The Great Feast

And a royal feast, it was.
A feast for beautiful people and pathetic disciples alike, prepared by the Order of Hedonistic Manipulators.

It began with the tidbits – the Canapés.
Succulent little offerings, tempting, tantalising, baited morsels – glistening with honey, coated with praise, laced with thick and slow-flowing nectar, to draw eye away from Barb.

The Pathetics clamoured and called.
“More”, they cried.
“Give us more! Feed Us!”
And so they were fed.
The Barbs wound and screwed their spiraling path deeper into the mass-hysterical monument of man-made social blindness.

Next – the Entrée
And oh, what an Entrée!
Sex – in all its forms – writhing, lubricating, sensuous and scintillating, sluicing through barren floodgates, coursing over the tired and dried out, seeping beneath the hidden and craven.
The Barbs dug deep, hooking entrails and making home.

And what have we here?
The Main arrives, as expected. An affluence-fattened idol of gilt and guilt. Monstrously impressive. A meal to outlast all meals – a continuous repast to meet all desires, fill all holes, patch all souls. And secreted within the Main were the clever little Poisons – designer fluids, fabricated by the cleverest of Manipulators. Liquid worms of deception, feeding confidence and security to the greed-blinded Pathetics. These Poisons were not subtle enough to be completely indiscernible, but enough to not cause panic. The Manipulators were not ready for panic just yet. First the seduction, then the fear. An age-old recipe that had never failed.
The Barbs nested and multiplied on the fuel of mankind’s apathy.

And as the gathering lay bloated and glazed, a horn was heard, heralding the coup de gras. Out came the just Desserts on platters of cured skins. The wafting odour of spices and sugar aroused the Pathetics for the ultimate thrust – one last and final charge to the abyss of plenty. Staggering and crawling, mewling as little kittens, leaping like agile ancestors, or striding forward purposefully with the light of righteous banalities – it mattered not. Eventually, all came to take part in the final and most desirous Dessert imaginable. Following each other, holding hands, singing praise to the all mighty Manipulators, they steadily swarmed over the black edge of fulfilment, and smiled and congratulated each other as they fell.

The Manipulators laughed in surprise, and clapped their hands despite the predictability, even while they prepared for the next Feast.

The Great Feast

Mark German

Strathmore, Australia

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