The Last Rational Man

by Karlin

shows you that probability isn't all".

  I glanced in Slims' direction. He had slumped over the table. I looked at my host straight in the eyes.

  "Slims?"

  "Yes, you know, the one who gave the toast in honor of last week's winner."

  "Well, Bon Appetit!"

  At that, Ben turned around, and saw the chef's men rolling 'Slims' onto a stretcher.

  He turned back to me, and made what I was learning was the polite comment.

  "Ah, Slims. A man of good taste."

  "Yes, a man of good taste." I made the correct response.

  Until this point, Big Ben had been completely calm, taking this cannibalism completely in stride. Now I noticed just a tinge of nervousness, perhaps fear, in his fat face.

  "Ben, it looks like the lottery results have upset you a bit."

  He shook his head violently, trying to clear the fear from his mind.

  "No, not at all. It's just that, well, it did seem like long-term survivors were somehow immune to the lottery."

  "As you said, it is a one in a hundred chance for everybody, every single time…"

  "Yes. No favorites, no exceptions. If there were, there would be no point to this at all."

  "I suppose so."

  I had been watching Ben's response to the lottery so carefully that I had hardly noticed my own reaction. I had maintained complete calm during the lottery. After all, it was a one in a hundred chance, and there wasn't anything at all to do about it. That was my mind, cool, calm, logical. My body, on the other hand, had sent my heart rate sky high. I was soaked in sweat, and, shall I admit it? – I was ecstatic. Ecstatically alive. I had tried a good portion of the adventures available in this kingdom of anarchy, but none of them had brought me to this level of sheer animal vitality. I had survived!

  I had gone into this without knowing what I was in for. Imagine the tension if you played the game on purpose, knowing when you went in what the risks were!

  I looked around the room. Everybody was talking quietly, behaving like the gentlemen that they appeared to be. Like Englishmen commenting on the 'recent unpleasantness'. Yet most of these calm gentlemen were busily mopping sweat off their thick foreheads. There was a distinct feeling, a smell of fear and relief that permeated the room.

  We remained silent for a few minutes, catching our breath and letting our hearts catch up with our chests.

  I had only partially calmed down when the waiter came around. Ben explained that as a first-timer, I got my choice of cuts. Now that I had proven that I was a real man and truly had cojones, only one cut would do.

  "I'll take the Rocky Mountain Oysters, please."

  The waiter did not understand me.

  "Sir, Excuse me?"

  "I would like to have the Montana Tendergroin"

  "Sir?"

  I gave up, and decided that euphemisms would not work here.

  "I would like to eat Slim's testicles, please. Slim – a man of good taste!"

  "Certainly sir! Slims - a man of good taste!"

  Ben ordered fried liver ('my favorite'), and the waiter scooted off to the kitchen.

  "Ben, you know that this is just an exaggerated Russian Roulette."

  "It does have some similarities, but the tension is greater. Not to mention that the odds are better."

  "Still, it is the same type of gamble, with the added payoff that the winners – or losers, if you like, enjoy a macabre meal."

  "Now you will tell me that the meal isn't even very good."

  "Well, is it?"

  "Honestly, no? But the food is not the main point. By the way, it is time for you to be given a nickname."

  "A nickname? Like 'Big Ben' or 'Slims'? I don't think it will be necessary. I won't be back here again."

  "Much as you deny it, you will be back again. You are fascinated by our little establishment. I can sense it."

  I grunted and shrugged. I was abhorred by the 'little establishment', and yet strangely attracted. Who knew what tomorrow would bring?

  "You will be back. And I will give you your nickname. 'Newsboy'."

  "Newsboy. I guess that will do. But don't hold your breath. I won't be back."

  "I never hold my breath. You never know if will be your last one."

  The testicles did not taste very good. I had never had lamb testicles, so I didn't have much to compare them to, but I would prefer a good hamburger any day. For one thing, I couldn't help but think of my own balls being on the plate. It was a real possibility. I felt myself reaching down between my legs to see if they were still safely attached.

  I looked around at the other diners. Many of them were idly caressing some part of their body- an arm, a leg, or a shoulder. It didn't take much to guess what they were eating. Big Ben had developed a tendency to rub his abdomen.

  Dessert was not served. A final glass of wine was poured, our man of taste was toasted again, and the group broke up.

