He put the cleaver down, having no more use for it. The body parts were separated now, spread out and ready to further dismantle. He had just an hour – maybe less -- to finish before the family returned. Selecting a boning knife from his cache of tools, he skillfully whet the straight blade in rhythmic strokes, relishing the sound of steel against stone, then raised the knife slowly, worshipfully, until the edge caught a glint from the light overhead. He ran his finger over the edge to test it– being cautious not to slice his latex glove. He hoisted the whole, bloodless leg to the table top, which he’d taken pains to meticulously cover with plastic. Though the limb had bled out, a transparent string of goo caught hold of his apron, stretching out like a thread of spiders’ silk, which snapped once the leg landed. He worked quickly now, blade flashing, deftly separating skin from fascia, pushing remnants of fat aside to afford him a solid grip on th...