Fixation

Last night, I saw a demon.

It came to me in a garden touched by autumn. The leaves were browned with rot, a murky stream of fog flowing in-between dense hedge. Not much else could be seen, except that the sky was nearing twilight, all blackish orange. My vision faded in and out, in and out – synchronized with jagged breathing. Walking forward, I gradually realized with faint concern that I was not going anywhere at all; it was the garden moving past me.

The scenery remained the same, never-changing, those autumn leaves tinged in their rusty orange dimmed further by the fog and the choking sun. I was nervous, trembling nervous. Yet the garden kept walking, on and on into nothingness. I wished so desperately for it to stop, not because I saw anything frightening, not because I expected any terror from the faceless leaves, but because I could not control if I would eventually come upon something frightening or terrible.

It was a fear realized when I came upon the demon.

I cannot say how I knew it was a demon. Until this dream, I had never been in the presence of one. It appeared first as no more than part of the pitch nothingness at the end of the garden. But, as I drew nearer, its shape was defined by what was not there, and I became aware of a malicious consciousness lurking in a spiritual form. As my heart raced, my vision cleared, and I saw that the pitch was formed with purpose: the shape of a human, cut out like a paper man in the fabric of space, a black hole sucking the garden into itself. Sprouting from its head were two long appendages, an appearance like ears. There was nothing overt about it that would make one consider it a demon. Yet it was, simply because I knew it to be true as soon as I saw it. I classified it immediately by the feeling alone, before I even had the chance to mark its appearance.

The demon stood suspended, waiting for me to come. The clearer that empty form became, the faster my heart raced from fear. Those two ears twitched, as if hearing my pulse, and its own evil owner crackled like static, not from glee, but from the anticipation of satiated hunger. I do not know what exactly it was hungry for, but I knew that whatever it was was stored deep inside me. At first I knew this was but a dream – I was convinced this was a vision that could not affect me. But, the longer I stared into the infinite darkness of the demon, the less certain I was that this was certain. As my courage wavered, I was aware that the demon had some sort of physical body; bits and pieces of a describable appearance phased in and out of the darkness. I strained my vision to see those pieces clearly.

It was then I began to fear for my life.

I can’t tell you why. I’ve basically given up all possible explanations, and there’s no way of finding explanations when you’re trapped inside a nightmare. All I know is that the longer I stared into the demon, the more aware I became that I was going to die in that garden, at the feet of that demon. My whole body was wracked with hopelessness, the primal fear of promised doom.

I stared and the demon stared back. It had no eyes, , not all of the time, yet somehow it held my stare without break. My neck strained under that Hellish glare – my head jolted up and down – these were the throes of death, more violent the clearer my spectre became. I had to look away, or I would die there.

I could not look away. So I woke up.

I woke not on my own, but by the uncontrollable thrashings of my own body. They startled me out of my mind, and, even pulled back into the communal plane, I continued jerking about like one possessed for another minute. When the shakes subsided, and my head stopped its possessed bobbing, I was left exhausted, traumatized, sleepless at four in the morning. It was an epileptic seizure that saved me, but I was sure, if I were to see the demon again, it would be an epileptic seizure that kills me. Oh-so close to death in those waking moments, I wandered my apartment without a thought in my head for a while. Thoughts were replaced with terror, terror that every shadow behind every door concealed a devil determined to draw me back into the dream – to force me to stare into the demon until I finally succumbed to hopelessness. I sweated, fearful that a devious grin or a black form was waiting to propel me into fear again, behind the door, at the foot of the bed, at the end of the hall. This was neurosis speaking. But that neurosis revealed something to me: I understood the only way to avoid such an end was to force myself not to expect, and consequently peer into the demon. It was the demon’s unveiling, not its presence, that would prove to be fatal. Knowing this didn’t do a thing to quell my fears.

After wiping the drool off my pillow and cleaning the sweat off with a shower, I fixed some coffee and watched The Autopsy of Jane Doe. It was a frightful film, but I had chosen it in particular because I wanted to check something: to see if the nightmare affected my experience with the movie. It helped feed the dark atmosphere, certainly, but my thoughts were untinged by the evil in that movie. It was posing as evil, a watered-down replication of the darkest malignance, which I had borne witness to. The film even proved to be a welcome distraction, entertaining me and drawing my thoughts away from thoughts that would otherwise make the morning drudge along in fear of every dark corner.

When the film finished, I looked online for explanations of that nightmare. Some people propose to be experts at reading visions, and most opinions online are free (some of the traumatized love to relieve their fears to connect with others of the same thought or experience). However, all I could find were mentions of “dark men” with “black hats,” furry beasts, or your Slenderman types; hardly any were recognized as the demon that I came upon. There were records of possessions that lead to epileptic seizures, but barely any provided descriptions of the demonic culprit. Moreover, none had mentioned that singular despair of looking into the figure – how that figure fashioned from void material clenched your gut with the feeling that life was on the line. As far as I could tell, I was the only one writing about it. It was my fear alone.

