One night, our eyes landed on the late dinner feast on the table. My partner in crime and I picked up our forks—examining the cuisine. As the silver tines pierced the meat, our boss smacked our hands. He sat on his dingy chair and folded his hands on the table. He nodded, and we began. 

      Our forks punctured the meat, taking it apart, and placing it on our plates. My partner asked the boss of the meat's whereabouts. Our boss munched on the tough flesh; he said he found this large slug of meat on the ground—next to the dumpster, resting. I could've sworn my heart skipped a beat, but this meat looked so clean, well done—so delicious. Our boss was a ruthless man, but he was a jokester. My partner got up from his seat and stared at the meal. 

      He touched my shoulder, saying to look. What we found was a football-shaped hole at the epicenter of the meat. Its fist-sized red chunk exposed itself and gave an intoxicating smell, a smell of peppers, fish, and other delicious delicacies. Grabbing our plates, and readied ourselves. We stopped midway when we heard soft giggles. We looked up to see our boss covering his mouth with his hand, controlling his body spasms. 

      I asked if he was okay. He nodded and gestured to us to help ourselves. We delved deeper into the red mass; our forks stabbed it—what emerged from its body was a miracle—a miracle of saving our asses.

      After spilling the beans to the police, we were in a jail cell. We looked at each other and sighed. My partner looked back at me again. "I can't believe it." He slumped his back against the cement wall—covering his face. "We ate a person."