The Feast

by dantewilde

As Promised, a new story, The Feast. Enjoy.

“Gluttony is the Luxury of the rich”

He sat in such a way his stomach rolled down to the bottoms of his thighs. Stained yellow teeth tore off pieces of steak pie and with each mouthful his stomach stretched further toward his knee caps. The cake was next, with the small amount of dignity that remained he sliced a portion from the soft warm chocolate mixture. A single hand, as fat as it was long, wrapped stubbed fingers about the base and like a black hole his esophagus swallowed the first mouthful, then the second. His stubs followed the cake into the cavern like a peace treaty the vacuum sucked the chocolate away only to set its imperial sights onto more.

Sweat beaded on his dominant chin, so great the others had folded into the avalanche of flesh and stubble. With his left hand scooping glacier size slices of cake his right dug deep into a bowl of cream, like oil companies in conservation land. The cream was smeared across the cake in a twisted orgy of slug like fingers and excess. His demolishment a symbolic act of the destruction awaiting the earth preservation act that was tucked around his neck. “Another road” he said to himself in between handfuls of cake and pie, “yes, another road.” The food smeared lips curled up in a smile, cheese strung between them as the crevice opened to laugh studiously at his own thoughts. A butler entered the room and pushed his cart toward the table. An entire lamb lay roasted with its legs and tail dangling over the edge, mint sauce drizzled on top. The slug laughed again. “Like Lambs to the slaughter!” only a grimace was released from the butler who hauled the animal onto the table and placed a machete sized carving knife and pitch fork like fork in front of the monstrous lard-in-clothes creature that sat beside him. Weighed down by the fat on his face the obese man’s eyes were beady and he shot a glance in the direction of the butler, who naturally assumed he was next on the plate and left.

With his carving knife in one hand and his Bill Of Rights napkin in the other, he grasped the head of the lamb and drove the knife into it’s spine. He slashed the lamb in half and dropping his knife then lifted half of the creature toward his drooling mouth and began to tear the flesh from it’s bones with one horrendous bite after the other. He slurped the juices and his chameleon-like tongue lashed his fat laden cheeks and lapped each drip of fluid. Only for a moment did he stop to wipe his fingers with the Bill before the stripped bones were discarded onto the floor and the peasants fought over the scraps. The next half of the lamb was dragged in front of him. With the left hand he squeezed the marinated meat and with his right he plunged it inside the opened stomach and in shovelfuls consumed the bread based stuffing. With the smaller bones of the lamb he picked his teeth and bellowed at his likeliness of Jack and The Beanstalk’s Giant. The food-based defamation of the Bill made him proud, it’s crumpled, deformed papers hit the table followed by a heavy dripping hand. His call was soon answered and exotic meats were brought forth by a squadron of butlers, each dropping a plate from the continents of the world. “Free Markets” a smile tore across his lips. And he reached with both hands into separate plates then hauled the contents in dripping mass across the table into his mouth. Without chewing he forced more and more through. The liquids dripped like oil and the decimation of the plates like the destruction of nations. “Industrialisation” he gulped down another mouthful then like indigenous people he cast two of the plates aside.

He reached across, took up the soufflé,  and held his prize in front of his gaze. Like an Aryan he examined it’s beauty, it’s delicacy, it’s supreme essence, a thing of beauty that could never rise twice. There was only one supreme the Free Market. With more grace than could be expected he drew the soufflé to his lips and allowed the Chameleon like tongue to slide across the top. His massive body trembled with temptation, with excitement, with lust for globalisation. An unfettered lust that was driven my his selfish desire for dominance over all life. A racist, a supremacist. If he could eat enough to vomit enough, he would surely spew poison from his cavernous mouth. Dams would be built to stem the flow as he vomited over the lands of people with chocolate skin, people with blue eyes, as he vomited over the lands of people. Each person the same as their brother, the same as their sister, flesh and blood, bones and souls. But vomit he did not. He consumed further still and consumed even more. All the delicacy with which he had devoured the soufflé perished in the moments following.

“More!” his Oliver Twist reference forced his sweltering gut to shake in distorted laughter. He controlled the culture, the power mogul that owned the world. Yet while he sat to feast he was no king, he was no man. He was lard-in-clothes, he was despair, he was gluttony. The squadron of butlers returned with the final course, the land of the free. In front of him they lay the cake of ice cream and chocolate, of liberty. It sat on a bed of constitution. He reached his arms across the cake and it’s girth exceeded his own. The stubs of fingers were wiped on the conservation bill around his neck and placing a hand beneath the corner of the cake he lifted it to his mouth. Each state broke apart as his mine-like-mouth caused the land to fall away. He mined each section of the cake, sucking the insides out he discarded the marzipan, leaving it for the peasants. With each bite crumbs spilled down his  gut and trickled like money to the poor. Before long the cake of ice cream had been devoured and the chocolate sauce slurped off his fingers as he stripped the last of the earth.