FEAST

A short story

Even though Frank Theodat now presides over the fantastic Pulp, Pipe, & Poetry Substack he admirably still has time for us here at STSC. He put his hand up to submit a story alongside all of his other creative projects and- in what some might call an act of showing off- casually handed in this absolute gem.

Nothing else needs to be said, just strap in and enjoy this tremendous bit of storytelling.

TJB.

---

Ian Jackson was a staunch professional.

At 5 AM, Monday through Friday, he’d leap out of bed to catch the downtown bus to Providence for the breakfast buffet at Chimi’s Kitchen. 

Ten dollars a plate was the agreed upon pay. He’d race around the hot and cold trays, pushing any sorry peasant who was too slow to simply just grab and go. 

In a flash, Ian scooped up sausage patties, pancakes slapped with butter and syrup, hash browns, scrambled eggs that were seasoned just right, strips of turkey bacon, more sausages, and a tall glass of orange juice to wash every bit down.

He skipped the fruit cups. Not worth it in his humble opinion. 

Ian squeezed into his custom corner booth, built to compensate for his weight of three hundred and sixty two pounds, and sucked down everything on his plate, not even leaving the tiniest crumb. He stacked the empty plate at the center of the table and went back up to the trays. 

By the end of breakfast, Ian received fifty bucks in his checking account. Before, all you needed was a picture of your finished plates sent to your bank to confirm, but other Eaters took advantage of the old system.

Now, the Brand Corporation required all Eaters to receive small monitors attached to the lining of their stomachs to track food intake as well as digestion.

Ian liked to walk to the Great Woods Dragon down the street for the Chinese buffet next. Sure, it was smaller compared to the others, but he needed to ease his stomach. The pork fried rice, though it smelled divine that afternoon, often left his gut feeling greasy and rough for the rest of the day. Grace, the owner, had Ian’s booth ready for him, with his bib and moist hand towelettes. He descended upon the lunch buffet with nothing held back. 

Skipping the rice, he attacked the crispy chicken fingers and drowned them in duck sauce, the pad tai mixed with peanut sauce, and boneless spare ribs just as quickly as he gobbled up his breakfast. 

Ian licked his fingers at the sound of the push notification from his phone: eighty dollars deposited. 

After letting his stomach rest for thirty minutes, he made his trek down the road for an early dinner at Ron’s Ribs & BBQ. Afternoons were harder and slower for him to keep up, but the money was too good to pass. 

Providence was hardly a city anymore, long gone was the college town, the beautiful campuses, and the vibrant spirit of its people. Now the city was bathed in shadowy smog, gloomed by towering corporate high rises. Many of the city folk set up camps in the old parks, even squatting in abandoned shops. The city was coated in night everlasting.

When Ian made it to the BBQ joint, he was startled by the older man in his tattered clothes, sitting on the stoop of the restaurant door. 

“I need to get by,” Ian said, covering his nose with his sauce-drenched sleeve.

The man in tattered clothes looked to be in his forties, his beard tinted in a nasty amber, his hair slippery and hanging over his dirty face. He didn’t budge. 

“I said I need to get by,” Ian said again. 

The man growled. “Fuck off, fatty. This is my spot. Go find your own!” 

“You’re blocking my way.” 

The man looked at Ian hard and began to chuckle softly. 

“Something funny?” Ian asked.

“You’re all the same. You fucking fatties all over the place.” 

“Excuse me?" 

"You think just because someone pays you to pig out that gives you some right to treat people like shit and bark orders?"

Ian ignored the homeless man, turned, and continued down the road. The man followed him. 

"You think 'cause you're the one of the few left with a job that makes you special? Huh?" 

Ian hustled a little faster.

"Go ahead! Go eat yourself to death, you dumb, son-of-a-bitch. Go and stuff your face for easy cash."

Ian started to run as best he could, but couldn't escape the heckles. The words were banging away in his ear. 

"You'll never be free like me! You hear me, you fat fuck? You'll never. Be. Free!"

Ian turned the corner of the block and fell over the heap of trash. He was huffing and grabbing at his chest. Little beams of sweat fell down his face, his cheeks were hot and crimson. His vision became blurry and then turned black. 

---

There was a slow, steady succession of beeps as Ian opened his eyes to bright lights. He noticed the tubes in his nose, the baby blue Johnny gown he was wrapped in, and the IV hanging just above his head. The bitter smells of industrial cleaner were enough to keep his head spinning. 