I noticed something over the next few weeks. I noticed that the people around me were not privy to fear. Anxiety, yes. Depression, yes. Wariness, most definitely. But true, unadulterated fear is not something present in most college students’ lives. True fear is founded on the precept that all things are about to end, and that there will be no chance for recovery because there will be nothing to build from. Just one ruined shell of what was once a being, laid low by forces outside their control. That is death. That is the fear I woke to in those dawning hours. Their numbness was not born from courage, but rather imperceptibility. They had not faced death – there is no way they could no what fear felt like.

Yet the fear only lasted through half the day. My mind became preoccupied with other things, and what I thought I saw in the demon was discounted as a nightmare, brought on by subconscious thoughts that I could not be bothered to untangle. My fear was irrational, heightened by the certainty that I knew what I had been looking at, when I really did not. But, as I considered the impact of fear on my peers, I became more relaxed with the idea that whatever would come, would come. Only One has the power to stop it, and I prayed, but I was unafraid because I knew the demon could only take my life, not me.

Within a month, I found myself returned to the twilight garden. It had been some time since I stopped philosophizing fear, content with the answers I found. I did not fight the hedges and the fog as they rolled onwards, but focused rather on confronting what would be at the end. It took longer than last time. Much longer. Perhaps it only seemed longer, since I was now aware, but the garden appeared to have grown while I was away. My nerves were steeled in preparation, but they loosened with impatience as there was no break in the orange-black foliage in sight.

Only then did the demon manifest. At the end of the garden, wherein it only seems to continue on towards nowhere, did the demon finally manifest through its spatial tear. My body was transported by spasms, and I gasped for the courage to stare my reaper straight in its faceless eyes. The longer I held my gaze, the clearer the demon seemed to me; likewise, the longer I held my gaze, the more violent my spasms became. The waiting, the journey through the garden, had sent me to slaughter, wearing down all my reassurances by forcing me to stand at attention until it arrived at the proper point. And now the demon had the upper hand.

But still I gazed, and still I picked apart the demon’s existence. As its body became clear to me, I realized it was not made of parts familiar to corporeal sight, but felt in the mind’s eye. The more I picked it apart, the less I saw, and consequently the more I feared because the demon was made of fear itself, and had tricked me by its stillness into believing I could stare directly into it and not be afraid. Its ears twitched. They were not ears at all, but antennae detecting the worry in my heart and manipulating it into possessive fear. I had fallen for the demon’s unassuming nature, and my body was now beyond my control.

Unable to look away, unable to run away, I had no choice but to look into the depths of that hole as I was drawn ever nearer. Closer, closer, death approached. The garden soon brought me to the demon’s feet, and I realized that we had reached the end. As I collapsed to the ground, trembling from seizures, I stared unflinchingly up at the demon. Its gaze seemed to look past me, as if I were already lost and thereby not worth further attention. My vision faded in and out of blackness, as the twilight was slowly fading into night. On the cusp of death, I realized that this figure, this demon, though made of fear, was not frightening at all. It was the fear I saw in it, and what I feared that meant for me, which brought me nearer to death. It was fear for loss of control, not the loss of control itself, that convinced me that hope was now just a dream, and this nightmare a reality.

In that dawning thought, I found strength. In that strength, I found peace.

Spontaneous Combustion

I can’t tell you the exact day when the world went crazy. Little implosions in the background – you never notice them at first, right? White noise, that’s all it starts as. Just slightly odd people doing slightly odd things – You can tell the odd ones by their eyes. Those with “the glaze” are generally harmless, but you can never be certain. The instant you’re certain is the instant they act unpredictably cruel. I’ve seen two classmates jump onto the desks and perform a sweet schottische together, and I’ve seen a boy cut out his own tongue and tie it around his head as a pointless eye patch, until he died from blood loss. There are always two conditions under possession of “the glaze”: the actions come from nowhere with no reason, and nobody else regards them.

But I do. And they notice me, too, staring back with thoughtless, blank eyes. I’ve trained myself to notice them as well, to steel myself against the expectedly unexpected. It’s exhausting – my nerves feel taut for hours on end, as if steel cords were passing through them. But keeping calm at the point of calamity is the only way to keep that white noise in the background.

I see the glaze now, in fact. Across the street, at the edge of a park, sits a lovey-dovey couple on a dew-coated bench. Their backs were turned to me, watching the pond – at first. Their heads swiveled to face me when I wasn’t looking, and now stare with the same glazed eyes my brother had. I can hear my heart picking up the pace as I stop to stand my ground. What will they do? I have no idea. They draw closer to each other…closer…stress like wires through my veins chokes off my breath…closer…

And flap their tongues together, like some sort of perverse handshake.

