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Lunch with Sirso
By Don Dolan II
I ordered myself some Mexican horchata. I learn that you have to let the cinnamon settle to the bottom of the glass, otherwise the spice doesn’t hit me nice and good. Drink it in slowly, smoothly, enjoy it. I do, I quite like it. I heard one of the waiters call it ‘milk of the donkey’. He smiles, I smile. I like those kind of jokes. You can also hear Sirso cackle with laughter, his long teeth and tongue showing, his inhuman face contorting. He orders a drink much different than mine. It’s blood, heated, not cold, right from the throat of an indigenous species of pseudo-mammal. His tongue dips out of his elongated mouth and draws in crimson globs, the color plastering all over his long teeth.
“Holy hell,” I say, looking at him, his manners less than adequate in the eyes of an animal hailing from Earth. “Be glad this is a quad-species district.”
“It does not matter, does not matter,” he says, his handle on words not the best. “I pay, they give me food. I eat, my stomach filled, and everyone is happy. Does not matter the way it gets that way.”
“Well, try not to embarrass me,” I joke.
“Then don’t be, that is your fault, getting embarrassed for nothing.” His tongue laps around his lips, drool visible. “We can go to Virsuno-owned and populated bar. Go in there, eat like we eat. Not get distracted by how you look or eat. Eat like you enjoy it. Even eat food they don’t give here, live food.”
“I don’t think I could stand that. Not the sight or smell either.”
“You would smell what you eat. This place smells like flowers, always smells like flowers. Do you eat flowers?”
“No, we don’t.” Sirso doesn’t know much of our diet, and he’s not shy to ask questions about it. Or about our laws, social bonds, and sexual acts. “Do you?”
“No,” he sounds offended, “why would we eat plants when meat is better and readily available?”
“Well, put some blood on it. That should make it more tolerable.”
He giggles, something that sounds like a high-pitched growl. “Would be like putting blood on leaves, rotting leaves, tasteless leaves.”
“It’s healthy,” I reason.
“Yes, healthy for you, but for me? Not so much. Also, where is the fun? There is no fun in chewing thin leaves, cold leaves.”
“Well, if you were stuck on an island and there was no meat, and only plants to feed on, would you then eat them?”
He growls with recollection. “What about fish?”
“No fish. They won’t come near the shore.”
“Are you there with me? Cause that would be good meat right there.” Again, he smiles and I smile back. I’m not sure if he’s serious.
“No, you’re alone. So would you then eat plants?”
“Fruit. If no fruit, then maybe I would eat leaves, but only to survive.”
The waiter returns and takes down our meals. I order the chicken and rice while Sirso asks if he can have something more raw. He asks for chicken too, but every part of it, even the guts. Sirso is persuasive, he says he’ll tip generously. He really does, usually by the hundred. When they bring out our platters, Sirso gives an imitation of our smile, all his teeth showing, claws clicking on the table. I show him a less enthusiastic grin of my own, not ready to enjoy the spectacle he is about to perform.
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My name is Don Dolan II. I am 22 years old and live in Mississippi. I love to write science fiction and fantasy, and I recently graduated from Northwest Community College.
By Don Dolan II
I ordered myself some Mexican horchata. I learn that you have to let the cinnamon settle to the bottom of the glass, otherwise the spice doesn’t hit me nice and good. Drink it in slowly, smoothly, enjoy it. I do, I quite like it. I heard one of the waiters call it ‘milk of the donkey’. He smiles, I smile. I like those kind of jokes. You can also hear Sirso cackle with laughter, his long teeth and tongue showing, his inhuman face contorting. He orders a drink much different than mine. It’s blood, heated, not cold, right from the throat of an indigenous species of pseudo-mammal. His tongue dips out of his elongated mouth and draws in crimson globs, the color plastering all over his long teeth.
“Holy hell,” I say, looking at him, his manners less than adequate in the eyes of an animal hailing from Earth. “Be glad this is a quad-species district.”
“It does not matter, does not matter,” he says, his handle on words not the best. “I pay, they give me food. I eat, my stomach filled, and everyone is happy. Does not matter the way it gets that way.”
“Well, try not to embarrass me,” I joke.
“Then don’t be, that is your fault, getting embarrassed for nothing.” His tongue laps around his lips, drool visible. “We can go to Virsuno-owned and populated bar. Go in there, eat like we eat. Not get distracted by how you look or eat. Eat like you enjoy it. Even eat food they don’t give here, live food.”
“I don’t think I could stand that. Not the sight or smell either.”
“You would smell what you eat. This place smells like flowers, always smells like flowers. Do you eat flowers?”
“No, we don’t.” Sirso doesn’t know much of our diet, and he’s not shy to ask questions about it. Or about our laws, social bonds, and sexual acts. “Do you?”
“No,” he sounds offended, “why would we eat plants when meat is better and readily available?”
“Well, put some blood on it. That should make it more tolerable.”
He giggles, something that sounds like a high-pitched growl. “Would be like putting blood on leaves, rotting leaves, tasteless leaves.”
“It’s healthy,” I reason.
“Yes, healthy for you, but for me? Not so much. Also, where is the fun? There is no fun in chewing thin leaves, cold leaves.”
“Well, if you were stuck on an island and there was no meat, and only plants to feed on, would you then eat them?”
He growls with recollection. “What about fish?”
“No fish. They won’t come near the shore.”
“Are you there with me? Cause that would be good meat right there.” Again, he smiles and I smile back. I’m not sure if he’s serious.
“No, you’re alone. So would you then eat plants?”
“Fruit. If no fruit, then maybe I would eat leaves, but only to survive.”
The waiter returns and takes down our meals. I order the chicken and rice while Sirso asks if he can have something more raw. He asks for chicken too, but every part of it, even the guts. Sirso is persuasive, he says he’ll tip generously. He really does, usually by the hundred. When they bring out our platters, Sirso gives an imitation of our smile, all his teeth showing, claws clicking on the table. I show him a less enthusiastic grin of my own, not ready to enjoy the spectacle he is about to perform.
- - -
My name is Don Dolan II. I am 22 years old and live in Mississippi. I love to write science fiction and fantasy, and I recently graduated from Northwest Community College.
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