And so it was in the small rural community of Kreuzberg, that time was only as relevant as the morning mail. Excitement in Kreuzberg usually came in the form of some shocking headline in the Kreuzberg Sentinel like "SQUIRREL RUN OVER ON ROUTE 62; DETAILS OF GRUESOME SCENE ON PAGE 2". Historically speaking, Kreuzberg's claim to fame derived from a timely stop made by then-president Calvin Coolidge to use Mrs. Tilly's facilities in 1927 as his motorcade passed through town.

This is why there was such a ruckus when a sign suddenly appeared in the yellowed window of the long-deserted building between the post office/grocery store ("Ed's") and the gas station/restaurant ("Earl's"), announcing the opening of an Italian meat shop in Kreuzberg. Now, it'd been some thirty-six years since a business last occupied this building, so that only some of Kreuzberg's middle-aged residents could vaguely recall Jacob Schrecklicher's gun shop. It was said that he had died of a heart attack, but some of the older residents whispered that it was his liver that had got to him first. Indeed, the new business owners were confronted with a backroom crammed with empty whiskey bottles.

Edith Mansonne's family had deep roots in Kreuzberg, reaching back into its fog-shrouded earliest years. She still lived in the house her great-grandfather had built, though she had never married. All her siblings were gone by now, and she lived alone — but quite content — in this big, old farm house surrounded by her cats. Though well into her 80s, Edith was still sprite and agile, perhaps kept nimble by having to keep up with her felines, and visitors often noted that she could dart like a shadow between rooms. This morning, however, she was settled comfortably into her rocking chair on the porch, contemplating the new sign in Schrecklicher's old window as she stroked Tator — by now as aged as Edith, but once given to playing with potatoes, hence her name — her favorite among the brood. As she sat and watched the sun rise, the memories came.

When Edith was a young girl, her father was an itinerant veterinarian and had to travel throughout all the region's villages, often leaving home for weeks at a time. She missed her father desperately during these long absences, but his homecoming was made all the sweeter when she knew his circuit had taken him into nearby Buffalo, which meant only one thing: he would be returning with some of the exotic sliced meats available only in the big city meat shops. Buffalo's eclectic mix of Southern and Eastern European immigrants distilled strange but delightful culinary concoctions, and the sound of her father's tired, heavy boots climbing the back steps was made all the more joyous by the pungent smell of strange foreign meats that would fill the kitchen as he opened the door and fell into her mother's arms.

These memories, once dormant and nestled safely somewhere in the maze of valleys on the cortex of Edith's brain, erupted as chemicals and ancient synapses fired, giving life once again to times long past: her father's voice, the warmth of his embrace, that smell wafting from the several string-tied white butcher paper packages he deposited on the kitchen counter, the joy and relief she could see in her mother's eyes. These old ghosts danced in front of her eyes and nostrils for a few moments until the old clock in the living room chimed loudly, bringing her back to the present. Edith leaned forward slightly, instinctively stopping when she heard the first protesting grunts from Tator on her lap. It was far enough, though, and she could see through the screen door that it was 7:00 a.m.

The summer waded through Kreuzberg, but just about the time the red flower cones of the sumac trees began to fall away and the cicadas stopped serenading the stolid, muggy afternoon sun, folks noticed increased activity in the old store. Sure enough, a sign soon appeared in the window announcing that Abraham's Italian Meats would hold a grand opening on September 22nd. The whole town was electrified with this news, and even the usually unflappable mayor, Franz Prinzip, could barely contain himself. Time seemed to stand still for the people of Kreuzberg, but the ticking clocks soon enough turned minutes into hours, hours into days, and days into weeks. The day finally arrived.

On the appointed day, the mayor stood with the hulking Abraham and his younger assistant, Paul Potter, out in front of the refurbished shop and all were smiles as the Sentinel reporter snapped a couple pictures of them cutting the red, white and green ribbon and shaking hands. The formalities over, the crowd surged politely but eagerly into the shop, only stopping briefly as they crossed the threshold to breathe in the wall of scent they suddenly found themselves enveloped in, smells of fresh beef, pork, chicken, lamb and more. The shop was decked out with all the amenities of an old-fashioned meat shop, including pretzel rods in a jar on the counter and a pickle barrel with tongs hanging from a hook beside it in the corner. Sentimental paintings of ancient Roman scenes bedecked the walls, while signs in fanciful font styles hung everywhere. The crowd stood almost paralyzed, gawking at the cornucopia of flesh displayed in front of them, but one mind found its purpose and began to nudge her way towards the counter. The crowd jostled a bit at first until they saw it was Edith, then they obligingly parted to let her through. Once poised in front of the counter, Edith asked with a quivering but clear voice, "A half pound of pickle and pimento loaf, sliced normal, please."

Abraham scrutinized her for a moment, and then stunned the crowd with his reply: "I'm sorry, Madame, but I cannot. Mine is an ancient profession, and we are bound by certain traditions and rules." Surveying the crowd intently, Abraham began, "I had hoped..." before shaking his head in clear disappointment. There was a murmur among the crowd and somewhere in the back unsure protests were issued in muffled tones, but the stunned crowd just stood and stared. After some tense moments, people began filing back out into the street, with a stunned Edith in tow, her face struggling between incomprehension and bitter disappointment. Just as she passed through the door, her confusion was transformed into disbelief as she turned and saw Abraham quietly serving old Jim, the town drunk, unseen by the others.

Back on her porch in her rocking chair, Edith's mind was a torrent. What kind of way was that to run a business? What sort of medieval traditions stopped a shop from selling its wares to eager customers? What right did that giant of a man, Abraham, have to humiliate her in front of the whole town like that? But he wouldn't serve anyone else either — except old Jim! Why did he serve him? Old Jim was essentially homeless, sleeping in people's garages and sheds and doing odd jobs around yards to earn drinking money. He supplemented that income by offering to regale any who would listen — and in a small town, that was few — to his war stories from Vietnam in exchange for beer. Of all the people in Kreuzberg, why did Abraham serve him? Did he understand that Edith's family had been one of the most respected in town?

All the confusion gave way to tears, and Edith just let them stream down her bony, wrinkled cheeks. She sobbed for a few moments, but as she let it all out a calm came over her, and with it came clarity. She stared forward in disbelief, sniffing still, but she knew that she understood now. The realization was like that feeling of rebellious bile in the stomach; there is only one thing to do. Stroking Tator, Edith momentarily scratched the thin fur between her feline ears, and the cat drowsily purred for a moment while nuzzling her head deeper into Edith's lap. She then moved her hand to the back of Tator's neck and softly rubbed the scruff where mother cats grab their kittens. Tator enthusiastically craned her neck towards Edith's hand, her eyes lazily closed, but was completely taken by surprise by the swift motion with which Edith moved her hand to Tator's jaw line, where she grabbed firmly and twisted in a single, sharp movement. With a sickening snap, Tator's body fell limp.

The sight of Edith marching through town drew a crowd, particularly as it became clear she was heading straight for Abraham's new shop. Expecting a show, they followed her into the shop but were stunned into silence when she gently deposited the cat's limp body onto the counter. Abraham, apparently as taken by surprise as the crowd, stared momentarily at the cat, then slowly moved his eyes up to meet Edith's angry, bitter glare. He glanced towards the corpse, and then back to Edith but this time with a question in his eyes. Edith nodded slowly in affirmation. Abraham motioned to Paul to remove the carcass, and began to put on fresh plastic gloves as he assumed a professional posture and addressed Edith: "Good morning, Madame. How may I serve you today? Our specials this week are...."