Pow!

honestly wish I didn't have to eat you, but I do.

    I delivered the first piece of the darling meat into my mouth, though I could just as easily have said that the darling meat inserted itself into my mouth. Whichever it was, at that moment both of us experienced a flood of mixed emotions, like reunited lovers. ‘I hate the thought of biting into you, but I must. I wish I didn't have to swallow you, but I must. There are so many more pieces waiting to be eaten, and today is not just another day for me. Until today, our union and mutual appreciation has been something I've enjoyed, heart and soul. But now I feel a combination of performance pressure and anxiety, and my mind has begun wander. I must concentrate on the task ahead, and I can only ask your indulgence. I will eat as never before, so that you and I—we—will demonstrate the acutely serious aspect of eating meat.’ The first piece of meat slid with some regret into my stomach, where it swam like a fish in water. ‘Go on, enjoy yourself. I'm sure you're lonely, but not for long—your friends will join you soon.’ The second piece felt the same emotions towards me as I did towards it, and it followed an identical course down to my stomach until it was reunited with the first. Then the third piece, the fourth, the fifth…forming a tidy queue. They sang the same song, shed the same tears, trod the same course and wound up in the same place. It was a sweet but also sad process, illustrious and filled with glory.

    I was so focused on my intimate interaction with the meat that I was oblivious of the passage of time and of my stomach's growing burden. But when I looked down, I saw that only a third of my portion remained. A bit of tiredness had crept in by then, and my mouth was producing less saliva. So I slowed down, raised my head and continued to eat gracefully while I surveyed my surroundings, beginning, of course, with my closest neighbours, my competitors. It was their participation that lent this extended meal its quality of entertainment, and for that I owed them a debt of gratitude. If they hadn't thrown down the gauntlet, I'd have been denied the opportunity of displaying my special skill before such a large audience—not just my skill but also my artistry. The number of people in the world who eat is as great as the sands of the Ganges, but only one has elevated this base activity into the realm of art, into a thing of beauty—and that is me, Luo Xiaotong. If all the meat in the world that has been or will be eaten were formed into a pile, it would rise higher than the Himalayas, but only the meat being eaten by Luo Xiaotong is capable of assuming a critical role in this artistic presentation…But I've gotten carried away, resulting from the overly creative imagination of a carnivorous child. So, back to the contest, and another look at my rivals’ eating styles. Now, it's not my intention to mount a smear campaign—although I've always favoured calling a spade a spade—so I invite you to take a look for yourselves. First, to my left, Liu Shengli. Somewhere along the line, the hulking, tough fellow has tossed away his chopsticks and begun to dig in with his coarse paws. He snatches a piece of meat like he is clutching a sparrow struggling to get free, as though it will fly away to the tree beyond the wall or float into the far reaches of the atmosphere. His hand is filthy with grease, his cheeks like slimy hillocks. But enough about him. Let's take a look at his neighbour, Wan Xiaojiang, the Water Rat. He has abandoned the skewer for his hands, clearly following my lead or trying to. But you can't copy genius, and in the matter of eating meat I am a genius. They are wasting their time. Look at my hand, for instance—only the tips of three fingers are lightly coated with grease. Look at their hands—so much grease they may as well be webbed, like the feet of ducks or frogs. Even Wan's forehead is coated with grease. How that helps him eat meat is beyond me. Are they burying their faces in the meat? But the really disgusting part of it all is the growls and gurgles they emit, no less than insults to the meat they are eating. Like beautiful maidens, this meat is fated to suffer; it is a cruel but inexorable reality. Lamentations rise from the meat in their hands and mouths, while those pieces waiting to be eaten bury their heads like ostriches in an attempt to hide in the tubs. I can only watch in sympathetic solidarity. Things would have