed number for the lobby.
“Yorknew Offices, Lucy on the phone, how can I help you?”
“Hi, Lucy, this is-” Ging flipped through his sponsors list that was on his desk, “-George Levinan.”
“Oh, hello Mr. Levinan, did you forget something at the office?”
Bingo .
“No no, but listen, I lost my rolodex, silly me. Could you just quickly tell me what office number Pariston Hill has?” He over-pronounced each syllable of the name. Lucy on the other end of the line seemed to hesitate, unsure if that information would even be on a business card- It wasn’t, Paristons card simply stated his name and a phone number. “Listen, I know you’re busy, but I’ve got an, ahem, client here who needs to know that for a product shipment .” Important sounding words, with just the right emphasis that they could mean different things if the guy isn’t actually working with real clients or products to ship.
“ Oh ! Well, his main office is Floor 21, Wing B, if that will do…?”
Ging wrote it down on the increasingly messy page of information he gathered. “Exactly what I needed, thanks, Lucy, have a great one.” He hung up.
After a bit more digging, he realized that the office that Pariston seemed to work in was a sort of temp-and-security-agency, though there was ridiculously little information online, even lacking an official website.
This seemed to build a wonderful foundation for information gathering on Pariston Hill.
Until he checked the office again two days later and Pariston had moved offices to an unknown location.
When he tried to check the location of the tracked limo, the tracker had been tossed into a landfill, and conveniently Pariston explained to him the next time they met, that he was trying out multiple new cars at the moment because he just couldn’t decide on one.
Always be out of sight for your prey.
It had been another week and Pariston had convinced Ging to go on a ride in one of the dozen cars he had rented out- all were fitted with trackers by now just because being thorough had something satisfying about it- today it was a jaguar F-Type Coupe, a sleek and sporty gray thing that was grotesquely loud when it sped down the roads. Ging stretched out his tired limbs, they were coming back from another supposedly-impressive dinner; Dove in a black pepper sauce, or as Ging called it, glorified pigeon.
Pariston was driving himself, he had mysteriously fired his private driver just days after Ging had convinced the guy to feed information to him. He hummed some tune that played quietly on the radio.
“Where are we going again?”
“Isn’t the journey more important than the destination?”
“Sure, as long as the journey still gets me to bed. I’m wiped from the meetings about the next expedition and I have another one in the morning.” And my personal research calls for me, he thought restlessly.
“Why don’t you sleep at my place?”
Ging tried to stifle the coughing fit that came with the shock. “Aren’t you bold-”
“Oh, relax your dirty mind. From how you talk about it you live a million miles away. I’m simply offering you to spend the night at my place, so you can get some real sleep before the meeting tomorrow.”
Ging pondered over the offer. It felt too generous, too intimate and he had doubts that after all this secrecy, Pariston would be open enough to just invite him into his home. On the other hand, if it was a genuine offer, it posed a great opportunity to study Paristons home- study Pariston, too, and it did have the very real benefit of allowing him more than the expected 3 hours of sleep.
He tried to shrug as relaxed as possible.
“Sure, why not.”
Under the illumination of the streetlights they passed, Paristons grin seemed even more devilish than usual. He drove them through the city at a speedy pace, took a few close corners, casually took one of his hands off the wheel to lean on it.
Just a few minutes later, he pulled near the entrance of a 5 star hotel. Ging needed a minute to let the disappointment sink in, as a valet took the keys from Pariston, who in turn came over to the passenger side to open the door for Ging.
“Home sweet home, well, at least one of them.”
They passed the lobby without anyone batting an eye, Pariston didn’t even have to pick up a key. They only had to take the elevator up to the penthouse, and with a number combination that Ging immediately memorized, let themselves in.
The penthouse was spacious, a lovingly furnished living room with a giant tv, a couch with extendable leg rests, a kitchen with an espresso machine and a basket of fresh fruit, and a bathroom with a separate shower and bathtub that had massage jets. But the bedroom left the biggest impression. It led out to a large balcony that overlooked the city skyline, flower bouquets were placed on wardrobes, paintings of some far away place decorated the walls, and a california king bed with white sheets that were soft to the touch.
It was a nice room. The room service had done an excellent job at making it seem welcoming when most likely no one had slept here for weeks, for that it smelled too clean and sterile, no signs of actual living being done.
Pariston had taken off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and standing there just in a dress shirt making himself an espresso, he seemed much more truly relaxed than Ging had ever seen him.
“You sure have a lovely home, very personal.”
“Thank you, I’m sure you can tell how hard I’ve worked on it. Espresso?"
