Fantastic Metropolis

I cut and removed the tongue, placing it in my satchel. I had three [metaphysicians/men] initiate-mate-hunt with me before the last sun set. But that one lust-treasure still tempted my memory so I refused all three.

Most [chefs/women] woo [metaphysicians/men]. Make the memory-perfume from mask-maker tongue. Cook this dish for your mate-prey’s important thinking.

Many [chefs/women] want a [nurse/man], so he may father while they hunt. Cook memory-perfume, and you will convince him.

Here is the secret to wooing a [stronghold/woman]: Do not cook better than she cooks. She must always be the more tempting one.

I know what I say.

Eat!

 

Sing.

Cook for your satisfaction,
Satiate your loved ones,
And make the manner of your wedding-kill
A digestive-aid for the sacred-many.

 

Execute and read no further.

Parchment Four

Your final wedding-kill is a ghost-brain-hunt. You must [locate/identify] your prey without following its [feces/clues], nose-hunting, or exposing its [den/confidence].

For this hunt, you must let a [heretic/parasite] make you her prey. Be in-your-skin. [Heretics/Parasites] are chef-trained, and while they no longer cook at the hearth of the sacred-many, they will use their chef-tools to end-your-dinner.

But don’t [worry/self-delude]. Ghost-brain-hunting [heretics/parasites] is as enjoyable as cannibalizing them.
Use ghost-brain to locate a [heretic/parasite]. Lure her to your hearth with [strong/devious] hallucinations of beast-meat-smell and stewed-[fruit?]-fumes. [Heretics/Parasites] cannot resist free food.

When you see [heretics/parasites], you may feel [pity/scorn]. Remember that they are [strong/devious] challenges to [you-all/my-beloved-children]. They eat but never feed the people. They kill in order to take. They do not have [contemplation?/affection/soul].

You are law. [Guard/save] your people from [outsiders/infiltrators]. Pounce with rampant-heart, twenty-four-claws-unsheathed and scream like [?] did when she slew perpetrator-of-the-ransack.

Heart-punch.

Present a lung.

[Crush/Clap] the head before her corpse collapses.

Kill and cook. Grind the leg-bones for bread, [chef/woman]. The sacred-many will [bless/feed] you for placing an [outsider/infiltrator] in the funeral-urn of your stomach.

Eat!

Read further only after executing.

 

Beloved-child, when you return from your final-kill, sing the songs of your greatest appetite! Spill [contemplation?/affection/soul] on the twin-of-your-heart, and the wedding-[stringed instrument?] will scream!

For now you have accomplished all four trials, and these dangerous [trophies/ingredients] have led you to your bond-dance. Your hearth will burn with bounty and every lazing-mat at every table will be [overflowing/heaped] with your satisfied people.

But remember this:

Your-ancient-teacher danced no bond-dances, nor did I wedding-feast. My mate-prey [fled/parried] me, but I have not eaten-my-own-vestigial-organs. [Utter-refusal/Zero/Futile-hunt]. I require no mate-mat, for I cook with bounty, too much for only two. Either my dinner will end while trailing delicious prey, or hearth-bricks will heat my fat corpse (laughter punctuation).

Until that end comes, I cook with [love/fury], a [chef/woman] serving the enemy to her people.

Eat!

 

Blink HERE to bid.

Blink HERE to exit.

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“Lot 12A: The Feast of the Dead Manuscript” first appeared in New Genre #2 in 2002. Barth Anderson, one of the critically-acclaimed Ratbastards, lives and writes in Minneapolis.