Hemelier

Prompt Day #316: Adopt the persona of a cannibal or monster who sees himself (or itself) as a food critic, writing a review.

 

Hemelier

                After a thousand years of tasting, I consider myself an expert in the field of blood drinking and admiring. A sommelier of heme if you will. In all these years I have always sought out the fittest, most perfect specimen of man or beast, relishing the coppery flavor of iron saturated blood. I’ve studied the bitters of adrenaline after a fast, heart-pumping chase. The tang of lactic acid when their legs collapse beneath them, exhausted and useless. I do not share this with you to brag of my palate, but to beg your understanding when I veer far from describing blood of the finest well-made human.

For I have found heaven in the slums. A taste so rich, so succulent I became drunk and listless after having sipped this nectar of the gods. Let me digress for but a moment more. In my day as a human, we kept fires all night, many of us staying awake and guarding the village while others slept. As times changed, there was little need for humans to venture out during the witching hour when creatures like me scoured the night. Recently in my hungry wanderings, I came upon a brightly lit oasis where those I normally would never consider as prey, shambled in and out, some actually wearing the comforts of sleep.

The name of this strange concrete circus was Wal-Mart. I happened upon it just before dawn on an unsuccessful night. I was mad with hunger and like a wild animal I fed only for survival, not flavor as I normally would. It was in this frenzy that I discovered something almost indescribable, something that brought me as close to heaven as a monster will ever be granted. A taste that reminded me what it was like to be human, so many, many years ago. It was an orgasm on my tongue and I swallowed it greedily.

What was this fantastic sapor, you ask? It flowed from the thick neck of a woman I came upon bent over deep into a bin marked five dollar DVDs. Her leopard patterned elastic pants strained against the white thread of their seams, threatening to disintegrate. I was not drawn to her for taste, instead, in my hunger-weakened state, I found her to be an easy target and I sprang.

I was on her before she knew and as I fed, she hung onto her found copies of 50 First Dates and The Devil Wears Prada. I was amused at first, frantically I fed, swallowing fast, not trying to taste her for fear of it turning my stomach from human blood. But the viscous syrup flowed slowly down my throat and its buttery flavor lingered. I do not need to breathe, you know, I am the undead. However, when I want to truly savor the life-giving essence, I use all my senses and I did.

A decadent dessert; the sugary sweet claret bloomed on my tongue. I siphoned it faster and faster out of her. Like a hummingbird, I dipped into the ambrosia. My super-human senses detected the small tapioca pearls of cholesterol that melted in my mouth, buttering my throat. When I was through, dropping her emptied shell back into the bin where I found her, a medicinal after taste lingered. I suspected these chemicals were meant to titrate the overwhelming confection-like quality of her blood. It was no use, I suspected by the fatigued threads of her clothing, she easily overcame the benefits of the medications with the caloric density of her diet. But in her poor life-choices, I found a new indulgence and a new sinful way of feeding.

God bless the human race. Mortals who live as if they are immortals have inspired me to remember my own immortality and live not as if there is no tomorrow, but as if there are an infinite number of them. Salud!

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