“No, thanks, I’m just gonna crash on the couch.”
“Oh, really?” Pariston emptied his espresso, came closer towards Ging, established almost oppressive eye contact.
Ging cocked his head, though he grinned, didn’t back away from the approach. “That's what we came here for, remember?”
“I have a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
In a quick motion Pariston wrapped a hand around Ging's jaw and pulled him into a messy kiss. He could still taste the bitter espresso on the others tongue. Paristons free hand found its way to Gings waist, grabbed and pulled at the fabric.
Despite every good and coherent thought that told him not to, Ging let himself be pulled along, hungrily grabbed at Paristons hair and shoulders for leverage. He met Paristons kisses just as eagerly. When he bit down on the others lip, hard enough to draw blood, he was pushed harshly on the large bed. Pariston followed like a starved animal, hastily took off his own shirt before he connected his lips with Gings again, uncaring of the blood that he was smearing across his lips. Ging followed suit, took off his tunic and undershirt between needy kisses. Immediately Pariston started to appraise the newly revealed skin with his hands, Ging resisted the shudder that wanted to chase up and down his spine as the man kissed down his stubbled jaw, to his neck, to his collarbones. When he reached the pecs, the kisses turned to bites, possessive and harsh, while his hands started to undo Ging's pants, and for a moment he wanted this, was ready to let Pariston do whatever he felt like. Their eyes met, Paristons confident and determined, Gings heavy lidded, close to losing focus.
And then Ging could feel the surge of adrenaline work through his body. He grabbed Pariston by the hair, silky blonde strands between his fingers, and easily pulled him up. Ging kissed him again, used his weight to get on top of the other man, pulled harsher on his hair until he revealed the soft of his throat, and Ging bit, hard, until the skin bruised under his teeth. Pariston moaned, or growled, tried to see if he could push Ging off of him, but his hands grabbed helplessly at unyielding muscle until Ging pinned his wrists above his hand and licked more at his throat and neck. Something like a throaty laugh escaped Pariston before he submissively ground his hips up to meet Gings. Rewardingly, Ging kissed him again, slower than before, took in the taste as it lingered.
Sweet, savory, bitter- Paristons tongue, his lips, his skin all bore different flavors that Ging tried to commit to memory as best as he could.
He wanted- needed more, needed to be greedy and learn more, taste more.
He grabbed the other man by the hips, flipped him around on his stomach with ease. Again he pulled at hair roughly, placed kisses and bites at his neck while he kneaded Paristons ass through his pants. He waited until Pariston greedily grinded up again, desperate for friction, and Ging gave in, pressed his hips down harshly to meet Paristons, hard enough that he’d be able to feel his hard dick through the fabric. Ging grabbed a pillow from the headboard and propped Paristons hips up before casually pulling his pants down, exposing a soft ass that he teasingly bit at. Pariston mumbled something into the pillow, maybe mentioning lube, but Ging bluntly forced some fingers into the blonde's mouth, made him suck and lick on the digits until they were dripping, before he crudely teased an index finger at his entrance. Pariston hissed, but didn't flinch away, simply pushed his head deeper into the pillow he had been grabbing onto, which was enough permission for Ging to press in.
He bit along Paristons spine as he slowly started to move his hand, waited until the others breathing became somewhat even again and his muscles relaxed into the sensation. When he did, Ging withdrew his finger, crudely spit into his own palm, jerked himself once, twice, just to spread it somewhat evenly, before he aligned himself with Paristons entrance. His fingers dug deep into the soft flesh of Paristons waist as he pressed in, he watched the muscles of Paristons back twitch as he tried to arch his back further, stifling a moan when Ging was fully in. He rewarded the other man with soothing kisses to his neck and ears, gave them both a moment to adjust to the pressure, feeling, sensation, need.
Ging moved, at first slow, tested the ease with which his dick could press further in and how Pariston reacted to it. Then he started to set a harsh pace, took in the gasps and whimpers that he prompted with his thrusts, tasted his sweat mix with Paristons as he licked and bit the nape of his neck, bit his earlobe, whispered something- anything into his ear, to only get moans and begs as a reply. He picked up the pace, could feel his heart threaten to beat out of his chest.
Once he felt Pariston get closer and his moans get more desperate, his own orgasm approached as well, he jerked Paristons cock in rhythm with his own thrusts, sending both of them over the edge. He came deep into Pariston, thrusted a few more times to really empty himself and because he enjoyed the way that Pariston whined under the overstimulation. His hand was already covered in Paristons cum, which he casually wiped off on the covers.