Breathe out. Walk on, but never break eye contact. Those with the “glaze” are generally harmless, but you can never be certain; they act so unpredictably. I’ve had two classmates jump onto the desks and perform a schottische while standing on their hands. I’ve seen a man cut out his own tongue and tie it around his head as a pointless eye patch until he died from blood loss. There are two conditions that always reoccur under this possession: the actions come from nowhere and with no reason, and nobody else in the area regards them. I’ve trained myself to catch their eyes, to steel myself against the unexpected. Breathe in, breathe out, move on.

Home is my sanctuary. I live alone with my older brother, who has not once been possessed with the “glaze.” Every day I am certain it will happen, but it never does.

“You seem tense lately, Kuriho. What’s the matter?”

A shrug and some generic “not enough sleep” excuse concerns him more.

“You high school students and anxiety. I tell you, I don’t miss it at all. When you graduate and have less things and people to worry about, you’ll wonder what it was all for.”

Sounds like a nice dream, made to be broken.

My brother laughs and picks up my bowl, offers to get me more potatoes.

“It’s much more manageable when you have a reason to care, too.”

He winks and heads into the kitchen. I can’t help but feel a little more relaxed, a little more optimistic. I’m grateful for my brother in times like this; at least I can be certain of that.

A few seconds passed before I pick up the sound of sizzling, the smell of burning. I dashed to the kitchen and beheld my brother standing rigid, his hand in a pot of boiling oil. His eyes…blank.

Recovering from shock, I leapt after him, tried to pull his hand out, screamed as loud as I could. But he was frozen, a silent statue as the apartment filled with the smell of bubbling flesh.

That was two weeks ago. Every night now, without fail, those eyes keep me up. Distant, strained as wide as they can without adding anything to his expression. No frown, no sneer, no grimace – just eyes. They looked down at me, as if to jeer, “You can’t stop this. But you can’t help trying.” My nerves tighten; it gets harder and harder to breathe, to think with clarity.

I’ve seen those eyes many times before. But now they’re in my own home. I can’t unsee them any longer. I pull the covers over me, but I feel a gaze… Waiting out there, through the crack in my door, peering at me behind the mask of my brother. In the morning he is weak from the loss of his hand. At night…Well, whether asleep or awake, there is no longer any sanctuary.

A few hours go by after my brother goes to bed. I pick up the sledgehammer hidden beneath my bed, bought today on a whim, and tiptoe over to his room. The only way to beat this new world’s secret madness is to beat it to the punch. Who knows when you’ll put my hand in the pot next, brother? You understand. You must know why I raise this sledgehammer above your head, if only you could just see yourself in a mirror right now. Are feelings even real to the glazed? Staring at me with milky, lifeless eyes as you do now – the eyes of someone who has no control, no desire, no awareness. The eyes of someone who isn’t really in there at all. So I know you will forgive me.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on his dresser. It is a relief to see myself clearly, and my eyes, which, though wild at this turning point, are still full of life and thought. I am certain of this, at least.

Something gleams in the moonlight. My heart skips a beat. Tied to my arms, my legs, my body, my head…Where did all these strings come from, rising up towards nothing?

No…not towards nothing. Those red cords – my “nerves” – dangle from two enormous yellow spheres. Pale waxing moons suspended in the darkness of the ceiling, but clearly eyes of some ethereal kind. They shine on me with dim pupils, the strings zigging along them like nerves. In a blink – they disappear.

All at once: the cords snap, my nerves tighten, the hammer is swung, the “glaze” persists.

Precipice

Montana is a place overflowing with nature. That is not to say according to preconceived notions of nature, as in the forest is especially green and spacious, or that the animals are particularly frisky. Such is, in fact, the case with Montana and its Glacier Park, and may in fact lend influence to another type of nature. But stories of that type of nature, the environmental, are overdone and usually banal. Environmental nature is not what this story is about. No, by nature, we are referring to the base state of a thing; what a thing is reduced to when unmanaged, left untempered, raw.

Ah, there’s the word: raw. Montana is a raw place. Like the human body without clothing, every tear, every flaw in the flesh left exposed to the world. The scorches of forest fires are unpretending, erosion unstoppable, infestation a burden to bear. Houses have been built around the lakes, lovely wooden structures that are restricted, by policy, from receiving updates or additions. They must remain as they are, no pretending. Even the glaciers, the things that give the park its name, have almost melted completely away. And yet, somehow, it all remains so markedly beautiful. This decay, after all, is only natural.

Two hikers, Robson and Brooke, have made the long trek up one of these glaciers, and stopped for a snack. Surveying the pristine view, they are struck with awe and wonder that eluded them during the climb, since the mind tends to focus on pain over the pleasure that surrounds it. Filled with pride, energized by accomplishment, the two friends laugh and point at the trail they left thousands of feet below. This is the literal and metaphorical peak of their trip, the final stop before their Spring Break ends and they must return to the sloughs of university life. All that remained was the final hike down the glacier, to their hostel above a convenience store, to gather their things and take the train back to Seattle. A place where all was most certainly not raw, where people wear proper clothing and engage in proper interactions.

