Once
he had gotten through his fourteenth plate of succulent short ribs, Hal had
officially been declared a glutton by the staff. They didn’t even have time to braise another
order of the ribs before he was calling for more. He had already worked his way through a
mountain of corn, once dripping with butter but redoced to nothing but cobb
now. The mashed potatoes, rife with
garlic and rib dripping, had been polished off as well, along with the many
artichokes bathed in the oily sauce that gave them just the right amount of
salty flavor.
All
of a sudden, as he was making his next order, Hal’s eyes bulged out and, after
a moment of turning a vivid green, keeled over onto the floor, still as a
scarecrow. Everyone was in an uproar as
the local doctor came over to him and looked him over, doing every test he
could without a lab. “I’m sorry,” he
said, “but it looks like the poor man has died.”
“Of
a heart attack?” a scared customer asked.
“No,”
the doctor replied. “Of hunger.”
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