All You Can Eat Part Two

 Read Part One Here

All You Can Eat

Part Two

        The tables stretched before him like the spoils of a victorious hunt, laden with colors and textures he couldn’t comprehend. His eyes darted from one mound of food to the next, trying to decipher what was safe, what was edible, what would not betray him. The air around him was heavy with scents—roasted, sweet, sharp, savory. It was too much, too overwhelming. His hands trembled as he reached out, his fingers brushing against something golden and glistening.

It was a mound of small, rounded shapes, their surfaces glistening like polished amber under the harsh lights. He lifted one cautiously, its warmth surprising against his skin. The surface was slightly crisp, but as he pressed it gently, it yielded, soft and pliable. He sniffed it. The smell was unlike anything he had ever encountered—rich, buttery, and faintly sweet, like the memory of sun-warmed honey on a summer day.

His mouth watered uncontrollably, and before he could think, he brought the thing to his lips. The moment it touched his tongue, the world collapsed into the taste. It was as if the golden disk carried a thousand lifetimes of flavor, a symphony of textures and sensations that he couldn’t name. The crisp outer shell gave way to an impossibly tender interior that seemed to melt, flooding his senses with its buttery warmth. There was a sweetness, too, subtle but unmistakable, that lingered like the memory of a distant fire.

He closed his eyes, lost in the experience. His knees weakened, and for a moment, he thought he might fall. He swallowed, the warmth spreading through his chest like the comfort of a long-forgotten embrace. His stomach growled again, louder this time, spurred on by this revelation. He didn’t know what this golden thing was, but it was food—more than food. It was magic.

He reached out again, his fingers greedy now, his movements urgent. He grabbed another, then another, until his hands were full of the golden disks. He looked around quickly, expecting someone to stop him, to snatch the treasure away. But no one paid him any mind. The people moved around him, their faces blank, their focus elsewhere. He found a plate—a strange, flat dish—and piled it high with the golden disks. They stacked precariously, threatening to tumble, but he didn’t care. His hunger demanded more.

Clutching the plate to his chest, he turned in search of a place to eat. The tables around him were filled with people, their voices a chaotic symphony of incomprehensible sounds. He didn’t understand the ritual, didn’t know the rules. So, he did the only thing that felt natural: he lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs beneath him, and set the plate before him on the polished floor.

He picked up one of the disks and tore into it, his teeth sinking through its delicate shell and into the soft heart within. Each bite was a revelation, a burst of flavor that made his head swim. He ate with abandon, his hands working quickly, his mouth barely pausing between bites. Grease and crumbs clung to his fingers, but he didn’t care. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the ache in his stomach began to subside.

“Sir?”

The voice came from above him, tentative but firm. He looked up, his hands frozen mid-motion, a golden disk clutched between them. A man stood over him, older and broader than the one in black and white from before, his face lined and serious. He wore a jacket with a name stitched onto it and a tie that looked like a noose around his neck.

“Sir, you can’t sit on the floor,” the man said, gesturing toward the tables. His tone was not unkind, but there was a sharpness to it, a kind of authority that the primitive man recognized instinctively. The man crouched slightly, meeting his eyes. “Here, let me help you to a table.”

The primitive man didn’t understand the words, but the gestures were clear enough. He clutched the plate tightly, his eyes darting between the man and the tables. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be guided, the man’s hand light on his arm. Together, they moved through the crowd until they reached an empty table. The man pulled out a chair and motioned for him to sit.

Slowly, the primitive man lowered himself into the chair, his plate still balanced carefully in his hands. The surface beneath him was strange and hard, but it felt stable. He looked up at the man, who nodded and smiled faintly before walking away.

The primitive man turned his attention back to the plate, his fingers hovering over the golden disks. The chair was uncomfortable, the noise around him unbearable, but he didn’t care. The food was still there, waiting for him, promising to fill the void that had gnawed at him for so long.