Ging pulled out, collapsed, spent and satisfied next to Pariston, who still had his head buried in a pillow with erratic breaths. The air was heavy with sweat, but the bed was comfortable and the night was warm enough to sleep naked without covers, so he stretched out his tired limbs once again, enjoyed the comfortable silence and the moment.
Eventually Pariston, grounded enough to turn, rested his head on Ging's shoulder. Ging thought that they both might fall asleep like this, wouldn’t have minded, but the silence broke.
“You know what I just thought about?” Pariston giggled.
“Mhm?” Ging wasn’t able to think about much, but the least he could do was entertain him.
“You’d be an absolutely horrible father, wouldn’t you?”
The temperature in the room changed instantly. Ging could feel his fingers freeze up where they had been around Paristons shoulder.
He knew. There was no way that he’d say it for no reason. Not with that smile that he was flashing, confident, knowing, smug.
It was a warning shot .
Ging removed his hand and laughed hoarsely.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Be patient, be still, be determined.
The following weeks were a blur.
Ging remembered only glances of his life. At the cabin cleaning, disassembling, reassembling his rifle. At some hotel with Pariston, covering the man in bites and bruises. In back alleys, tracking Paristons every move and interaction. Hunched over his office desk, compiling reports and research and drawings and plans .
Every hit piece Pariston had ever received had to be sloppy, unserious journalism, because in just these few weeks Ging had acquired proof of tax fraud, insider trading, smuggling of various things, most of which he couldn’t even keep track of due to the quantities of product being shipped, and people just disappearing off the face of the earth after being an inconvenience to Pariston. Not just the person disappeared, but every and any information about them, that they even existed- all records were wiped.
The only thing he couldn’t prove was scandalous affairs, but that might be because he was the scandalous affair.
And he could stop that any time. But Paristons vague threat that he knew about Ging's family felt like he was pointing a gun at him. If he could disappear anyone, Ging doubted that he’d shy away from doing that to a child .
And even though Pariston himself didn’t know this yet, Pariston would be the biggest sponsor to Ging’s private research effort.
He had called Mito five or six times in those weeks, asked if she had seen any sketchy characters around, if everyone was doing alright. The first couple of times she had found it charming that he was checking in, but the novelty wore off quickly.
“You’re starting to scare me. What's going on?”
“Nothing,” he looked over the scattered papers at his desk, his life's work, his passion, almost complete, “just let me know if anything seems strange to you, alright?”
“Ging, do I need to be worried about you? Did something happen on your expedition, is there-” she shuffled around at the other end of the line, closed a door before she resumed in a whisper, “Is there someone after you?”
“I’m fine . I gotta go.”
“Ging…”
“...”
“He asks about you.” Her voice broke mid-sentence.
“He shouldn’t. I’ll call you back later, bye.” He hung up before she could protest further.
Ging watched the red dot on the map circle around the harbor again- every day around this time for 4 days now, probably a storage space. Putting the tracker on Paristons cufflinks had been a tedious chore but had paid off.
After triple-locking the cabin doors, he headed towards the city again, played with the thought of coming by the harbor to investigate, but that soon was disregarded as he got a text asking him for dinner.
Pariston was waiting for him outside a steakhouse, all smiles and perfection. Ging met him with the same enthusiasm, though in his head thoughts of I Know What You Are echoed. They were about to enter, when Pariston stopped him, and pulled something from Ging's hair.
“ Ow !”
“Don’t be a wuss. You have half a forest in your hair.” Pariston inspected the leaf he was holding, before he tossed it to the side. “There we go.”
“That was an accessory of mine.”
“Of course, and when you show up with mud in your face, it’s makeup.”
They were seated with just a flash of Paristons card, passed impatiently waiting couples that shot glares at them as they passed.
Ging ordered a prime rib, rare. Pariston ordered a T-bone, medium rare.
The meat tasted fresh, tender, good enough that for once Ging didn’t feel the need to underline how much better it would taste if he had hunted and butchered it himself.
“I’m going on a research trip tomorrow.”, he supplied instead.
“Preparation for the big one you’ve been talking about?”
“Mhm. Will be gone just for two, three days tops, just to scout the area first.” He took a bite of his food, watched as Pariston pondered the information.
He swallowed a bite of his food, then tilted his head with a smile, “Well, bring me back a souvenir. Something that, preferably, won’t start rotting on the way back.”
When you’ve got a shot, don’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
The way Pariston picked the three locks at the cabin door looked almost natural enough to be practiced. In the early morning the signs of an early autumn were unavoidable and over his suit he had thrown a designer coat and black leather gloves. Foliage piled around his feet, but even though they were a dried, brown version of the one he had picked from Ging's hair, the leaves were recognizable enough, a subspecies of a chestnut tree that only grew in this specific forest around the city.
