His eyes were wide like saucers, the whites clearly defined all the way around inside of the eyelid, two bull's eyes leading directly to his brain.
He'd been living this life too long.
He never looked at his hands as they went through the process again and again, drizzling, dripping, dusting, cutting, cooking.
It wasn't that he didn't think about the bloated bodies of his victims. It wasn't that he didn't know the danger he posed, more to himself than anyone else.
It was all he could do to shut that part of him far away, locked behind the walls of those targets where his eyes should be.
And what was left of him went through the ritual over and over again, creating some of the finest product available on the market.
He didn't react when she knocked, nor when she opened the door behind him in the dim electronic light.
She had a small digital recorder and a clipboard, kitten heels and a classic black dress with a fine grid of polka dots.
"I heard they call you the Spiced God."
He never turned around, his eyes still transfixed as his hands went through the motions again and again.
"I had a name once. Maybe I still do. But yes, I am the one who provides the spice. I am the one responsible."
"I hate to be like this, but do you mind if I try some?"
His eyes stayed fixed, his hands stayed mixing.
She dipped a pinky nail into one of the fluffy piles around her, placing a single dab on her tongue.
Her cheeks flushed in shock.
"Oh my God. They told me, but I didn't know. This so pure, so strong..."
"Uncut. Pure spice."
She felt the endorphins rush through her body.
"You really are the one behind it all, aren't you?"
Finally, he turned around, shaking his head.
"Just my hands. I've tried so hard, for so long, to forget, but my hands will always remember."
Normal, human eyes met hers for just a second, then widened up and became bull's eyes again.
"I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Caroline, from Spice news. I came to ask you about the diabetes epidemic."
"Brown sugar. They cut the spice with cheap brown sugar. Bad seasoning. Cheap. No flavor. My spice is pure. I pull the sweetness from the meat. I honor the tradition of my people, even though the tradition is no longer honorable."
"That's what I heard. You were the last true source. The last of the Spice Shamans."
"My brother, my cousins, my family, all gone. Rotten from the legs up. Sugar disease. They betrayed the way of our ancestors. So perish all traitors."
"But you do know how much money is being made, yes? The spice cartels, the distribution networks, the spice addiction..."
"The spice is our sacrament. Those who perish in the spice have climbed too high on the stairway to heaven. Who could turn back, being in the presence of God?"
"You did."
"I stole the spice from the Gods. I stole from heaven. My fate is sealed."
He stared at a point a thousand meters behind her head, and his hands began mixing again.
She sat there in silence. He was a madman, but yet, what madman could make such flavor? There was nothing crazy about the bricks of cash the spice brought in. The violence, the crime, that was crazy, but the spice made perfect sense.
"You have heard the legend of Prometheus, yes? The legend of king Midas as well?"
"Of course."
"With my people, it is no different. We grew up in the jungles of the south, eating roots, eating bland things. We prayed to our Gods for spice, and our prayers went unanswered. I and the other Spice shamans used the power of our drums to enter a trance. Our spirits traveled to the home of the Gods, and from them, we stole knowledge of the Holy 5, Garlic, Turmeric, Cumin, Allspice, and Cayenne. One for each finger of the hand, one for each limb of the body, even the head. But the price was greater than we were prepared to pay."
His eyes came into focus once more, meeting her gaze.
"I watched them all die. Only I was true to the path of the trickster. Only I was true to the spice."
"But why do you continue, knowing more die each day?"
But she got no answer.
He never looked at his hands as they went through the process again and again, drizzling, dripping, dusting, cutting, cooking.
"Spiced God?"
But he was gone. The seasonings were all that were left. His eyes were wide and empty.
Quietly she slipped out of the room, scribbling furiously at her notepad.
This is a song about death. It's on mandolin.
Hate is the first step to all solutions.
You will not end bigotry until you learn to hate it.
