• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 07
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Brains For Tea

It’s brains for tea again. This new body of mine craves them because they are juicy, succulent, they melt in the mouth like butter used to. But half the time you do want something different. I mean who’d want to eat foie gras their whole life, eh? I remember my first one. It was rich, gave me the trots. I watched others eat theirs – they went in through the face, apparently they’re easier to reach that way – through the mouth and the cavities of the skull. But even I’ll admit that was harsh and the thought of eating the contents of someone’s nose wigged me out. Silly, I know.

They come in different sections, brains. Almost like breaking open an orange. Rumour is eating different parts gives you different strengths – the meaty cerebrum can make you real fast, agile. Chomp down on the occipitals and it helps with your vision. I never buy into that nonsense. I’ve never seen any of us move faster than two miles per hour and even then we’re still walking into stuff. Only yesterday I saw one of us walk into a collapsed tree trunk, sliced himself in half.

I thought I’d try the other parts once. I ate a heart. God, it was bloody messy. It was chewy and all, no meat on it. Livers were slimy, kidneys were a waste of time and the guts were a nightmare. Reminded me of cat’s cradle when I was a boy. I dug through some lungs once but the bloke had obviously been a smoker, filled with black stuff they were. I may not look it but even I have standards.

So in the end, you always go back to the brain. I remember my wife used to cook mince three times a week. Mince, again? We’d row about it – it’s cheap, if I didn’t like I could do the sodding cooking. I’d kill for mince now – just something cooked, hot. One of the wife’s nice shepherd’s pies with lashings of mash. My wife. Where’d she go?