Human flesh eating shouldn’t be limited to zombies and the Chinese.
Here are five situations where if I had to, I would put you in an oversized pot like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
The plane has crashed and only the two of us survive. We had met upon cocktails at the airport bar and joked about how, in the most unlikely of scenarios, we should turn to cannibalism. On the obese passengers first, of course. Then we would break the legs of the lighter, faster passengers if need be. Oh how we laughed at the morbid absurdity of it all.
Now, surrounded by a desert that fried even the heartiest lizards into tiny leather bags, we must face our conversation without the irony that enveloped it. You suggest we create a shelter from the sections of charred metal and debris, then, locate any edible foodstuffs that may have fallen into the sand. However, I am no common scavenger. I have a reputation to uphold. So, soon, the back of your head meets a broken section of propeller blade. (Note: I put it there.) Under a night sky that could only be uncovered by the serenity of a desolate wasteland, I eat quietly and heartily, joking with you about how this all turned out. You do not respond.
A murderous mix of peer pressure and the vengeful eye of an angry God have brought you, a former runaway courtesan, before me and my court of leering chieftains. I fumble nervously through the ceremony of chanting and fire breathing.
Finally, in the full presence of my people, from the sacred virgins to the barrel-chested warriors alike, I am instructed to plunge my hand into your chest, remove your heart, and eat it. With one eye closed I thrust my fingers inside and rip your heart away like a Band-Aid, hoping that your pained grunts will be drowned out by the crackling of our sacred fire. They are not.
Quivering and steaming upon exposure to the cool air, I bite into it like a red apple and swallow a searing chunk whole. My audience gasps in horrified astonishment and then immediately begins laughing hysterically at the remaining bits of deflated muscle still clutched in my hand. I can't believe they did this. I have been fooled again, for the fourth time this month.
It is Tuesday. We are totally stoned.
You tasted awful.
It is a bright Sunday morning at St. Yolanda's Cathedral and the body of Christ is being devoured in a vanilla wafer form.
You turn to me to start yet another discussion on the merits of the Catholic Church and the cannibalizing of our savior's flesh, subjects which I have grown bored of debating. Shouting loudly, your passions lead you to strike me with the flat side of a bible. Instantly I transform into a venomous snake and nature takes its sickening course, as I swallow you whole.
The rest of the parishioners attack me with knives and broken, sharply whittled down pieces of the cross (we go to a church where everyone keeps these on hand), until I am torn into strips by their sanctimonious hands. By the time the authorities arrive, my snake-like body has reverted back into a now mutilated form of a man. ("I onccccccce wassssss a man!" -Ed.) No one knows how to explain my metamorphosis and fewer admit to helping in my violent death, but all feel closer to their faith than they did the day before, and a little bit crazy.
You’re expecting sympathy from me; all of the lies our relationship, all of the cheating and the horrible things that you never expected a boyfriend to do. Still, you stay with me for reasons that you don’t understand.
Well I know the truth. You can’t leave because I have already taken everything that you thought was your own. Passion? Will power? Ambition? I have eroded all of these. And like the villain Galactus, I am an energy not and entity, a being that exists only to consume lesser worlds. Now, bake for your famished king! Yourself, I mean.
I cut you off in traffic. "Eat me!" you say from your opened window.
I take you literally.