A tall, fit, and well-groomed man dressed in black scrubs with a face mask entered. 

The young doctor smiled. "How are we, Mr. Jackson?" 

"What..happened?" Ian asked, his strength diminished.

"I'm Dr. Walton. You're in a Brand Corp Treatment Facility just outside of downtown. There was a slight hiccup with your stomach monitor. But everything is taken care of."

Ian struggled to keep his eyes open and follow what the young, fit doctor was telling him. 

"Hiccup? What…does that mean?"

"A small hiccup, yes. Usually caused by a sudden spike in stress levels. I checked your records when you were brought in this evening. Your stats are excellent. Perfectly healthy. I see you’re a hard earner also.” 

“Really?” 

“Why, yes, an excellent track record. The Health Board Director has never been so impressed. You are a model patient it seems.” 

Ian smiled and let out a sigh of relief. All seven members of the City Health Board signed off on the Brand Corporation’s Eater Program, something to help revitalize the stagnant economy. 

“So…I can go home? Right?” 

Dr. Watson turned to the health chart readings of Ian’s stats. He didn’t say anything. 

“Doctor?” 

“Yes,” Dr. Watson kept his eyes on the digital charts “I think you’ll be able to go home. However,...”

For a moment, not another word was uttered. The doctor’s pause sent a small shiver through Ian’s body. He watched the doctor swipe through the digital records in his hands, strong green eyes bouncing side to side in tune with the cold beeps of the machines connected to Ian. 

“I would still like to run a few more tests. Just to be certain everything is…in order.”
 

“Is that really necessary,” muttered Ian “You said I was–”

“You are Mr. Jackson, you are. A model patient for sure. But we at the center prefer to be safe rather than sorry. The health of our patients is our highest concern.” 

Ian laid there in his bed still listening to the beeps of his heart monitor. By God, a model patient? Ian had never been considered a model for anything in his life. His father ignored him, and he found his mother overbearing. 

Like a proper schoolmistress, she kept him on a strict daily schedule regarding chores, hygiene, and diet. He remembered the beatings he endured when he wasn’t fast enough to complete one of her tasks and recalled the many nights without food. It brought her tremendous joy to starve her darling boy. Keep the fat off, Ian darling. Her condescending tone haunted him. When her death finally came for her, no tears were shed that day, though his stomach rejoiced. 

---

The Brand Corp built a testing facility for Eaters that were monitored overnight; an intimate dining hall serviced with enough food to feed a battalion of hungry soldiers.

Hanging high above the dining hall, were the Observatory Suites, occupied by an eager Dr. Watson and a couple of overworked, underpaid lab assistants observing, studying, and documenting.

Dr. Watson led the Observation Team that afternoon and took great care in recording everything that his eye could capture. The team monitored closely for certain details: each morsel of food consumed, any and all accouterments; flavorings, sweeteners, and seasonings that were added or avoided, the pace of chewing, how the stomach responded to certain foods, and other concerns sent in by the Health Board.

Ian was given a facility scooter for easier mobility. He scooted his way to the jumbo shrimp and cocktail sauce, then downed a few mini donuts, and gobbled up the deli meats of turkey, low-sodium ham, and roast beef. 

---

Ian sat alone in his little scooter stuffing his mouth with a ham sandwich. The honey dijon mustard dripped all over his Johhny gown. These overnight tests seemed easy. He debated whether or not he should ask for some compensation arrangement to make up for lost time. 

Ian glanced down at his scooter as a red stress ball rolled and hit his tire. He looked up and in front of him came a little boy, about the age of seven dressed in his little baby blue suit. Ian smiled. He hadn’t seen a young child in years, especially not a clean, healthy one.

The little boy walked closer to Ian and reached for the ball. Ian smiled again, but the boy just looked at Ian. One part in fascination, the other part bewildered. 

“Hello, little one.” 

The boy didn’t say anything. He continued staring. 

“My name is Ian. What’s yours?” 

The boy looked away

“That’s okay. I just…don’t see many kids around these days. Are you from the city? Where are your parents?”

The boy squeezed the stress ball in his fist repeatedly. 

“You are quite large,” the little boy said in a refined and wise tone. 

Ian sighed. He placed his sandwich in the basket of his scooter and cleaned his mouth. 