  Ben had a final word for me.

  "Join me next Thursday for dinner?"

  "Like I said, don't hold your breath."

  I left the restaurant, having had an adventure that I didn't want to repeat. After all, someone who has survived a battle, though it may have been the most exciting time of his life, does not want to return to the battlefield. He will happily live a regular boring life. Boring is good. Sure, there are those few nuts who actually volunteer for service, and those who become career officers, but, when it came down to it, those professional soldiers were mentally-ill people who had found a useful way to direct their energies.

  So I thought for a few days. You wouldn't catch me walking into that place, taking my fair chance of having my tongue pickled, my liver fried with onions, my balls served up in neat little slices. I had had my bit of fun, and that was enough for any sane person.

  Yes, I knew what a logical, sane person should think. But deep down, I knew differently. I constantly went over the events at that fateful meal, replayed every moment in my mind. I remembered every remark I had heard, every mouthful of human flesh I had tasted. Still, there was no way I would go back there. Absolutely no way.

  My obsession followed me to bed. I tossed and turned for hours, woke suddenly in the small hours of the morning troubled by dreams that I didn't dare remember. Wednesday night was the worst. I had an invitation to lunch the next day, an invitation that I had already refused. There was no way in the world I would go. Sleep escaped me entirely. I was furious with myself. How could I allow this silly restaurant business to upset me so? I had already decided that it was ridiculous to go back there. So why was I losing sleep over this? What was my problem?

  I remembered getting this way over a girl years ago. I was completely obsessed with her. At the time, I thought that it was true love. I ignored everything negative about her, and thought of her day and night. The whole world looked gray and boring when she wasn't around. I knew all along that we were a mismatch, but knowing intellectually and understanding something on an emotional level are two different ball games.

  To a large extent, it was hormones. Obsessed with the wrong girl? Testosterone in action. Obsessed with Russian-roulette dining? Adrenalin in action.

  I was obsessed. Everything outside of that restaurant looked gray and boring. My guts knew this, but my mind denied it.

  I found myself back in the restaurant for Thursday's lunch, pretending that I only came to express my apologies to Big Ben for not joining him for the meal, pretending that I would not drink the wine, not participate in the lottery.

  When I arrived, nobody seemed surprised, least of all Ben. I was greeted by smiles and calls of 'Newsboy' by many of the guests, and felt immediately at home. After all, we all had something very basic in common.

  The meal proceeded in what I now understood was the usual fashion. A bit of socializing until the requisite one hundred guests had shown up, and we were seated. I sat with Ben, and we ate the appetizer, which I now realized was pickled meat from a previous winner.

  I finished
my appetizer quickly. I watched Ben slowly savoring his bit of pickled human. I regretted having eaten mine so quickly. After all, it may have been the last solid food I would ever eat, so I may as well have enjoyed it for as long as possible.

  I found myself eyeing Big Ben with a professional eye. Would all that fat give his meat that marbled effect that is so prized in steak? Or would it be sloppy external fat that would be trimmed off, and his meat tough and useless?

  And how to cook - that was a serious question. Steaks should be grilled, of course, but how about those thick thighs? Slow cooking in a casserole seemed right for them. I wondered about having him roasted whole, with an apple or something in his mouth. It didn't seem right though. Too barbaric. This was a civilized restaurant, after all.

  Big Ben looked up as he finished the last morsel of human pastrami.

  "You have that hungry look – thinking what it would be like to savor a slice of your's truly."

  He raised a hand to stop my budding protest.

  "Don't be concerned. We all do it. You look a bit thin to me, but you'd do fine deep fried.

  "We had a fellow here a few months back who was an eyeball freak. I don't know why he liked them. Most of us wouldn't touch a fish eyeball, let alone a cow eyeball. But this guy always insisted on having the eyeballs. He tried them every which way. Deep fried, stuffed, as a pâté. When his day came, I had his eyeballs. Pretty disgusting, frankly. Stick with the steak or fried liver, if you ask me."

  I smiled weakly at him, caught out in my wandering thoughts.

  "Well, everybody is in the same boat. No telling who will be chewing and who will be chewed in an hour or two."

