The Beast at the Feast

It was a sordid affair. We were all wise enough to know what was happening, even though no one wanted to admit what was happening. We all wished to be numb to it, but we were all very much alive to it.  

The beast at the feast had just about taken care of all the food and wine at the long dining room table. All the candlesticks had fallen to the ground. All the incense had been used up. The servants had all run home to tell their families. 

I am not ashamed to admit that I had pissed my pants, pissed them clean through. I didn’t know what the beast would do after all the food and wine were gone. 

As it turned out, I had no reason to piss myself in the first place. I had no need to fret. The beast, while uncommonly frightening and brutish while hungry and thirsty, became as docile and content as a lamb out to pasture when all the food was gone and his stomach was full. 

He hopped off the dining table, patted his stomach, and picked out a few stray scraps of food from the back rows of teeth. He belched and then said, “Thanks for the spread” in a surprisingly high voice. He turned his back on us, opened the dining hall doors, and just walked out. 

I’ve never seen anything like it, and I doubt that I will ever see anything like it again.

And the worst part about it is, that beast used to be my uncle Gary.