It didn’t even take an entire day for his drone-guys to locate the cabin.
There were no natural roads that led to it, he had to hike a mile and a half to get there, left his car parked in the shade. He hadn’t hired anyone to go for him.
If you want something done right, do it yourself .
His form disappeared into the cabin entrance, from the outside he was only visible as a shadow that passed behind the dusty windows.
Not even 5 minutes passed and he exited again, cradling a packed folder in one arm as he clicked the locks back shut behind him. With a leisurely pace Pariston would go the way he came from, but that would be another 30 minutes, and naturally he wouldn’t be able to resist to sneak a peek at what could be so important that Ging had asked for money from one of the shady companies that Pariston was unofficially affiliated with. Which Pariston of course totally didn’t know about because he wouldn’t work with a group connected to a string of assassinations. Which Ging of course totally didn’t know because he wouldn’t track down every single secret meeting Pariston had been attending.
They had been chasing each other in circles.
But everything must come to an end.
Ging dialed his number. Could watch through his scope as Pariston let out a chuckle before he answered the phone. Ging's index finger tapped an unheard beat on the trigger.
“Didn’t think you’d have service, wherever you are.”
“I’m full of surprises. What’re you up to?”
“Enjoying the weather, taking a walk out of the office for once, maybe I’ll find a bench and read some new literature.” Pariston balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder as he opened the folder. “You?”
“I’m hunting.”
“Something delicious?” Pariston was still smiling, Ging could track his eyes as he skimmed over the pages. Slowly, the smile dissipated. There was a faint tremor in his hands. He turned a page. Another. Dropped them all entirely.
His head turned, searching, frantic.
Their eyes finally met, though Ging doubted he’d be able to make out his face over the distance.
“You bet.”
Bang .
The shot was clean, right between the eyes.
Pariston collapsed immediately, limp except for a few muscle twitches in the fingers and legs, a nervous system that hadn’t gotten the message yet that its host was dead.
Ging made his way over to the corpse, appreciated the colors of blonde and red mixing with the colors of autumn. He gathered the dropped folder and pages that were scattered around the body.
‘The final taboo- Cannibalism in the modern Day’, the title page read, though specks of blood had inevitably decorated it. Other pages showed diagrams of where to cut a human body. Another discussed the best method to kill a subject, if it were to affect the taste.
Another couple of pages went in depth on the way that he had placed his mark, tracked his prey, and laid out a lure to get his prey into position. Printed pictures of Pariston, some taken with others without his knowledge, were hastily attached with paperclips.
He stuffed the folder into his coat, then inspected the body closer.
A thin trail of blood had escaped the entrance wound and ran down between the edges of Paristons face like a teardrop. His eyes, lightless and unfocused, stared at the sky.
Of this, too, he took a picture.
As he picked Pariston up, ready to heave him over his shoulder, he felt hair stick messily to the back of his head with blood. Clean exit wound, at least he wouldn’t need to dig for a bullet.
It was still going to be a long day of preparations.
The biggest disservice you can do to your prey is to be wasteful.
Wood is more forgiving when soiled with blood than some may believe. It absorbs what it can, but instead of the iron-y smell dominating it, it instead enhances the natural smell of the wood.
Which is why Ging didn’t feel the need to lay out any tarps or newspaper when he cleared his butchering bank.
He had stripped Pariston of his clothes, those could still be repurposed as rags and pillow cases.
Rays of sunlight through the windows illuminated the pale, thin body, already starting to cool to the touch.
Ging took a moment to gather himself and reminded himself of all the steps of disassembly he had meticulously planned.
The heavy bone saw in his hand grounded him.
The head would be removed first and stored in a cooler until it could be processed. Not having it be there and judge his every move would make things easier. The saw tore easily through cartilage and bone. With a satisfying crack, the vertebrae gave way, the skin under them ripped apart. The cut wasn’t clean, but it was done.
Paristons eyes were still open. Looked at Ging expressionless as he picked up the head to lock it in the ice box.
Maybe his lips showed a faint hint of a smile. He closed the box.
Next, he separated the limbs from the torso. These cuts were a lot easier as he pulled joints out of their sockets to give cutting-space.
The meat from the limbs would be stripped in smaller cutlets that would be vacuum sealed and stored in the freezer-unit for the winter.
The larger bones could be whittled into weapons, accessories, the smaller bones were to be ground up and could be used as fertilizer in the spring for the native plants that grew around the cabin, Ging knew that this would benefit them since he had tried this with animal bones before.
