“I’m hungry!” King Gula roars.
The giant tapestries quiver within the castle’s many halls as these words echo daily.
They have almost become a religious chant for King Gula’s closest advisor, Cassios. He is tasked with attending to the King’s every need.
“Yes, sire, your meal is waiting in the great hall for you.” Cassios bows after he says these words and then escorts the King to the hall, which is reserved for feasts. But King Gula views it as his own personal commissary.
As he walks the requisite four feet behind the King, he places his finger over his nostrils. Lately, a dank odor emanates from the King’s body. It reminds Cassios of rotting fruit in the heat of summer. Cassios dare not mention it, but he knows that the folds of the King’s girth are the culprit.
As King Gula slumps into the great, high-backed chair at the head of the great hall’s enormous table, Cassios stands to the side and waits for the meal. His thoughts begin to wander. He is devoted to the King. He has been since the beginning. The King is a great leader—decisive, proud, charismatic. But lately, unclean thoughts have crept their way into his mind.
He watches the King rub his belly, now protruding so far out that they had to move his chair a foot backwards without telling him. A thin blanket of dirty blonde hair is slicked back on the King’s head. The King’s tongue slithers over his lower lip in anticipation of the meal.
Cassios doesn’t want to be disgusted. He thinks of how the King has transformed the land. How he has brought the dissidents to their knees. How he has brought Cassios from a simple merchant to the King’s closest advisor.
But his eye twitches as he notices a dribble of spittle cascade down the King’s chin.
A bell rings and through the main doors, Queen Melassandra and their three children enter the great hall. The Queen carefully maneuvers to her designated seat at the side of the King, always keeping her royal demeanor and grace. Their two young sons, Gideon and Garrison—twins who follow their mother around faithfully—poke and pinch each other before sitting down next to her.
Then, King Gula’s daughter, Madeline, steps to the opposite side of the table, facing Queen Melassandra. She waits for her brothers to stop fidgeting and quiet down before she gingerly sits next to her father. Madeline, or Maddy as her father calls her, is his favorite amongst his children. She is just shy of 15 years, and the beauty of her mother shines through her leafy green eyes and porcelain skin. King Gula eyes her and then engulfs her hand in his. She offers him a smile, but Cassios believes he sees something behind that smile. A flicker of pain, perhaps. Or maybe disgust.
Suddenly the great hall doors open and under a series of cloche domes, the King’s supper awaits. More follow on several small carts.
The food is placed in the middle of the long table for the Queen and the children first. Then King Gula’s cloche is opened in front of him. A succulent meat with roasted vegetables is revealed. The King inhales the scent, closing his eyes as he does, and then he moans, slowly. If a passerby would hear him, they might think he is in the throes of passion.
The King opens his eyes and stares at the royal chef.
The chef bows to the King and then declares, “I present you with today’s luncheon. Roasted fall vegetable with seared flesh of immigrant.”
The King’s eyes widen, and then his eyebrows shift downward in anger. “Immigrant? What happened to my whores?” He howls.
“I most humbly apologize, sire, but there are no more whores left to cook.”
“How can all the whores be gone? Find some more. They have the most delicious, soft flesh. I crave it.”
Some aristocracy might be alarmed by such indelicate talk, but Queen Melassandra is used to it. The King has acquired a taste for the flesh of his subjects. He has become insatiable at this point.
“But sire, we have scoured the land, and there are no more whores left. You have deemed immigrants a scourge on our land, so we have begun rounding them up for your consumption.” The royal chef bows again, desperately hoping the King will not take his anger out on the aging chef.
King Gula groans and slams his fist on the table. “I supposed this will have to do, but I will miss the taste of their flesh.” He smacks his lips and scratches his belly as he bellows the words.
Once the King begins to eat, his family starts to eat their own meals—a roast bird with the same vegetables as the King.
They eat in silence, except for the constant sounds of slurping and the smacking of the King’s lips. The sucking and licking of his fingers as he finishes the meal seem to forever reverberate within the great hall.
Day after day, week after week, the King’s appetite for flesh is satiated by the royal chef and his team of cooks.
Cassios handles the day-to-day tasks of the castle and leads the other advisors in the handling of the kingdom. The King does little more than sign decrees and make proclamations that his advisors have created for him.
And he eats.
Always ravenous.
After several months, Cassios has to tell the King an unpleasant truth. “Sire, the dissidents are rising against you again. It is, of course, such a small villainous group, but they are causing trouble. How would you like to handle them?” Cassios would deal with this himself, but with the delicate balance of the kingdom on the line, he goes to the King for guidance.
“They are ungrateful peasants who want more than they deserve. I am the greatest king who ever lived! How dare they try to rebel.”
“Yes, sire, you are correct as always. They don’t deserve you,” Cassios pauses and then asks, “What would you like me to do?”
“Take away their rations for one month. See how they like starving. This will put them in line quickly.”
“Yes, sire, that is a wise decision.”
Cassios scurries away to write another decree.
The decree, like most of them, only serves to enrage the populace more. Small rebellions continue to plague the kingdom, but they are squashed by the King’s military forces. Cassios keeps most of this from the King, as it only fuels his anger.
Instead, he and the other advisors keep the King content with his daily meals. Three meals a day has transformed into four. All attempting to satiate his appetite for human flesh.
“I’m hungry!” the King growls.
“Sire, we have run out of immigrants,” the royal chef warily announces.
