Sausage Soup by Jacob Baugher

When the three sweating golfers in Speedos sink into the hotel’s Jacuzzi, I float to the pantry. Chef Jimmy never notices me. He’s too old to believe in ghosts. I grab onions, carrots, and the butcher knife too.

When I return, I add the veggies, some spices, crank up the heat. Conversations cease. They drift off to sleep.

I slit their throats, crack their heads. The sluggy, grey ramen slops into the bloody bubbles. I follow, nibble at their bones.

The stained Speedos float to the surface. Housekeeping will clean up later. For now, I slurp my noodly sausage soup.