It took a couple of tries to separate the skin from the muscle-meat, human skin tore more easily than what he had been used to from deer and boar. But practice makes perfect, and soon he could tear off large patches of skin from the muscle tissue, which would be dried and thinned out, to be purposed as cleaning-leather, leather strips for craft projects, and winter reinforcements.
The sun had started to set when he had been done with the limbs, the meats cooled, the skin out to dry, the bones separated.
Ging returned to the torso and hooked a precision knife just under the collar bones. A clean, determined cut from there all the way to just above the pubic bone. Too deep, and he’d spoil the organs. Not deep enough, and he’d have uneven cuts that would be harder to work with.
The layers of skin spread open under his blade, revealed the colorful innards that they protected. The bone saw came back into action to work away the rib cage and sternum. The ribs would end up as bone meal as well, but the sternum itself could be worked into arrowheads if he put more research into that.
But of course, the organs were the important part.
Organs that were edible as they are would be vacuum sealed and frozen; The liver, the heart, the kidneys.
The lungs would be tenderized, marinated, and dried for jerky, a field snack.
The large and small intestine would be processed for sausage casings and stuffings, which then could be smoked over the winter.
Raw testicles of certain animals were considered a delicacy and beneficial for vitality, though Ging still intended to cook them. After all, he had learned from that time he got food poisoning.
The rest of the meat that was on the torso would be thrown together and stuffed through a mincer, stored in neatly formed patties.
Outside night had fallen, the light of the moon shone on the blood soaked workbench and Ging's arms that were covered up to the elbow with the sticky fluid. Exhaustion wore his body down, but he was close to the end.
Gently he removed Paristons head from the ice box. His lips had cracked in the cold.
Ging rested the head on the workbench.
The hair was shaved off, soft enough to make for pillow stuffing. Without the crown of his blonde hair, the head stopped resembling Pariston as much.
Next, the eyes were popped out of their sockets with a curved knife. Not frozen, but just cooled he put them in the fridge, knowing they’ll be needed soon.
Then the skin was removed from the skull, easier here than on the soft body due to the skull giving stability. Soon he was greeted with beautiful white bone underneath the bloody mess he had created.
The tongue soon joined the eyes in the fridge.
But one more ingredient was missing.
With a smaller, electric bone saw, he cut around the top of the skull, a steady, clean line.
The brain could easily be lifted out of its base, soft and pink and vital.
The skull would sit in a dirt-maggot bath for weeks until it was clean enough to put back together again. Pariston would have loved to hear that his bone structure is just beautiful enough to be a permanent display on Ging's work desk.
Midnight.
Ging could finally prepare his meal.
His stomach turned and twisted in anticipation as he turned on the stove, prepared a soup stock with vegetables that he harvested earlier in the week, the last harvest of the year.
On a cutting board, he started to chop Paristons tongue into bite-sized pieces, and as it sat there, he was inevitably reminded of the fugu sashimi they had shared.
The stock started to boil, the aroma of fresh vegetables sweet in the air. After turning off the heat, he added the tongue, the eyes, and most importantly, the brain. The rest-heat of the boiling water would be enough to cook these final ingredients through.
The brain turned a gray color, becoming more solid as it cooked through.
Dashes of pepper, salt and thyme were added, but what interested him the most was the pure taste.
A wooden bowl was filled with the contents of the pot, the broth was secondary to getting both eyes, the entire brain, and at least a few slices of tongue in.
Everything that Ging had been obsessing over for the past weeks, months had been leading up to this.
Excitement, disbelief, anticipation, doubt, determination- all these emotions rushed through him as he guided the first spoonful towards his open mouth.
His tongue felt over the assortment of textures and tastes that overwhelmed his mouth.
Sweet, savory, bitter- everything he had tasted before on Pariston hit him tenfold. Soft brain matter melted in his mouth, as if in a sudden trance Ging started to eat faster than he could swallow, chased the sensation like a madman. The eyes popped greasily in his mouth when he bit down, the taste comparable to fish eyes he has had, the tongue was not as tough as beef tongue he had eaten since he was a child. Only the brain, that precious, protein filled organ, had no taste comparison in the wild. It was like nothing Ging had ever tried, no animal brain had given him the same sensation of bliss, comfort, victory, peace, that he had been feeling in the moment that he bit down on this.
The entire pot was eaten clean in a sitting.
An involuntary tear runs down his face. Sentimentality that Ging couldn’t place for a moment.
No one had ever tasted the delicacy of Pariston Hill, except him.
Now no one ever would.
Now even he couldn’t anymore.
Hunted to extinction.