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Authors: Nick Griffiths
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hysteria. Some were now standing on stools and tables for a better view. Was this really a spectator sport? How low on genuine entertainment their
daily lives must have been.
I closed my eyes and opened the lid.
Everyone whooped. I opened my eyes and looked into the box…
A burger ?
I lifted it out and peered underneath, checking for something crawling or crisped, with legs. Nothing. I lifted the bun to check the burger itself. Nope. Seemed perfectly normal.
“Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat!” chanted the crowd.
With pleasure, I thought, and began chomping almightily.
Some in the crowd chewed on fingernails. Others watched open-mouthed, ecstatic in their revulsion. I caught several cries of “No!”, a smattering in the native tongue and a single
“Uncivilised!”
One woman fell to the ground vomiting, which set off a chain reaction of heaving and ejected bile among her neighbours.
Beside me, the Shaman’s dummy cackled.
I was finished in moments, bulging cheeks contracting to force meaty, breaded goo between eagerly masticating gnashers. Sweet, sweet burger.
Swallowing the last morsel, smacking my lips, I asked, “Got any more?”
Oh, the delirium. I could not have been more popular in that moment had I died dramatically of food poisoning.
“Clnde, open your box!” cried Gdgi.
And guess what? Another burger! Practically identical, the cheats!
I chewed that one with gusto, rather than wolfing it down, playing to the crowd, limp lettuce, pickle and all, as the villagers failed to control themselves. Never before had a meal tasted so
sweetly of victory. This was the life, lost in the tropics among celebrating strangers. I thought briefly of home, of returning to Glibley one day to drink tea on a carpet; the prospect simply
didn’t measure up.
The leader held up his hands for order and his people gradually calmed down.
He spoke to me again. “Pilsbury, thank you. You have entertained us greatly, though I do not know how you can eat such a thing with such relish. You are indeed brave – and very
strange!”
Cue catcalls and cheers.
Two can play the humour card, I thought. “Great leader. Our cultures are very different. Your burger is my grub.” I waited; no one laughed. “Grub as in fat wriggly thing. Your
burger is my fat wriggly thing… It’s a pun.” Silence/bewilderment. “Where I come from, people like burgers. Our tastes are different. Here you eat animals’
testicles!”
“What do you think your burgers are made from?” replied Gdgi.
I was sordidly full. So full I could feel that final roasted rodent breast sitting at the base of my throat. Eating constantly had also made me look too busy for conversation,
though a succession of well-wishers had patted my back and congratulated me on my performance in the Ymze Lysta.
Once I could not face another morsel I was trapped in a social hell, between the Shaman and sour-faced Ekoto, obliged towards small talk as the guest of honour.
I tried Ekoto first, with a little sign language. “Lovely food,” I said, rubbing my stomach with one hand and miming eating with the other.
He looked right through me.
I could think of nothing more to say, so I sat there, rictus grin, while he stared at me, nodding furiously.
“Hoi, Klilsgury!” came a voice behind me.
The wooden boy’s company suddenly felt like a welcome respite.
I swivelled to face the Shaman, who had opened one side of his cloak, exposing to me the rows of secret pockets. What was his game?
As I scanned through them my eyes were drawn to rolled paper protruding from one pouch. A network of lines was printed over it in black, among which was typed writing. Could it be?
“Is that the map you spoke of? The key to the sketch?”
I snatched at it, but he closed the cloak too quickly.
The boy said, “Yes, that is the nak. Do you oo-ont to see it?”
“You know I want to see it.”
“Thirst you do sunthing for us.”
Hang on! “But I’ve already done something for you.
daily lives must have been.
I closed my eyes and opened the lid.
Everyone whooped. I opened my eyes and looked into the box…
A burger ?
I lifted it out and peered underneath, checking for something crawling or crisped, with legs. Nothing. I lifted the bun to check the burger itself. Nope. Seemed perfectly normal.
“Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat!” chanted the crowd.
With pleasure, I thought, and began chomping almightily.
Some in the crowd chewed on fingernails. Others watched open-mouthed, ecstatic in their revulsion. I caught several cries of “No!”, a smattering in the native tongue and a single
“Uncivilised!”
One woman fell to the ground vomiting, which set off a chain reaction of heaving and ejected bile among her neighbours.
Beside me, the Shaman’s dummy cackled.
I was finished in moments, bulging cheeks contracting to force meaty, breaded goo between eagerly masticating gnashers. Sweet, sweet burger.
Swallowing the last morsel, smacking my lips, I asked, “Got any more?”
Oh, the delirium. I could not have been more popular in that moment had I died dramatically of food poisoning.
“Clnde, open your box!” cried Gdgi.
And guess what? Another burger! Practically identical, the cheats!
I chewed that one with gusto, rather than wolfing it down, playing to the crowd, limp lettuce, pickle and all, as the villagers failed to control themselves. Never before had a meal tasted so
sweetly of victory. This was the life, lost in the tropics among celebrating strangers. I thought briefly of home, of returning to Glibley one day to drink tea on a carpet; the prospect simply
didn’t measure up.
The leader held up his hands for order and his people gradually calmed down.
He spoke to me again. “Pilsbury, thank you. You have entertained us greatly, though I do not know how you can eat such a thing with such relish. You are indeed brave – and very
strange!”
Cue catcalls and cheers.
Two can play the humour card, I thought. “Great leader. Our cultures are very different. Your burger is my grub.” I waited; no one laughed. “Grub as in fat wriggly thing. Your
burger is my fat wriggly thing… It’s a pun.” Silence/bewilderment. “Where I come from, people like burgers. Our tastes are different. Here you eat animals’
testicles!”
“What do you think your burgers are made from?” replied Gdgi.
I was sordidly full. So full I could feel that final roasted rodent breast sitting at the base of my throat. Eating constantly had also made me look too busy for conversation,
though a succession of well-wishers had patted my back and congratulated me on my performance in the Ymze Lysta.
Once I could not face another morsel I was trapped in a social hell, between the Shaman and sour-faced Ekoto, obliged towards small talk as the guest of honour.
I tried Ekoto first, with a little sign language. “Lovely food,” I said, rubbing my stomach with one hand and miming eating with the other.
He looked right through me.
I could think of nothing more to say, so I sat there, rictus grin, while he stared at me, nodding furiously.
“Hoi, Klilsgury!” came a voice behind me.
The wooden boy’s company suddenly felt like a welcome respite.
I swivelled to face the Shaman, who had opened one side of his cloak, exposing to me the rows of secret pockets. What was his game?
As I scanned through them my eyes were drawn to rolled paper protruding from one pouch. A network of lines was printed over it in black, among which was typed writing. Could it be?
“Is that the map you spoke of? The key to the sketch?”
I snatched at it, but he closed the cloak too quickly.
The boy said, “Yes, that is the nak. Do you oo-ont to see it?”
“You know I want to see it.”
“Thirst you do sunthing for us.”
Hang on! “But I’ve already done something for you.
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