New York City is the Meat Packing District. We’ve got prime cuts. Sweat cooked beef. Grimy shanks are popping off the bone. Ass pants? Yes. There are ass pants. You knew that. On the verge of grey 3:00 shadows, we see good melty-makeup face cuts with eyes closed and the grease doing a nice glaze. Good varieties. We have imported. We have you covered for the arm, the leg, the shank, the piss marinated shell shock buffet of great meat opportunities. Take some meat off the bone and try it out. Eat some. We have eye, brain and good sample platters, what more can I say, we’ve got it, this stuff sells itself. I guarantee it.
A popular pastime is the disappearing act.
Try it. You might like it. Vanish into thin air. It’s all just tacky surrealism- because when our flanks of meat vanish for a moment, on their return, we find they’ve been digested into the forms of various chess pieces. It’s a tenses game we play with these fleshy pawns, but on my authority as a consumer, I insist on seeing it through. I’ll make sure, by hook or crook, to get what I want. At the least, I’ll trap us here, until the game is properly finished. And at the most – I’ll thrill you.