"Help me, please! I need someone to help me!" A man shouted from his house on an empty street.

Luckily a young boy was walking by at the time and heard is cries.
Seeing the house, he rushed over and opened the door.

"Thank goodness someone was around," the man said as he looked over to the boy with a smile on his face.

"My fish, I can't seem to get it out of the oven, and I am rather hungry. You seem the right size to help me with such a task like this," he said to the little boy who stood outside of his doorway.

The boy looked frightened, and could only stare at the strange man.

"Please, come in and get it for me?"

The boy cautiously walked in the room; the man holding the oven door open for him to see the cooked fish.
The little boy stood near the man; almost too afraid to actually reach in and get it.

"See it in the back? You'll have to reach a good arm in there, son."

The man spoke in a soft low voice; almost a hoarse whisper.
The boy crept his arm in the oven, but he wasn't even close enough to get it.
For some reason, this odd man had a very deep oven.

He crept his head in there and outstretched his arms and touched the pan without thinking about the heat.
It wasn't hot.
It wasn't even cooking.
The man laughed to himself and forcefully pushed the little boy in the oven and shut the door.
He reached up slowly and turned the dial on 450.
Cries could be heard from inside, and immense banging on the doors.
It didn't bother the man one bit.
He only looked down and grinned.

"Do not fight, my child. It will only make make matters worse!" He shout.

The man walked over to his table chair and sat.
Listening to the agonizing screams of the burning boy.
He placeda friend on his finger, and gently spoke to it.

"Would you like a piece, too, Linda Gale?"
He made the puppet move in a nod.
"Yes, said Linda."

Putting the finger down he turned his head to watch the oven.
The pounding and screaming only became louder each second.

"Dinner will be served shortly," he said to no one.

The man arose from the chair and walked over to his kitchen cabinets; taking out a plate for himself, and a plate for Linda.
Walking back he placed them on the table humming to himself.
The screams became garbled and began to fade, but still able to hear.

"I'll give it an hour, Linda."

He walked into his living room and sat in his armchair, and began to watch his television.
An hour program to keep him busy.

"It smells about done," he said to himself.

He arose from the chair and crept over to the oven; putting on some oven mitts he opened the door, and the smell of cooked flesh began to ooze out.

"Yes, this will be tasty indeed."

He took hold of the cooked arm, and he dragged the body out.
It skidded across the kitchen floor to the table.
At that time, he picked up the burnt body with a small struggle and placed it on the table.
He forced the body to lie down stretched out.
He licked his lips with a smirk, and set off to get the knives and forks.
Back at the table; he sat down in his chair and held each silverware in one of his hands.

"Linda, will you do the honors of a short prayer?" He asked.

It was pure silence; nothing being spoken at all.
He bowed his head down and picked it back up in a minute tops.

"Let's eat."

He looked the body over for the right place to start; seeing as his clothes have been burnt almost clearly off; he removed the articles carefully to not harm his hands.

Taking the knife, he stroked the body with the tip of it.
Eyeing for a place to start.
He began with the throat.
He slowly pierced the skin; making each mark careful.
He sliced across the neck and a small trickle of blood oozed out; most of it has been fried already from the heat.

"I like them a little rare," he told himself with a smirk.

He sliced away at the meat; carving the body ever so carefully.
Placing a small piece on his plate, and another for Linda's.
Nothing went to waste that night, and what wasn't eaten was put in the freezer for another day.
It soon went quiet in his house, and he stood alone once again.

Just waiting for another day to arrive.
Another victim, another friend.

--

Author's Note: Before you call me sick and twisted, know this: It's already a given. This was inspired by an episode of David Firth's Salad Fingers series. The reason there is no plot or character development is because my mind wasn't capable of creating one, and I was only inspired by a certain scene in the episode. All of his episodes are amazing, but this one got me pretty deep.