Over the course of the trip, Brooke and Robson were exposed to natural beauty, both around and within themselves. They had met over a mutual interest to travel, in a campus club, and soon arranged the trip for just the two of them to go out and “experience nature.” They meant, of course, nature in an Environmental sense. But they also experienced nature in a raw sense, for one would never agree to accompany the other if there was not an innate carnal attraction at the onset. And so they travelled, stopping at cheap hostels, engaging in raw animalistic intercourse most every single night. They explored the root of youth, and, finding it pumping and swollen with another’s blood, suckled from it. They could not help it – it was just too tantalizing to pass up.

The urge again passed between them at the top of the mountain. There, thousands of feet in the air, heads heavy from the dense atmosphere and intense muscular strain, they found themselves lusting after each other. They could see it in their eyes, they could smell it in their pheromone-mixed sweat. Both Robson and Brooke wanted no more than to plunge into the seismic throes of momentary passion, the thrill multiplied by their natural surroundings. It was a bedroom of the ancients, where man and woman, still developing language, relied more on instinct and physical assertion to communicate. Aroused beyond the proper considerations of a hike, the two grasped each other, and copulated among the ferns.

Naked and sleek, weak from mounting both the mountain and each other, the pair sat near the edge of a precipice. It was sufficiently clouded by scraggly trees, and broad enough that their footing would not be accidentally lost. They peered out over piney valleys, collected in pockets surrounded by the cruel, gray stone that packed the bases of mountains. They beheld a misty mountain morning, and there was no one else around to witness it but Mountain Goats and eagles.

In the midst of all this splendor, Robson was struggling with unfamiliar terror. It was not terror wrought by the vast verdant pit below, no, but rather by the young woman next to him. Following their long week of adventuring, it was clear to him that Brooke was immensely frailer than he. He knew this by throwing her around in the bed alone. As he absorbed her aura, felt the comfort of her being next to him, an unexplainable, contradictory urge struck him: the urge to nudge her off the edge of the cliff.

Why? Why would he conjure such a frightful action up in his mind? What could possibly possess the human will to encourage such a ghastly crime for no reason but impulse? For it was impulse that goaded Robson on, with the promise of some forbidden pleasure. To take that lithe, capable, helpless body and render it dashed on the rocks below – a tragedy. To betray at once the trust that was built in mind and flesh between them, satiating a rash desire for the thrill of denying life its once-inherent value.

And yet, was that the pleasure promised by the impulse? Or, was it that part-and-parcel sinking feeling, to commit the ultimate crime in a place where it would never be detected and live with the secret? It is reasonable to believe, natural even, that a hiker would take a tumble attempting the perfect selfie on the edge of a precipice. There is no one to say otherwise, and a phone is easily broken to bits from a mile-high drop. Ironic, that the least traceable murder requires no planning, no cover-up – a contrived end almost natural. Such a surprise is the height of sadism; the plummet commences before the victim comprehends what has happened, their last few seconds of existence futilely devoted to understanding why a supposed friend just sent them to their death. There will be an investigation, there will be an autopsy, but there will be nothing to point back to Robson.

Robson’s gut churned with anticipation. He looked down, down, and was afraid. But, again, not of the height below, but of his sudden lapse of morality. He turned in a daze to Brooke, smoking her cigarette, unaware of the danger looming so near to her on two sides. With just a look, his animalistic urge was redirected – he now simply wanted to have another go in the grass. Relieved to discover it had been but a fleeting thought, Robson smiled at Brooke with a little nervous confusion. He would never be able to shake the memory of thinking this thought, no matter how natural, but at least he could drown it out with orgasmic distraction. He felt Brooke stand next to him, and he unconsciously rose after her.

All Robson felt was a shove, before icy coldness inside and out told him he had fallen off the cliff. The wind blasted his hair back, and tears burned his eyes. In the moment of shock, in the denial of death, he made a last-ditch effort to turn around. He wanted desperately to see, if not what happened, the reaction on Brooke’s face. Sunlight burst over the peaks, illuminating what had evaded him since they’d been together.

What he saw was a reflection of his own mind.

Unbeknownst to Robson, as he had been pondering dangerous fantasies, so had Brooke. But whereas Robson’s was founded in her vulnerability, Brooke was intrigued with subverting his power. And that is what drew her to use the precipice, to hurl this fellow animal to his death from the draw of impulse – just another Mountain Goat losing footing. Robson’s very curiosity looked back at him through Brooke’s misted gaze, tracking this raw figure on its hopeless trip down the glacier. Almost as quick as it came on, the curiosity vanished, replaced with a horror no doubt brought on by moral implications and their physical manifestations. She covered her mouth to prevent the scream from coming out, and knelt down in despair. Then the altitude concealed her face from Robson.