  It was time for the toast. I felt my heart rate accelerate as the waiters brought out the drinks. I had some sky-diving experience, and the tension of waiting to jump out of the plane was nothing compared to what I now felt.

  The drinks were on the table, as were our lives. The toast was about to be made. I reached for Ben's glass, and raised an eyebrow at him. He understood perfectly.

  "Go ahead. Why not?"

  I switched the glasses. The toast rang out.

  "To Slims, a man of good taste."

  We drank.

  We spent the next twenty minutes in small talk. The weather, the island, "President" Hardly Fine, the news. As the time wore on I started scanning the room, looking for the first signs of weakness, someone slouching over their plate. My shirt was soaked with sweat. I was surreptitiously looking over my shoulder when I heard a loud thump right in front of me. A murmur raveled around the room.

  "Big Ben, a man of good taste."

  I was shocked. Despite the fact that I had come to play the game, to take my chances with the rest of the diners/dinners, I had convinced myself that on some level I wasn't really part of the game, that I was somehow beyond it. But here it was – if I hadn't switched glasses, I would now be on the way to the kitchen. My throat would be slit, my life's blood drained in a moment. A sharp knife would slit me from groin to neck, my guts scooped out – well, there is no need to go into more detail.

  I ordered the liver, and pondered my position. My tour of duty in the Islands was due to end in a week. I could visit the restaurant one more time. So the risk was minimal. It really was only one in a hundred. I had no plans to come back to the islands, so the temptation to keep playing wouldn't exist.

  It didn't take long to convince myself. Even though this would be my third visit to the restaurant, the excitement, if anything, had grown. The fact that I had consciously decided to return didn't change a thing. I could do this a hundred times, and still get the same adrenalin kick.

  My flight out was early Friday morning, so I could just fit in one more 'last supper' before my flight.

  I sat with 'Superman'. I had noticed him during my previous meals, a fellow who spent a lot of time working out. He was a meaty fellow, and looked like his steaks would be quite tasty, unlike Big Ben, who may have been a man of good taste, but didn't taste very good.

  The ceremony followed the usual pattern. Big Ben's fatty pastrami was brought out. This time I chewed slowly. You should enjoy every one of your meals – you don't know which one will be your last.

  At first I tried to remain calm, but then I admitted to myself that I was there for the adrenalin rush, so I may as well let it flow and enjoy it.

  The drinks came out. I was tempted to switch the drinks once again, but I hardly knew Superman, and there was a bit of intimacy involved in exchanging these lottery tickets, these death drinks.

  The toast rang out: 'To Big Ben, a man of good taste!', and we downed our drinks.

  Superman, though he was talkative enough before the drinks came out, clammed up completely once the toast had been made. He sat still and watched my face. I tried to avoid staring back. I kept glancing over the room, to see who had keeled over, even though it was too early for the drug to have taken effect.

  Finally I gave in, and stared right back at him. In only a few minutes the lottery would be over, and presumably this staring game as well. Superman's eyes were dilated, as if he was on some hallucinogen. His face grew red, and his breath became shallow. I found my lungs matching his, quick, shallow breaths, breaths that left me hungry for more oxygen.

  Unlikely as it seemed, it looked like for the second time running my dinner partner would become my dinner. Our breaths grew shallower and shallower. His face became puffy and round, perfectly round. It was round as a plate. I wasn't looking at him anymore – I was staring at my plate.

  As I collapsed, I heard him murmur.

  "Newsboy, a man of good taste."

  The waiters carted me off to the kitchen. I hadn't spent much time in commercial kitchens, but I knew that this one was different. One side of the kitchen was taken up with what was normally confined to the slaughterhouse and butcher shop.

  The kitchen staff was methodical. They stripped off my clothing, not even allowing me the dignity of underpants. A young fellow tied a rope around my legs, and attached the other end to a winch. When he was sure that it was attached securely, he grabbed a small control box, and switched on the winch. He stopped it when my head was a few inches above the drainage grate that formed the floor of this part of the kitchen.

  The young fellow knelt down, grabbed my hair, and pulled my head back. An older man, who I took to be his boss, knelt as well, and keeping well out of the way of the spurting blood, drew a long sharp blade across my throat. The spurting subsided once my heart gave up on beating, but they let me hang there a few minutes longer to drain.

