My stomach rumbles at you in greeting. You certainly pique a certain type of 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, nice suggestion. Language barrier be damned, am I right? 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 type of delicious if I might be so bold.
Okay into the pan we go, please don’t mind the heat, I’ve been told you won’t feel a thing, eventually.
And here we go, oh, most importantly, please remember you are integral to the greeting ceremony, almost like a hero. Oh yes, scream, I almost forgot, screaming now is good. It lets the aromatics soak in.
Very nice, we applaud your efforts in making this a meal for us to remember.
Stories 