My stomach rumbles at you in greeting. You certainly pique an interest. Perhaps a celebration is in order. My culture dictates the guest of honor must be fed.
Why do you try and escape? Yes, I think rope and a trussing seems appropriate to me. Do you disagree? Good, good, your language is such babble I can only assume we think the same.
Now relax as I begin the dining ritual, first we prod with liturgical spears, and plug the holes with garlic, it is a form of acupuncture. No, no, you need to relax, enjoy, revel, please don’t be afraid, it nullifies our attempts to tenderize you and leaves an awful bitter aftertaste.
This should be very exciting. You are the guest of honor. Many species have smeared themselves across the plate of our great leader, but you look so scrumptious, one of a kind, delicious if I might be so bold.
Please don’t mind the fire, I’ve been told you won’t feel a thing and this is all integral to the greeting ceremony.
Oh yes, screaming is good, it lets the aromatics soak in, we applaud your efforts in making this a meal to remember.
Stories 