In his last few meters, Robson was astounded at his fate. A one-in-a-million chance, Brooke being borne from the same mind as he, and he still could not put his finger on why he did not act first. One simple act of savagery, and her corpse would be watering the ferns, not his. But he did not act. She did. And now he could still only wonder why his thoughts condemned him to execution by whim, what small twang of conscience was in him that was not in Brooke. His bitter consolation was that she would have to live with the shame (he could see it in her face), and for that he was partly glad he balked at the chance. But that is what he dismissed it as: a fluke of chance, an enigma, impossible to understand reasonably. She was human, he was human, and they shared in thought if not in action. It was his fault, his weakness that he did not act first. But at least dying first gave Robson a sense of dignity. He was almost relieved she had been the one to give in, and not he.

The fall seemed to last for ages. Nevertheless, the end is always expected – it always comes. Fear gripped Robson, another communal human quality, as he braced himself for inevitable crushed bones and mangled muscles on the cracked stone rising to meet him. With unintentional violence, the rocks smashed his skull and spattered his brain all over their worn surfaces, a brain carrying Robson’s last uncomforting thought:

This was only natural.

The Gourmet Life

featured in Calliope Literary Magazine’s Spring 2018 edition

Open your stomach, and savor the tale of how I became a true Gourmet. It is a tantalizing tale, encrusted with a firm, yet enticing, start, dribbling with the most sanguine of warm centers, and dissolving into a mindful aftertaste, not too bitter and not too sweet. A quick treat, easy to digest, and only slightly tainted by its own presentation, I hope. I can only hope, you see, for I myself was not ready to live such a tale when it was first served up to me. That tale originated as a surprise, and, like all surprises, it takes retrospect and a cleared head to appreciate its digestion.

The Society of Gourmands for Gustatory Gallantry. Prestigious, a name that just rolls off the tongue with a generous glottal thrust. I first heard of it during my adolescence in the slums, from that old kooky cook Cook’s fables following long days and nights in the Skid Row kitchen. This legendary Society’s entire purpose was to re-imbue food with purpose, at a time when it was erased from reality as unnecessary, and the subsequent meal was rumored to be the most satisfying fourteen-digit expenditure in existence. “If yeh meck yahself useful,” Cook would say in his indiscernible native accent, the one belonging to the mostly-toothless, “them Gormans might sweeps ya up inta one of them ‘Feasts of Lasts.’ Best food ya evah tested. Real food, says a buddy o’ mahn.”

Now, I can guess what you’re thinking: real food? Bullocks, say you, real food doesn’t exist anymore! That’s just a rumor the bureaucracy spreads among its constituents to keep them, and by virtue their votes, alive. But bullocks say not I, because that’s exactly the allure of this so-called “Feast of Lasts”: food, the genuine article, prepared with lavishes of lip-smacking love like you’ve only dreamed! Not the crummy cans of genetic hodgepodge lining our common shelves, meant for nutrition and not for pleasure, but real meat from real animals, real sprouts from real vegetables, real cakes with real sugar…My head swims from mere aftertastes.

The waters of memory run so wide, the vessel of my invitation cannot be seen on the horizon. Was it my personal diary detailing the varying flavors of flavorless foods, published for an extra penny to yield a fortune? Maybe the charity I provided those who could not rise as I did, swept too deep into the despondency of poverty left by the collapse of civilizations we relied upon? Or perhaps my appeals for a Global Reconstruction Effort, to focus on the reintegration of genuine edibles, and not the Baroness Hayflax’s cans of Spammish bile we have no choice but to live and thrive solely upon? Before we can rebuild this broken planet, wrecked by the combined disasters of Nature and humanity, we must first rebuild ourselves; mundane manual labor, day in and day out, needs the color of salivation to liven a mostly rough sketch of what life once was. The people suffer for it, knowing a hearty supper no longer awaits them at home, no longer offers a sweet release, since the looming shadow of order deems it unnecessary.

So, why was I invited by that esteemed Society of Gourmands for Gustatory Gallantry, to participate in the legendary “Supper of Lasts?” For no more evident reason than they sought me, and I was willing.

And so I arrived at the appointed date and time, desiring a good impression. The Premier Palate Pavilion was a botanic garden, erected with monstrous glass panels that allowed the pleasures of the garden without to be felt from within, and capitulating in a dome of multicolored glass as its culinary crown. Even the most ostentatious grandmother would fall leagues short of decorating such a dining room as this one, furnished with jagged jet tables and amber chairs. The Society was around fifty in number, elites from the entire world over in mind, purse, or name, the majority female but the younger majority male, and all bedecked in clothes expensive enough to dress a child for five years. To pass the time, these laughing faces orbited politics, philosophy, romance, the collapse of society, gossip, and, above all else, the anticipated supper.

My host was a magnanimous Swede by the name of Doctor Major Major Doctor; for brevity, I shall simply call him Doctor Major. He was a man of both military and medicinal repute, famously wealthy, yet saving pride for his elevated taste. He had been impressed with my work, and heartily took me under the arm, destined for parades in and out of certain socialite groups to captivate them with my theories on Nutritional Selection and the Zen potential of taste buds. I was quickly pleased by how fascinated they were of the intellectualism I brought to the dinner table, my favor being most profound upon the Doctor Major himself.

