EISEN

FEAST

You're broke and alone. Then one night, a man visiting from his home in Mecca greets you with all of the answers. Of all places, over your minimum wage store counter. Now, you and a group of his closest friends are headed far from home; God-knows-where, doing God-knows what. But they aren't so convinced; this proclaimed rite of passage will bring you all to God's home, kicking and clawing for your chance to become one of the greats: a Master.

You arrive over a remote peninsula, guarded by the Banda Sea.

O, a waste untouched by her Indonesian governments across the way. Your group hovers violently near the tree heads in your chopper; through the night, you see several gleaming, oily figures shine by campfires. They produce blowers and arrows and something like a Flintlock.

They fought for naught.

You all now feast on their peoples, over a fire the Man from Mecca decided could be of use for dinner.

A former congresswoman comments on the crunch. She—now preferring a more dignified capital She—can't wait to run unopposed.

Then a Swedish banker passed the seasoning, saw you, the greenest of them all, hesitate on your flayed carcass. He asked, "Where do you come from?" He was none too acquainted with English; maybe more familiar with Mongolian in the guttural, commandeering voice he carried.

You finally spill your nation, to which he stared distantly.

He uttered simply, "I thought you looked American."

Something in you feints a bite of one of these people's daughters. Not breaking the skin, you can feel their fading warmth and charred skin on the roof of your mouth, then sliding them pass your teeth.

They say their goodnights and wipe their mouths clean. You go to bed hungry, and you fear they know it.

You all trudged through their mud, musty woodchips crushed beneath your boots. The Master hopefuls intoxicated your senses as they gained and overtook your pace; they who stunk still of flesh truly believed all they needed was a change of clothes.

At a split in the trees, the Australian missionary sputtered with sniggers as though possessed by the jungle. You couldn't understand what was so funny, but he was eager to share when he fell back from the rest of the pack.

He pulled from his camping bag a New King James bible: "Watch this," he said, turning to one of the two Corinthians. Immediately, you notice something strange; the sections up to Revelations were hollowed and frayed to repent. He leaned closer, "This's something an American could appreciate." He pulled, now brandished a Colt .45 from the pages when he eyed some passing locals who dared not look back. "My wife contested that I get to the point more often."

Suddenly, you then felt his nostrils take you in; his expression stifled to a glower, hungrier than ever.

"Watch."

The missionary gained to intercept the peoples near a riverbank, being sure to shut his scripture as though lost and asking for directions. Though you couldn't see his face any longer, you could sense that he wore a smile which begged for their attention.

"Hello?" He started to wave. Two men who appeared as their tribe's warriors gawked at his display no different than cattle. They set their stone nails aside, but not their hammers. "I wish to tell you of the L-O-R-D," slicing the word into chunks.

That was when you caught a whiff of his hunger again, and so did the rest of the pack, now looming over this theater. You felt your stomach churn, worm around in ways you've never thought possible. Instantly, their Colt .45 hammered once, twice, then even thrice. You heard a women's scream in a dialect you couldn't hope to comprehend. You felt her curse and maim and scathe you all before another crack silenced her. You winced. The missionary looked back to you with a stern face, covered in blood.

"And he who overcometh, and keepeth my works unto the end, to him will I give power over the nations."

The Man from Mecca, shaded and obscured through his pith, took a keen interest in you from then on. You could feel him peel you apart at the fire that night while conversing with the missionary.

Soon, the missionary arose from his log, putting his cut of flesh down by the Man's side. Closing on you, he started, "You've a need for reasons, they killed my wife." He took a seat next to you, as close as he could. The missionary motioned to the Man from Mecca: "He came to save me, just as he did for you. Pay indulgence with their blood, and feed on them to ascertain a taste above the food chain. Only then will we find a place in Eisen ...

... "Have you had your first bite? I swear this stays between you, me and my brother God above."

You refused to answer.

Famished, he got up and said, "You will" before crawling back for his flesh. All eyes now fell on you.