He picked up another disk and took a bite, savoring the explosion of flavor. His fingers worked frantically, tearing apart the golden disks and shoving the fragments into his mouth. Grease smeared across his lips and dribbled down his chin, but he paid it no mind. The flavors danced on his tongue, each bite a new shock to his senses, as if the world had condensed into this singular act of eating.

But one plate wasn’t enough. When the last crumb was gone, he pushed himself upright, the chair groaning beneath him, and stumbled back to the tables. His eyes were wild, darting from mound to mound, overwhelmed by the sheer abundance. He grabbed a plate, its smooth surface strange under his calloused hands, and began piling it high with anything within reach. Bright green stalks, slick and glistening, piled atop thick slabs of roasted meat that bled juices onto golden mounds of fluffy grains. He didn’t know what any of it was, but it didn’t matter. It was here, and it was his.

He returned to the table, the plate trembling in his grasp, and began again. The meat tore apart in his hands, the juices running down his forearms as he gnawed and chewed. The grains were soft and sticky, clumping together in his mouth and sliding down his throat in heavy lumps. The green stalks snapped between his teeth, their bitterness a sharp counterpoint to the richness of everything else. His jaw ached, but he didn’t stop. His hands moved mechanically, bringing food to his mouth, swallowing without pause.

By the third plate, his movements slowed. His stomach pushed against the waistband of his loincloth, a tight, aching swell that threatened to split him apart. But the hunger had not gone—not fully. It was still there, a primal urge buried deep in his gut, urging him on. He shuffled back to the tables, his steps heavier now, his breath coming in short, labored bursts.

This time, he chose things he had avoided before. Bright orange sticks that snapped and crunched, their sweetness startling. A viscous red substance that clung to his fingers and coated his lips, leaving a tang that lingered long after it was gone. Small, round spheres that popped between his teeth, releasing bursts of saltiness that made him shudder. He ate and ate, the flavors blurring together into a cacophony that overwhelmed his senses.

By the fifth plate, grotesque noises escaped him with each bite—wet, guttural sounds that turned heads and drew murmurs from nearby tables. His hands trembled as he shoveled food into his mouth, his fingers stained and sticky, his nails caked with unrecognizable remnants. He barely noticed the stares, barely registered the whispers. The world had narrowed to the plate before him and the unrelenting need to fill the void within.

His stomach swelled grotesquely, a massive, distended curve that strained against his skin. Pain radiated from his middle, sharp and insistent, but still, he ate. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mingling with the grease and crumbs that clung to his face. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle against the pressure building inside him.

When the plate was finally empty, he leaned back in the chair, his body sagging with the weight of what he had consumed. His chest rose and fell, the effort of breathing monumental. His stomach—bloated and monstrous—pushed against the edge of the table, the skin stretched taut and shiny. He could barely move, his limbs heavy and unresponsive, his head swimming in a haze of exhaustion and pain.

And then he saw it.

Across the room, glowing like a beacon in the chaos, stood a machine. It was unlike anything he had encountered so far, a towering monolith of white and chrome, its surface gleaming under the harsh lights. From its side protruded a lever, and beneath that, a shining metal spout. People approached it in turn, pressing the lever and filling their bowls with a pale, soft substance that swirled and curled as it emerged.

The sight transfixed him. He watched as a child pulled the lever, their bowl filling with the substance until it overflowed, the excess curling downward in lazy, melting drips. The child’s face lit up with joy as they dipped a spoon into the bowl and brought it to their lips. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew he needed it.       

Painfully, he pushed himself upright, the effort making his vision blur. His stomach protested violently, a wave of nausea rising in his throat, but he forced it down. The machine called to him, its promise irresistible, its purpose incomprehensible yet undeniable. Step by agonizing step, he made his way toward it, his breath ragged, his body screaming in protest.

As he reached the machine, he extended a trembling hand toward the lever, his fingers brushing against its cool surface. Whatever this was, it would be his next conquest.