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ANDREW FUKUDA
Dessert arrives, ice cream. This is one of the few foods for which I don’t have to fake an appetite. I scarf it down, slowing down only when a sharp pain pinches my forehead. The other hunters continue to stuff their faces, especially the two sitting on my left. They’re in their twenties, both students at the College. He’s a phys ed major, she’s undeclared. Physical specimens, both of them, to say the least. He’s rippling in muscles, although he doesn’t flaunt it. She’s more of an exhibitionist, wearing daring cutoffs that show off her abdominal muscles. Lookers, too, with crystalline skin, high-bridged noses, and doorknobs for cheekbones. Both Phys Ed and Abs have a natural bounce to their step that speaks of effortless strength and agility. But dumb as a box of rocks. One thing’s instantly clear: They’re the top contenders. One of them is going to win the Hunt. The other is going to finish whatever hepers are left over. No wonder Gaunt Man is unhappy. Frilly Dress springs in from nowhere, her shrill voice ringing across the hall like a shattered plate. “And did we all have a stupendous lunch?” she asks. It’s apparent she has: her chin is still dripping with fresh blood. “Time to move on to the next part of the tour. In fact, we’ve been moving so fast, we have almost nothing left on today’s agenda. My, my, my, you all really should pace yourselves slower. You won’t learn anything at this breakneck speed!” I catch Gaunt Man shoot me a knowing look, as if to say: Didn’t I tell you? This whole thing is a meaningless exercise in redundancy. “So,” continues Frilly Dress, “the only thing left remaining on tonight’s itinerary is the visit to the Dome. This is going to be a real treat. Mind you, we’ll likely not see any hepers since they sleep at night, but their odors are really pungent there. To die for, really.” A few necks twitch around the table. “So, shall we? Make our way now?”
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10/24/12 2:23 PM