“What? How can that be? Don’t we have any more? I’ll take them in any color at this point.”
“I’m so sorry, sire.”
“What about more queers? I’ll eat them too.”
“No, sire, we can’t find any more queers, immigrants, whores, dissidents, or political foes.”
“Well, then, who is left for me to eat?”
The chef pauses, looks toward Cassios with fear in his eyes, then back towards the King. “At this point, sire, your loyal subjects are all that are left.”
King Gula groans and then waves his hand, “Fine, feed me.”
So Cassios starts with the poorest of his loyal subjects. The King agrees that this is the best strategy.
And so the King eats and eats.
Eating through his subjects each day, which quickly becomes months and months. His kingdom lost maids and manual laborers first, then tradespeople, such as blacksmiths and wood workers. Then small merchants and other members of the middle class.
With the King’s insatiable appetite, he moves through his subjects quickly.
Soon, the only subjects left are the aristocracy. They no longer have servants and other attendants because the King has eaten them.
Grooves have formed on Cassios’ forehead from the stress of keeping up a kingdom in ruin. But when he tells the king that only the aristocracy were left to eat, King Gula’s response shocks even him: “They have done nothing good for me. They are complacent. Serve them to me.”
So the consumption continues.
“I’m hungry!” The words shake the halls of the castle.
Cassios has been having nightmares of being eaten. He is haunted by the words: “I’m hungry!”
His hair, once a luxurious black mane, now greying and falling out. He picks up several hairs that have fallen into the sink and then peers at them between his fingers. His once royal advisor role, now diminished to hunting down people for his King to devour.
The day Cassios has been dreading for so long has finally come.
He had known that the aristocracy would not satisfy the King for long. Several have already fled the kingdom, and the rest have been eaten.
“I’m hungry!” the shrill voice assaults his eardrums.
The royal chef, gaunt and sallow, bows to the King and finally utters, “I am so sorry sire, but there are no people left for you to eat.”
A deep, guttural sound emanates from the King’s mouth. Cassios and the chef throw each other frightful glances.
By this point, King Gula’s body has expanded so much, like a pimple just before it pops, that he must be carted out into the great hall because he can no longer walk on his own.
Then the King yells, “This is not so. You are lying to me! I’m hungry!”
“Sire, we have no one left for you to eat.”
The King glares at the royal chef and then says, “Come here. I want to look at you.”
The chef stumbles forward, his hands shaking.
“You are thin and unappetizing, but you will have to do.”
King Gula grabs the cleaver that the chef always carries—a symbol that he is the chef in charge—and then slams the chef’s head against the table.
Suddenly, he slices through the air and the cleaver is lodged in the chef’s neck. Time and again, the King raises the cleaver and slams it down on the chef’s neck until a loud crack is heard throughout the great hall.
He has managed to sever the neck and spine.
Cassios looks on in horror.
The King does not bother with cooking the flesh. He is ravenous.
He devours it raw.
Cassios wants to run. He wants to flee the kingdom, like the smart ones already did. But it is too late. Where would he go? His family had already been eaten and the other kingdoms have stopped offering refuge for King Gula’s loyal subjects.
The King is only partially satiated, and he beckons Cassios near him.
Beads of sweat form and then descend Cassios’ forehead. He steps forward—his mind screams for him to run, but his feet obey the King. A reflex of blind loyalty.
“We need to find more people. What if he we invade our neighbors? We could find more people to eat, right?” The King’s eyes are wide, and his pupils are dark. He is possessed by hunger.
“I could…I could try, sire.”
Cassios believe this his chance. He turns to leave the long table, where the King has devoured so many subjects, but before he can escape, thick, bulbous fingers latch onto his neck.
“Better yet, you will serve as my dessert.”
Cassios only sees a glint of light reflect off the bloody cleaver before everything goes dark.
The next day, King Gula calls for his sons to meet him in the great hall. They have mostly been sheltered from the horrors that have befallen the kingdom, but even they have noticed the absence of servants and, at this point, the silence that filled the halls—only broken by the familiar shrieks of “I’m hungry!”
“You are not particularly cunning or even handsome. I think you will serve as my meals today.”
The King feels little remorse as he eats his own sons. Even the next day, when he consumes the Queen, he remembers that their marriage was arranged and that he didn’t really love her.
But when it comes to his Maddy, he hesitates.
Her deep, forest eyes blink in innocence at her father. “Where has mother gone? Where are my brothers?”
“It’s okay, Maddy, they will not be returning.”
“But father, what have you done?”
“I am King, my child. I need to be satisfied. But as I look onto your beautiful face, I am filled with doubt.”
Her eyes squint in confusion and then her fragile frame begins to shiver.
King Gula’s eyes fill with desire for her flesh. He is overcome once again and then, as the cleaver descends on her thin, white neck, he utters, “I’m sorry, my Maddy.”
Finally, the King is alone. The small meal of his daughter leaves him hungry still.
His guilt over killing his Maddy washes away with his hunger. He wants more.
“I’m hungry!” he shouts to an empty room.
An empty castle.
An empty kingdom.
As he considers what to do next, he looks down at his hands. His fingers resemble the sausages his childhood cook would place in a large pan to fry. But his fingers look as if they are about to break open from their sausage casings. His hands are so plump, he can’t even close them completely.
Then the thought slinks into his head. First as a murmur. Then it becomes his only thought.
His dark pupils stare down at his hands with desire.
This time only a whisper escapes his lips, “I’m hungry.”