The night had been planned to perfection right down
to the full Harvest moon – an especially nice touch, I thought – that now beamed
down upon my guests as they sat at crystal-laden tables, dining on what would
be their last meal.
Oh, dear.
Now I’ve spoiled the surprise, haven’t I?
Captains of industry, they had pillaged the world
of its wealth, sending the ships in their charge crashing onto rocks where the
sea butted against stone, leaving only debris floating on warming oceans in
their wake. And yet, having it all, they
still lusted for more. Always more.
I know this, for I was once one of them.
The velvet pouches at each setting, befitting of the
pirates they had become, contained a solid gold coin imprinted with their name,
likeness and the date that, unbeknownst to them, would be that of their demise. How
they delighted in such a souvenir, worshiping their own images while turning the
coins over and over in their hands, like young children enthralled with a shiny
new penny.
I would later add them to my collection.
The finish on the coins was beginning to take its
paralyzing effect as it seeped through their fingertips and into their nervous
systems, stealth as the whisper of a Brazilian Wandering Spider from which
the toxic substance had been sourced – the very same spider whose habitat, deep
in the rainforests of South America, was being decimated at the corporate direction
of my dinner companions.
Wonderfully ironic. Don’t you agree?
The surgical team quickly moved in, for the
harvesting must take place before their vital organs could be affected. Soon these hearts, lungs, and kidneys would
find their way to the poorest and most desperate in places throughout the world
where surgeons, whose only interest was saving lives, would not ask questions
about their origins.
A dish of crème brulee, lightly-flavored with just
a touch of Grand Marnier, was set down before me. I savored
its subtle orange scent, anticipating its warm sweetness on my lips.
Pity my guests would have to miss dessert.