“Right-o, boy, well said! For what is a man but a beast, if he can’t appreciate what really hits the spot?”

Well, now, I felt compelled to give him other indications of how to tell whether a being is a beast or a man, but, seeing my company’s boredom settling in, reeled them back in with a discussion on the psychological effects of Parsley garnish, the singular sprig that always makes it onto the plate despite never being eaten.

I eventually became distracted by the scenery, the porcelain fountains and lush tropical trees providing better food for the eyes than my companions’ food for the ears. Mind you, I rose from the gutters; only in dreams had I been privy to such extravagance. And the animals! Lured by the smells of the cuisine as if they anticipated it as much as I, shadows lumbered out from behind the chalky curtain of night. Creatures of all sizes: a large cat with orange coat and zigging stripes, a bulky, grey, wrinkly thing with a spear sprouting from its nose, a leathery green monster-worm with a tongue flicking in and out of its jaws, a fish the size of a car, sleek and black with white splotches…Truly, a more colossal menagerie had never been seen!

But my eager eyes would grow wider still, not from amazement, but stunned confusion. Among the bushes, hidden behind a pitcher plant the size of a telephone pole, was a young man. I would not find this strange, were he not bare as a peeled banana, and his eyes any less piercing. But they did not pierce with emotion or intelligence; there was no emotion or intelligence to be found, but a hopeless cloud that made him appear dopey-eyed, unaware, like those animals with hooves and horns to which cars were the primary predator. I pressed my palm against the glass, anxious not to scare him but not to remain unaware of him. He sniffed the air, plodding towards my hand though looking everywhere it was not, and pressed his cheek against the glass. His eyes frightened me, for there was no spirit, no recognition, no process of thought that existed there. All I saw were two wet, ebony gems – glossy, empty, dormant.

A brass gong resonated throughout, signaling the first course. My strange companion faded back into the moonlit garden.

I took a seat between Doctor Major and a middle-aged woman cradling yards of furs wrapped around her chest at one of the round tables, aching for an explanation of what I just witnessed, but feeling it improper as the pu-pu platters arrived with their assortment of appetizers. Skewers a forearm high, penetrating a stack of speckled melons and spotted, stringent meats. My inquiries were soon forgotten to me with this, our first taste of that legendary “Feast of Lasts.” The morsels were, in a word, fresh, in another word salivating. Their steam lifted with our forks, and continued out our nostrils as our teeth closed on them like an ivory curtain. A sigh of ecstasy was echoed by the whole room, well deserved; never had I tasted fruits so plump, meats so tender, vegetables so crisp! Doctor Major elbowed me in the ribs with good humor.

“That’s the ticket! Does it live up to everything you expected, boy? Or does it shatter those expectations like a glass ceiling?”

I murmured in the assent, drooling a little of that savory juice.

“That there is a special mutation between dragon fruit, watermelon, and some berry or other that escapes me. But our supper isn’t named for mutated fruits, oh, hell no! The meat, gamey and tame simultaneously, is none other than Jaguar, a ferocious jungle cat! The last of its kind, boy, so savor it while you can!”

I was struck by the sudden realization that this would be the only time such a heavenly taste would perch upon my tongue, before dissolving forever. I asked why the cats were not bred, so that we may always partake of grilled Jaguar whenever we pleased.

“Why, I took you for more of a man of thought that. Breed Jaguar? Haugh! The only reason Jaguar, or any meat for that matter, bursts with such flavor is because you can only try it once!”

I found this line of reasoning impudent, for how should I recall its flavor from just one sample during my lifespan? And, oh, the pangs to come, pangs to feast on Jaguar again and knowing it cannot be offered by the whole world! I was the only one of this mind, as the Society of Gourmands for Gustatory Gallantry slobbered and smacked over their trifle portions, wolfing down the chunks without second thought.

Of course, I knew you would question my care for life, for that magnificent beast I have reduced to a mouthful of taut, juicy muscle. And I ask you, in return, what is the difference between this Jaguar and the cow, so readily put to the slaughter in times before civilization’s collapse? Back then, a pig, a horse would be murdered for its utilities, so why should this cat not also serve its purpose?

The next appetizer was rolled out as fast as the last was devoured: glazed dumplings stuffed with peacock. Again, what makes this fowl so holy when compared to the chicken? I ate it, and found it better than any chicken.

In this manner the “Feast of Lasts” progressed with a few more appetizers, each a beast that marked the end of its kind. Then, the main course was announced, and served to eyes that appeared to be drooling just staring at it. My plate was uncovered, and I found myself marveling at the smoothest, shiniest meat, a tanned orange strewn with purple veins, a sweet, pungent smell swelling my brain.

