Pow!

relationship. Otherwise, there's no way he'd have appointed a boy without a hair on his crotch as workshop director and given him the right to eat all the meat he wants.’

    ‘If you want to out-eat me, I accept the challenge. There's no need to disturb Lao Lan over something so silly.’

    ‘That's exactly what we want,’ they said. ‘To see who's the champion meat-eater. You can count us as your drill squad. If you can't beat us, you can forget about entering a real contest. It would be humiliating, and not just for you. The plant would suffer, and that would include us. So we challenge you to a contest, at least in part as an expression of fairness.’

    ‘Good,’ I said. ‘We can start tomorrow and, since public spirit has entered the picture, I'm going to take this very seriously. Now we must inform Lao Lan, but don't worry, I'll assume full responsibility. And we need to establish ground rules and conditions. First, of course, is quantity. If you eat a pound and I eat eight ounces, that's simple, I lose. Next, speed. If we both eat a pound but I finish in half an hour while it takes you an hour, I win. Third, post-contest. Anyone who throws up what he's eaten can't win. Style points are received only by keeping down what you've eaten. Oh, and one more thing. One round won't be enough—the contest must stretch over three days, or five, even a week or a month. In other words, all contestants have to come back day after day. Someone might be able to eat three pounds the first day but only two the next and by the third day he's lucky if he can get down one. A person like that isn't a true meat-eater and definitely not a meat-lover. Meat-lovers have an ongoing relationship with meat, day after day. We never tire of eating it—’

    ‘That's enough! You're can't scare us off with bluster. All we're talking about here is stuffing meat into your mouth. So, whoever eats the most in the shortest time without puking wins, right?’

    I nodded.

    ‘Then go talk to Lao Lan. We'll be waiting to begin. I'd like to start today,’ said one of them, patting his stomach. ‘This belly hasn't been greased in a long time.’

    ‘It's best to ask your un-patron to lay out plenty of meat,’ said one of his companions, ‘I can eat half a cow at one sitting.’

    ‘Half a cow? That's nothing!’ another retorted. ‘Half a cow will just get me started. I can finish off the whole thing.’

    ‘All right! Wait here. And try not to eat anything until the contest so you can start with an empty stomach.’

    ‘Don't worry,’ they laughed, patting their stomachs, ‘they're empty all right!’

    ‘And I think you'd better go home and make arrangements with your families. Too much meat can be fatal for some.’

    Their eyes blazed with contempt for a moment and then they burst out laughing. ‘Not to worry, youngster,’ one of them said. ‘Our lives aren't worth anything.’

    ‘And even if it's fatal,’ said another, ‘at least we'll die happy!’

POW! 36

    The enormous hulk that was Lan Laoda's son, surrounded by fresh-cut blooms, lies not so much on the bier as on a bed of flowers. Dozens of mourners—all in black—walk round it amid the soft sounds of funereal music. Lan Laoda stands, bent at the waist, looking down into the face of his son. Then he straightens up, raises his head and faces the mourners with a broad smile. ‘From the day he was born,’ he says, ‘my son lived in the lap of luxury. He knew neither suffering nor worry. His only wish in life was to eat meat, and that wish was never denied him.’ Looking down at the hillock that was his son's belly, then continues: ‘After consuming a tonne of meat, he slipped away painlessly in his sleep. His was a happy life, and I carried out all the responsibilities of a father. What I find most gratifying is that I was with him when he died and that I am now giving him the finest funeral possible. If a netherworld exists, my son will never know an unhappy moment, and now that he is gone I have no more concerns. I am hosting a banquet at the manor tonight, to which you are all invited. Please come in your finest clothes and bring lovely women with you to share the best food and drink money can buy.’ At the manor that evening, Lan Laoda raises an amber glass of VSOP brandy, immersed in the aromas of gourmet dishes, the liquor swirling in his glass, and announces grandly: ‘To my son, who knew the best that life has to offer and who then passed away