Two words titles are symmetrical. Processed Product. Here we have a verb and a noun, a choice I made because it forces time into your mind, and stories are nothing without time (nor are we, for that matter). The words raise questions that demand answers. What’s the product? Who created it? Can I buy it later on, after I finish reading this? Do I need to refrigerate it? Will it spoil?
In short, yep. All that and more. Everything’s gotta go: all of these thoughts, reflections, and stories that I’ve been keeping tied up in the basement of my consciousness. It’s time to cut the ropes and let the beasts out. Make way for the sardonic fellow who doesn’t say much and the brash girl who needs to feel love like that again. Watch out for the killer and the sword-wielding China Bexlan, the football player and the savage father who won’t let his son take it sitting down. The Wild Bills are writing again after years of anonymity, and you know how they like their audiences.
Get ready, ’cause they’re coming. All of them. The doors are open and they’re stomping into view, fleshing themselves out after sketches and false starts. The meat grinder clicks away while strange music plays; I’m throwing in the offal and the organs that were hanging up in the cold room for so long, all of the tender and tasty bits that stir one’s appetites.
You’ll see it all: the sinews and striated muscles, the splattered apron, the occasional cut, the intestinal casings, and the delicious finished product. You’ll want to sit down and enjoy one in the afternoon sun, filling your belly, or maybe at night, next to your heating vent.
In the end, all that matters is whether or not it goes well with potatoes and a pint of beer.