“Well? Don’t sit there gawking all day. Have a bite, won’t you?”

I looked towards Doctor Major, and realized that all eyes in the Pavilion were strained directly at me, eager for my first taste of that sumptuous flank. Observing it as custom, I took the first bite.

Good God! The rich flavors of this meat were an achievement of creation, greater than anything I have had or could ever possible consume again, putting Jaguar to shame! The luscious juices, the tough skin, the tender consistency…the room shared my opinion, surely, for they tore into their portions like demons, and the meal was finished in a hot second. I was sad to see it go forever, almost to the point of tears.

“You enjoyed it? Don’t grieve, boy; this wasn’t the last time you’ll have that particular meat.”

I was overjoyed to hear the good news! Surely they couldn’t be so sadistic as to disregard this meat as they did the previous five. So, what was this heavenly main course of the “Feast of Lasts,” the same main course of every “Feast of Lasts?”

“A gift, my boy. A gift from the esteemed Baroness Hayflax.”

Ah, really? I could not imagine the creator of the government’s regulated food, formless and heartless, to have such taste as to be permitted into this Society. She was rumored a wealthy old woman, age not dulling her wit, a formidable debater on any stage but preferring to keep her diamond ringed fingers steeped in politics. I had despised her for what she forced us all to consume, but I suppose there were reasons for it. I inquired which table the good woman was at, to confess my misgivings and thank her. Doctor Major laughed.

“Why, she’s at every table, boy! A bit of her at least…you were lucky, getting the ass! Juiciest portion, am I right?”

At first, I could not have surmised what my new friend was going on about. But then I looked around at the gleaming grins of my company, teeth gnashing in consummation; a forearm picked clean here, stacked rings of breast meat there, a rib, a hand…an eyeball, staring at me from the end of a fork, its darkened vision grown darker as it was slurped down. Hazy and aching, my consciousness returned to what remained of the late Baroness Hayflax before me. My gut sunk, clammy and cold, with the steel taste of vomit.

I had eaten another human being! Disgusting, evil! That these devils would treat such an act with the highest class, and drag me headlong into it without knowing! On purpose or no, I committed the gravest offense to humanity, even savored every moment of it…I felt so sick, not only in stomach, but in soul. Some part of my humanity – I don’t know how to describe it – but I felt lesser. Less than a person…like an animal. Animals eat their own young, so does the Society of Gourmands for Gustatory Gallantry devour its own members!

Shame, horror compelled me to rise, and bile dripped from the corners of my mouth as I choked it down with more willingness than to finish my meal. The company watched me, glossy shining, waiting for my next move. Was I to run from the Society? Was I to give up fine dining forever?

To be honest, these fears were not what caused me to hesitate. Nor were they what weighed me back into my seat. No, no…it was dear Baroness Hayflax, and her sumptuous rump. God, what a sumptuous rump! The Jaguar, the peacock…none compared to the heartiness of that good lady’s barbecued hindquarters. I still felt awful, downright awful, but how could I return to those cans of pus, the only option for children bred of the slums? As the rest resumed dining, I resolved to wait, to not eat another bite…but I did. Then another. Then the Baroness Hayflax was gone, and only her salty juices swam in the dish.

Dessert was splendid, but I don’t have the heart to describe all the puddings and jellies it entailed. How could they pierce the rotten heart of a cannibal? The meal wrapped up, farewells were exchanged, and an almost mocking eulogy of the late Baroness was presented. I tried to keep up a good show, but was too shocked to offer anything other than a dazed, curt politeness. When most of the party had departed, the Pavilion painted the color of night, rows of waiters burst forth through double doors on roller skates. Faster than I could follow, they folded the tables, carted the chairs, convincing in their ignorance with professional haste. One, a woman with her hair in cornrows, approached me with a smile.

“Did you find everything to your liking, sir?”

I ran. Through the maze of glass hallways, I ran, in a cold sweat with a hellish heat burning my chest. On the other side of the walls, I could see the sad, staring faces of the animals. They knew, they knew that I was just one of them, that none of my culinary refinements and fancy words could hide the plain truth that I was just another lowly creature. I stumbled outside, desperate to escape the jungle’s condemnation.

“Ho there! Need a ride home?”

Doctor Major Major Doctor waved at me from his station wagon. I did not want to join him, but knew I must for safety. Who knows how this cult obtains their human brand of meat? Was I to be next?

The drive home began in silence. I knew not what to say, afraid of causing offense that could put me in harm’s way. Doctor Major glanced my way discreetly, opened his mouth a few times, but stopped short to twirl his mustache. The property stretched a mile in every direction, but he didn’t wish to let it pass before speaking.

“Listen, boy, I know what you’re about. You’re all twisted up inside right now because you just ate another human being, yeah? Felt like a punch in the nuts when I found out, too, but I kept eating. Stuff’s just too damn good! You did the same, being a man of intelligence, so I know I can tell you the truth. I’m sure it will help ya calm down a bit, help ya sleep at night.”

