I met Mr. Ovitz, a short, heavyset neighbor and friend, for dinner on Sunday. We needed to discuss our businesses’ future, or at least that’s what we told our wives. Occasionally men just need to get out of the house and have a bit of time to drink and enjoy themselves. We decided to eat at the local pub, The Stuck Pig, a favorite for both of us. “Good to see you Jim,†Ovitz said, cheerfully. “I trust you’ve an appetite,†I replied. I was hungry myself; my stomach rumbled audibly. “Absolutely.†Our waiter appeared and Ovitz ordered lasagna and a side of creamed spinach. I asked for simple fish and chips and the house beer. Our waiter was a curt young man, exactly the kind of service I prefer. He brought our drinks and promptly disappeared. “So how has life been, Fred?†I asked, expecting one of Ovitz’s typical witty responses. He looked up and sighed dramatically. “Oh, you know. Work is work – I tired of it years ago. I love my kids, but they just double the exertion I have to make.†He smiled, “That’s what these dinners are for - to complain to one another.†I nodded in agreement. Nearly thirty minutes passed as we chatted about life, family, work, and everything else that two such men could be interested in. Finally Ovitz paused, said “Say, it is taking a while today, isn’t it? We ordered almost half an hour ago. I’ve never had to wait this long here before.†“Why, yes, I suppose you’re right. They must have fouled up one of the meals. I could do with an appetizer, at least. What say we order some fries?†The void in my stomach seemed to have grown, and our food was still being prepared. I called over the waiter. “Excuse me, could we get an order of fries, please?†He vanished again, but when he reappeared he said simply, “I’m afraid that we seem to have run out of fries, sir.†“Run out of fries? What sort of restaurant runs out of fries?†He leaned forward and whispered, “To be perfectly honest, sir, they were contaminated. Rats.†Ovitz laughed, “I don’t suppose we could have one or two of those! I’m about hungry enough right now.†Our waiter smiled politely and said he would see how our dinners were coming along. We thanked him melodramatically, trying to remain good humored despite our steadily increasing hunger. Fifteen minutes later he came to tell us that our meals would be ready at any moment; the cook was just performing the finishing touches and was sorry for the wait. In the meantime, we struggled to make conversation. The momentary famine had seriously impacted both our demeanors. “Ah, I can smell the dishes around us! I’m about ready to rob the next table over!†exclaimed Ovitz. “Yes, that’s a pub for you… usually they do more than just smell like food, though.†My last few words were eclipsed by another unwelcome series of rumbles from my stomach. “Speaking of smells,†I said trying to get off the topic of food, “my boy Bill went three days without bathing! We finally noticed the rotten stench yesterday, and he just laughed all the way to the bath.†Ovitz chuckled, the sounds hollow and pointless, “He must follow his father’s habits, eh?†“I think I smell quite nice, thank you.†“With a drop of garlic and an hour over an open fire, slow cooked, you’d smell absolutely delicious. Where are our meals?†A full hour had passed since we’d ordered. We were both starving, and now I could not even locate our waiter. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, and glanced at Ovitz. He had moved a hand over to examine his reflection in his woefully clean spoon. I picked up my knife, glancing at its shiny mirrored surface. I looked thinner in the blade, and I felt my hunger ten-fold. Ovitz replaced the spoon in favor of the knife, yet this time he didn’t bother to look at his reflection. He just gripped it firmly in one hand, the blade protruding from the bottom of his fist. He smiled, but his smile was more that of a desperate scavenger than the pleasant man I had met earlier. An hour passed while we pretended not to notice. “I say, at this rate I’ll have to hunt my own damn dinner!†he joked. I pretended to laugh, but my humor had escaped me, replaced only by the black hole in my stomach. Now I glanced over and saw myself in his knife. I looked thinner, my skin hanging off my frame like sheets draped over a chair. When I glanced up at him, however, he seemed to have gained weight. Now spittle flew from his nostrils, and his speech was reduced to a series of swine-like sounds by the time it reached my ears. He leaned forward suddenly, smiling broadly to whisper something to me. He probably spoke of the service or the time we’d spent, or told some foolish joke. Regardless, all I heard were those same oinks and grunts. Now he appeared frustrated. He slammed his fist on the table, the handle of the knife making a loud a knocking sound and roared in the general direction of the kitchen. Then he turned back to me and slowly leaned forward, a fiendish grin spreading across his face, as if he had some devilish plan to feed us both. His face was so close I could smell his breath and see each tooth as he spoke. For the first time I noticed his canines, and it occurred to me that at that size, it was a wonder he didn’t file them down. Then, quite suddenly, Ovitz's eyes glazed over and he seemed to look through me, as if eyeing my organs for their nutritional merit. He swept his knife across the table, inches from my throat and howled like an animal that had finally found its prey. I realized almost too late what he meant to do. He had lost his mind, and now in his deranged state had mistaken me for the first course! I responded to the next sweep of his knife with a much more accurate one of my own, and watched as big, succulent drops of blood sprayed from his thick, multilayered neck. It was me or him, I decided, and leapt over the table and sank my teeth where my knife had landed, tasting the iron-like flavor of his blood as if it was sweet wine. They dragged me off of him then. It took almost four men to unclamp my jaws from his throat. They tell me I made a mistake.