“Would you like to play catch?” Ian asked

The boy froze with bewilderment, but then smiled and nodded. He stepped back and they tossed the little stress ball back and forth to the boy’s delight.

“You still didn’t tell me your name.” 

“I don’t have one.”

Ian caught the ball in the air and held it for a moment. “What do you mean you don’t have one? Everyone has a name.”

“I can assure you I don’t have a name. Father has always referred to me as ‘boy’.”

Ian tossed the ball again, “Gee that’s…sad. What do the other kids call you?”

“Father says I’m not allowed to play with the other children in the facility. He says they are not children, but lost animals.” 

“I don’t understand. What other children—”

“Father!” 

Dr. Samuel P. Burke entered the dining room.  The Director of the Health Board stood straight and had a regal air about him. He was tucked and neatly packaged in his white lab coat and his face was clean of any imperfections. 

“Why are you out here? Return to your room, boy! You will wait until the ceremony.” 

The boy dropped his ball and scurried away at his father’s order.

“Mr. Jackson. At last.” 

Ian noticed the Director’s eyes; dark, brooding, and tired. Eyes that could tell you stories of every patient that came through his facility. 

“I am Dr. Burke, Director of the Health Board and Chair of the Medical Unit at the Brand Corporation. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, young man. I am most impressed by your—record.” 

“Really?” 

“Oh, yes of course. The Health Board is looking to…expand the Eater Program. The Board is hosting a small ceremony for the national medical community to demonstrate our miraculous results.”

“Miraculous?” 

“Why yes, of course. Your efforts in the Program will save thousands of lives, Ian. The Brand Corporation has agreed to increase our funding in order for us to continue our work to do good. The Program is just the beginning.” 

Ian’s heart began to race. He felt the Director’s passion for his work and understood the old man’s tired eyes. 

“Will you help us, Ian?”

A rising sound of voices echoed from outside the dining hall. The door kicked out and in came a woman, mid thirties, with ragged hair and clothing, a beaten face screaming. Dr. Watson tried to hold her off. 

“You,” cried the nervous woman “Take it. Take it all back.” 

In a fit, she hurled a paper bag at the Director and struggled to keep herself standing. Rolls of cash slipped from the bag as it hit the floor. 

“My babies! Where are my babies?” the woman shrieked. 

“I apologize, sir,” Dr. Watson said, “I’ve called Security. They will be here soon.”

The woman spat at the Director’s shoes and lunged for him. Dr. Watson lunged just as quickly at the woman to pull her off of him.

“Take the bag back. I want my babies! Give me back my babies!” 

“Remove this woman!” 

Four men of the security team rushed in and dragged the screaming, ragged woman out of the room. Burke composed himself and turned to Ian. 

“Nothing to worry about, Mr. Jackson. A former patient of ours. I’m sure you’re aware of the rampant drug problem in the city.” 

“Yes,” Ian said with a sigh, “So many poor children.”

“Yes,” Burke said, “Born to parents fighting addiction. Fortunately, we have plans to help address the growing crisis.” 

“How can I help?” asked Ian.

Dr. Burke smiled.

---

The following morning came. Ian agreed to attend the ceremony hosted by Dr. Burke and his medical staff. He expressed he didn’t have proper attire for a formal function, not anything that could fit at least. A simple Johnny was only expected. 

Ian was given a wheelchair and was taken to the platform next to the stage of the Great Auditorium. A sea of white lab coats flooded the hall. 

The country’s top medical professionals sat in their seats awaiting the special announcement prepared by the good doctor. Ian sat there, his hands shaking. He was not too fond of crowds, but he knew it was all for a good cause. He looked off to the stage next to him and saw the little boy in the blue suit standing next to the great podium. 

Ian waved and smiled at him. 

The boy smiled back.

As the murmurs and chatter died, Dr. Burke took the stage. He stood behind the podium, regal as ever, pulling out a small scrap of paper from the side pocket of his coat. 

“I…prepared these words over a month ago,” the doctor’s voice was slow. 

As he began to read his words, he took a moment and sighed. He looked up at his medical colleagues, some of them holding hands, while a few others were fighting back tears.

Dr. Burke smiled, “So much has changed in the past month. Glorious change. These words bear little meaning now, I suppose.”

His voice carried with great authority, passion, and neat precision as it echoed throughout the hall. He scraped the paper, tossed it aside, and began again with fresh optimism for the glory he was about to cease.