We were nearing the end of the jungle. I could make out some small fire ahead, which Doctor Major also saw and insisted I strain my eyes to see what it illuminated.

Behold, can I believe my own eyes? What did I see but men and women, even children, all bare as the road through the jungle and stupid as the farm animal with hooves and devilish horns? They sat around the fire, the younger ones hooting, the older ones silent, but all stared at our passing car with bright, glossy eyes, similar to the boy I encountered before the feast. In a few feet, the Premier Palate Pavilion, and that tribe of strange humanoids, was behind us.

Doctor Major Major Doctor cleared his throat, and began his justification.

“You see, the laws of our great land are against murder, for good reason. Without people, how would we support our own extravagancies, you know? But share and share alike can create some dismal prospects for workers, who have nothing really to work for but to keep our government moving. The laws are against murder, yes…but they say nothing of self-murder. We seek out those people, the ones who have no hope in their eyes, or up to their necks in bills, and make them a proposal:

‘How would you like us to take care of all your needs, so that you never have to worry again?’

The terms are simple; the subject will live on our properties for a minimum seven years, eating as much as they please and freed from working for nothing ever again. I mean, it’s pretty clear-cut, right? Would they rather be cattle for the bureaucracy, yet spend every penny they have just to end the grumbling in their bellies for an hour and pretend to be civilized, or would they rather be cattle for us, and never worry a dime over security or social pretensions again?

Most agree pretty quickly, I think. They have problems later down the line about how much freedom we allow, the freedom to act like animals, but the reasoning lobe of their brains calms down after a month or two. You can tell, considering how many children were in that group alone; the kids are raised to be without language. Soon, the original escapists think no better than your average ape, and all they do is sleep, eat, and fuck all the livelong day. They signed a contract, you see, so they’re not very well allowed to leave when they so please, but an unworthiness to re-enter society sets in eventually. That, and, I guess, a reluctance to go back to misery. Besides, did they have that much control in their other lives, anyway?

Beside the point, beside the point. Anyhow, after seven years, which the monkeys can’t count because the jungle doesn’t come with a calendar, we decide whether to continue cultivating them or to slip a drug into their meal. You heard me; we euthanize them. Nothing very barbaric, especially since they literally signed their lives away to us (first line in the fine print), so think of it as…assisted suicide. Yeah. We’re all animals after all, am I right, boy? Just better than thinking than the rest. You’ve seen what happens when you take a man out of civilization, but you’ve also seen what happens while he is in it; destined to be a pack animal either way, living off others’ purses and letting his drivers live off his hide. Tell me, what’s the difference between a man and a sheep?”

I said I didn’t quite know what a sheep was.

“Oh. Well, shit. I was going to say a sheep can offer more than just meat, but the joke’s lost if you don’t know what that is. We’ll have to have some next time around! Delectable thing, sheep, goes down easy.”

I was surprised how calmed I was by this explanation. Is man no more than a glorified animal? If so, there is nothing legally wrong about what the Society is doing. In fact, they’re doing these people a favor; instead of working to put money in your neighbor’s pocket, you don’t have to work and are still provided for? I…I hesitate to say, but maybe I wasn’t reasoning well enough. True, what makes man more than the Jaguar, the Peacock, besides his intellect? And it’s not like this outcome was against their will, and carried out inhumanely…

“Oh, and the Baroness Hayflax? No, she didn’t go through all that, she died of age. Very peaceful sleep it was, I heard. Yeah, she donated her body to the Society, said it was the only thing she looked forward to every month, and asked us to remember her for her lavish taste. But I’m pretty sure she meant something entirely different than what we’re thinking now, eh?”

Doctor Major laughed throatily, an echo on that solitary road above the rumble of the engine. To act natural, I joined in. As my thoughts raced, I realized something…nothing the Doctor Major said was really wrong. And they were doing such a great favor for these poor souls in their last years, too; I know what it’s like, having once been in their position. I got out of the gutter, but suppose there are those who are unable to? Then I’d reckon…I’d reckon this is a fine way out, even charitable. Even humane.

My laughter, genuine this time over such an agreeable impossibility, rose in the night to meet Doctor Major’s, and our voices twinkled in the sky over that desolate plain beyond the jungle. The moon followed us home to the city, where the free man still toils under the yoke of his own curse; the curse of being born without purpose, able to recognize this truth, and unable to help serving all but himself.

Another month has passed, and I will put your fears to rest: I made up my mind to join the Society of Gourmands for Gustatory Gallantry that next day. Access to the kitchen was granted to me, that I might experiment with the best use of my talents. Tonight, we shall begin with my own recipes, using such exquisite meats as Orca, Cassowary, and Tortoise. Then we move on to…well, you know what’s always to be the main course. I do not even care that my own creations are destined to pale in comparison. Oh, how fortunate I am, to have been accepted into the company of true Gourmets!