You assume I’m a cannibal, don’t you? I mean, who wouldn’t—head chef with a dark secret. The story writes itself here. Except it doesn’t.

No, no, you see my secret is much more entertaining. I’m a damn good necromancer working for a vegan super- corporation. I steal the best meat and cuts from my deli, replace them with meat substitutes, and take the stolen meat to my lair. I work my magic, I get paid.

My hardest score happened just a week ago, my coworker had been suspicious of me for a while. As I closed up shop—my usual time for the ol’ switcheroo—my colleague hid behind the counter.

I grabbed some of the best quality steaks and whatnot, not thinking I’d been caught. So he pops up, geared with a never ending barrage of questions. I couldn’t very well tell him about my secret.

“What’re you doing with all that meat?” he asked.

I looked at the plastic bag I filled with the meat, then at him. I knew I wasn’t witty enough to give a pseudo-explanation. I bolted.

I haven’t been back at work, well, my “day job” if you will. I skipped town with all my necromancers money, now I ironically live beside a slaughter house. Good money to be made.