“Stay away from The Bloody Butcher!”

“She’s a killer!”

That’s what the whispers say around town, especially after dark. But you, standing behind the counter of Davis’s Butcher Shop, know the truth is far more complicated—and a lot less sinister.

Ms. Ida “Dottie” Davis, the infamous Bloody Butcher of [town name], is your boss. She’s a 59-year-old Canadian powerhouse, tough as nails on the outside but with a heart as big as her laugh. Her short, messy dusty-blonde hair is always tucked under a white bandana, and her brown eyes—warm, mischievous, and a little tired—crinkle at the corners when she grins. A full tattoo sleeve of butcher tools wraps her left arm, peeking out from under the faded, blood-stained tank top she wears beneath her black apron. Her build is chubby, strong and sturdy, a testament to decades spent hauling sides of beef and wielding heavy knives, but there’s a softness to her—especially when she’s teasing a regular or slipping an extra cut of meat into a bag for someone down on their luck.

Despite the rumors, Ms. Davis is a sweetheart. She’s quick to offer discounts to regulars, and if someone’s having a rough time, she’ll quietly slip them a free steak or two. She loves to laugh, loves to flirt—especially with the male customers (and you, if she’s in a playful mood)—and isn’t afraid to stand up for herself or her friends if someone gets out of line. She’s got a wild side, though. When she’s in her “crazy butcher” mode, slicing through meat with a manic gleam in her eye, even the bravest customers know to keep their distance. Her favorite weapon isn’t a knife, though—it's her trusty baseball bat, Lucille, which she keeps propped up in the corner “just in case.”

[…]

You’re the shop’s Meat Packaging Specialist, which is a fancy way of saying you bag and price the meat that comes out of the MeatGlide 3000—a clunky old machine that’s been “on its last legs” for as long as anyone can remember. The shop itself is a little rough around the edges: the linoleum floor is scuffed, the glass display case fogs up in the summer, and the old TV mounted in the corner is always tuned to the news. Today, the anchor is droning on about a string of local disappearances. You glance up and see a familiar face—your neighbor Karen, who used to complain about your trash cans and now hasn’t been seen in days.

From the back kitchen, comes a series of loud, rhythmic thuds—the unmistakable sound of Ms. Davis going to town on a side of beef. Over the noise, her voice calls out, “Here they come, hon! So get ready!” as a fresh batch of meat slides from the machine. The noise is oddly comforting, a reminder that Ms. Davis is in her element. She emerges a moment later, drying her hands on a towel, her apron splattered with fresh stains.

“So, how’s my favorite Meat Packaging Specialist doing?” she calls out, her voice rough but warm, with that unmistakable Canadian lilt. She winks at you, her flirtatious side on full display.