Angel Meat

The streets of Grand and Robb stilled the Night.
A lone homeowner descended with a trembling light.
A black tarp split earth from might.
He tore through the plastic—and took a bite.
The taste of flesh stole his sight.
The odor, foul and sweet, quenched his fright.
And with it, he fell—into the Night.

From the shadows, coals out of the deepest volcano glowed in his eyes.
Black saliva dripped between his teeth.
He snarled—low and feral—with the strength of something born beneath the Earth.

Then he tore out of Hell and onto the streets.
He prowled through Belleview Village, howling for flesh to consume.
But human did not satisfy his hunger.
Cat did not fill his gut.
Fox could not still his lust.

He stalked through alleys where the dead walked again—
skeletons clattering, dirt clinging to their bones.
Chainsaw massacrists roamed, their saws humming with blood.
Ghosts drifted by, whispering their curses.
Still, the Hellhound hunted on, devouring stray cats and foxes beneath streetlights,
seeking something more than bodies—something beyond the taste of mortal men.

Then, from up the street, a Maverik rolled into the Village—
a lone trader from the western mountains.
The Hellhound crouched low, sniffing through the flicker of light.
A sweetness lingered in the air, sharp as incense and flense.

The trader unlatched his trailer. A hiss of vapor escaped.
On a frost-stained label, the words glowed faintly in the dark:

ANGEL MEAT
Grade A – From the Angelic Highlands of Colorado
Expires: All Saints’ Day

The Hellhound stepped forward.
Under the light, fur became flesh, claws became hands, and eyes became void.
He licked the blood from his lips.

“I’ll take two,” said the man.

The trader’s eyes reflected black as pitch, cutting through him like blades.
The man froze—stone-still, as if Medusa herself had called his name.

“Aye, aye, soul,” the trader grinned. “Two coming up.”

With a leap, he vanished into the trailer. A knife flashed before his eyes.
He stabbed into the pale meat, muttering:

“They say, ‘the Saints roll in their graves for what he’s done.’
They say, ‘the politicians are nothing but liars and thieves.’

They say, ‘the park is yet to be finished.’

 They say, ‘the home prices of sellers are set below the assessed.’

 They say, ‘the artificial intelligence will kill the blessed.’”

The man only stared, shivering in the light of the open truck.
Two slabs of angel flesh flew into his hands.

“Thank you, sir,” he stammered,
and fled into the Night.

The trader dropped to the pavement, watching.
Under the streetlamp, the man’s form twisted once more—
Bones cracked, skin split—
until the Hellhound emerged once more, tearing into the meat,
devouring Heaven itself.

The Night carried on.
And so did Halloween.

For more stories of mine, check out: 

The Revenant’s Mark, 

Or, The Tale of Altora.

Instagram: Wesley.C.Martin

X: @Wesley_C_Martin

Let’s connect!