“Twelve years ago, the Brand Corporation and the city of Providence looked to us, the finest medical minds to combat two glaring issues sweeping the country.”

The hall was silent, the audience leaning in to hear the good word like faithful parishioners. Even Ian was enraptured by the words of the doctor.

“Growing hunger among adults and children and unprecedented unemployment levels have gripped modern society at her throat. Through years of research, government red tape, medical setbacks, and other unforeseen obstacles, I am proud to declare Phase One has exceeded all expectations. The Eater Program has reduced joblessness to pre-epidemic levels in just one year’s time.”

The audience rose to their feet in roaring cheers and loud applause. Dr. Burke continued.

“Settled down, now. The best has yet to come!” Dr. Burke turned his attention to Ian Jackson, who sat still in his wheelchair and couldn’t help but smile back. For the first time in years, Ian felt useful. He looked out at the crowd as the cheering died down and smiled again. He felt seen. He felt worthy. He felt — special.

“Ladies and gentlemen, before I continue on with Phase Two, I’d like to acknowledge the man who is about to make history, glorious history.” 

The doctor extended his hand out to his side as the lights of the hall dimmed and the spotlight settled upon Ian. 

“Mr. Ian Jackson, a Providence native and a hard-working man, has become a rising star of the Eater Program, Brand Corp’s highest earner, and living proof of the success of our efforts.”

The crowd roared once more like Superbowl spectators. Though Ian started to perspire under the bright light, he was grateful no one could see the teardrops running down his face. 

“Ian’s charity does not end there,” said Dr. Burke “He has graciously accepted his role in helping our team tackle Phase Two. For years, junkheads in this city have sold their children for drugs and other favors. These poor lots have been neglected, born with severe medical defects, and continue to go hungry. But not anymore. Thanks to Mr. Jackson’s work today, we can begin to eradicate child hunger. ” 

“Mr. Jackson,” Dr. Burke turned to Ian, “Your sacrifice today shall not be forgotten.” 

Ian stopped smiling. 

The platform below his wheelchair shook, and a trapdoor below him split open, he screamed as he fell through and slammed into the dirt ground below him. 

Dr. Burke raised his hand, “Release the children.”

Below the auditorium, in the dusty darkness, Ian looked out into the distance to see cages rattling. The doors swung open slowly and several beastly creatures, marred in soot, bony and scarred, were released. They howled and barked, scratching at the dirt. 

One creature stopped to catch a sharp, ripe whiff. It looked around and locked eyes with Ian. The others followed, slowly crawling towards the terrified prey.

“Children,” Dr. Burke raised a tiny, silver bell above his head. He gave it a jingle and whispered in the microphone, “Dinner time.” 

The young creatures rushed to Ian, trampling each other, fighting their way to their meal.
Ian, with all his remaining strength, picked himself up and clawed at the concrete wall looking for any escape. 

Nails bleeding, and the skin of his chubby fingers peeled back and raw. 

His screaming was drowned by the heckles and shouts of the rowdy, captivated audience. 

Ian looked back, his face white and eyes wide, and watched over a dozen beastly beings charge at him with full unrelenting speed. He felt a warm sensation running down his hefty left leg. Looking down he could see he wet himself.

The little savage beasts howled and screeched. Ian stood frozen in his own piss and within seconds, his body was taken by little ravenous claws. Little teeth pierced and sunk into his flesh, bones cracked, and tissue ripped apart. 

The hall erupted in cackling cheers at the sight of horror. The little boy stood alone next to Dr. Burke, watching the display monitor capture the event.

“Father, I do not wish to watch this,” the doctor’s son covered his eyes. 

“Look now, boy! This is my life’s work. If you are to succeed me, you’ll need a stronger stomach.” 

The little boy looked back and watched the monitor as ordered. He looked at the remnants of the man known to him as Ian Jackson, professional Eater, and test subject number 941. The boy could still hear Ian’s cries of “help”, “please”, and “oh God”.

The boy turned to his father. “The man keeps yelling the word, ‘God’. What is that, father?” 

Dr. Burke brushed his boy away, “Never mind that, my child. You are witnessing something far more important.”

“What is that?”

Dr. Burke smiled, “Progress, boy. Progress.”

The boy turned back to the grotesque display before him.

“Come now,” Burke took the child by the hand and led him away.

“Let the children feast.”

End

---