  When the flow had slowed down to a slow dripping, the young butcher slit my abdomen open from groin to sternum, without lowering me from the winch. My guts spilled out, and he pulled them away, looking for my liver and pancreas, which were considered delicacies.

  Once I was lowered and flayed, the steaks and roasts were easy enough to remove. Testicles were snipped of with a pair of kitchen scissors. When I was alive, it hadn't occurred to me that I could order brains. They are easy to remove if you have the right tools like this kitchen did.

  I could go on and explain how my liver was sliced and fried, or how my tongue was pulled out and pickled. I could, but I won't. Frankly, it would be totally tasteless. And, as you know, I am a man of good taste.

  A Modest Meal

  "Oh, Mom, not Korean Ground again."

  "Honey, you know we always have meatloaf on Sundays."

  "Yeah, but I like Triple-R. Korean Ground has bits of chewy stuff in it. They think that we won't notice it when it's all ground up like that, but I can tell. That stringy stuff gets stuck in my teeth."

  Elaine smiled to herself. She preferred 'Triple-R', Romanian Rump Roast too. Who wouldn't? But who could afford luxury every day?

  "Well, Davy, would you really like to have the same thing every day?"

  "Yeah, Triple R for breakfast, lunch and dinner, every day of the week!"

  "You'd never get bored of having the same thing every day?"

&nbs
p; "Never!"

  "You'd never miss, say, those nice German sausages, just to pick a random example? The ones I fry up with onions?"

  "Well, um, maybe we could have those sometimes, like weekends…"

  "Or those Norwegian cold cuts, on rye bread with mustard?"

  "OK, Mom, I get the picture. But still, I wouldn't mind skipping this Korean stuff. What make it so tough?"

  "I don't know. I guess they make it out of older animals, so their meat is tougher."

  "So why do we have to eat it?"

  Elaine believed in being honest with her son. He was old enough to understand that the McManus family wasn't wealthy.

  "Well, frankly it's cheap. We can't afford to eat the best meat every night. So some days we just make do with Korean meat loaf."

  "OK. Hey – can we have French Fries tomorrow to make up for tonight?"

  "Sure honey. A lot of good protein in those."

  Davy doused his meat loaf with ketchup, though he knew that flavor wasn't the problem, texture was. In fact, he kind of liked the taste of the Korean stuff, that weird fishy aftertaste. His Mom once explained to him that it had to do with what they fed the animals. A lot of fish and seafood, and the meat ended up tasting a bit fishy.

  If his Dad had a better job, then maybe they could have better food, like Randy's family. They lived in a big house on the other side of Clinton Street, and they always had Chinese Chops, Moroccan Roast and West African Spare Ribs. They wouldn't allow sausages or ground meat in their house at all.

  "Mom, I'm thinking of becoming a vegetarian."

  "Really now. Just a moment ago you were being so picky about what kind of meat we eat, and now you want to stop eating meat altogether."

  "Well, Darius has become a vegetarian."

  "Isn't he a year older than you?"

  "Yeah, but we hang out together. His class went to see a slaughterhouse, and ever since he won't touch meat."

  "They took them to a slaughterhouse? That's awful! Why?"

  "Their teacher wanted to be buddy-buddy with the class, and offered to take them on a field trip to wherever they wanted to go. She probably figured that they would want to see some sex show, but instead they asked to see a slaughterhouse."

  "Well, I am sure that it is a disturbing sight. I'm surprised that only one kid turned into a vegetarian after that."

  "Well, about half of the class did. I only mentioned Darius 'cause you know who he is."

  "Well, just because the way some food is prepared looks pretty awful doesn't mean you have to stop eating it. All it means is that you shouldn't go watching it being made."

  "Darius has joined a vegetarian club."

  "He joined the crazies, huh? He'll outgrow it."

  "He goes to their meetings. He says things like 'Animals are our friends. Please don't eat our friends.'"

  "Nice slogan, but it doesn't really mean much. Do you have any animal friends?"

  "No."

  "Of course not, honey. They don't even talk. How could you make friends with them?"

  "Darius says that they do talk. We just don't understand them, that's all."

  "They make noises, but they don't really talk. They just signal each other, like 'danger!' or 'food', or ' want to mate with me?' Nothing beyond that."

  "Darius says that they really talk, and if we could