Sometimes I think I would best be served with mashed potatoes…with gravy.
When I am eaten that is.
I thought this while lying facedown in the sand with my hands bound behind my back next to a giant fire. The moon was rising in the sky and the natives danced all around me.
Here we were on the coast with long-blacked out remnants of Coney Island standing up against the light from the now-high full moon. I managed to turn on my side to see the festivities.
The men danced in a circle to show their masculinity wearing the traditional ceremony outfits. Their arms came out of their torn sports jackets, giant necklaces of skulls hung down around their neck. They already got me, so I don’t know what they were trying to prove.
They say before Wall St. fell things were different. But, I am not so sure. No one is old enough to remember.The flames leapt up and did a dance with the men, joining them ever so briefly while they licked their chops and stared at me.
While I sit in the sand all I can do is think and wait. Looking at that fire I start to think of my roasting flesh and what I might look like on a plate. Sitting there, a succulent steak next to a big heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes.