The cell I'm sat in has one very high window. The room is no larger than a small box room, a cupboard, if you will, complete with metal door with a sliding hatch in it, a metal sink and toilet combo and a concrete bench. The grey and white walls remind me of the flesh that brought me here.
And it was worth every bite.
I confess, my name is Lloyd Garres and I eat meat.
Yes, I eat meat. But I suppose it really is something to hide, the way it has always controlled me.
The taste, the texture, the way some meats can almost fight back, they are so hard to digest. The way that a good piece of meat can get caught in your teeth and provide you with at least half an hour of picking and poking with your tongue to dislodge some taste filled morsel. I have my own silver plated monogrammed toothpick, but sometimes I just like to extend the enjoyment.
But you see, there is only so much pork, lamb and beef any one person can stand before they need something, well, more.
I have seen the world through my tastebuds.
In Paris, right next to the Pompidou centre watching the tourists queue for hours in the rain for a culture injection, you can buy what I believe to be the world's best horsemeat hamburger. I have had puffin for breakfast in Reykjavik, overlooking the harbour on a crisp spring day with the smell of the fish boats wafting through the windows. I have gorged myself on dog in Guangzhou, squatted on a wooden crate in a bustling market filled with exotic fruits and the smell of chicken blood on the dirt road. Seal pup will always remind me of sunset over the mountains in Nova Scotia.
I once travelled to a tiny village on the borders of India and Bhutan, too small to have it's own police force, where I was – at great expense – served Bengal tiger from an open fire spit in the centre of a dirt square surrounded by little more than mud huts. Stringy, but worth the wait.
But why the jailcell, Lloyd?
Well, I came to LA just a few days ago and I went for sushi at a small place near the airport. I'd heard rumours of their inhumane serving of live octopus. As if that wasn't enough of a draw, I was quietly offered the 'under counter' menu after befriending the waiter. As I live and breathe, I had whalemeat. Not as fishy as you might think, but the buzz of eating it, right there in front of all of those people, aroused me more than any woman or man ever has.
My enjoyment was short lived, as that very moment the police came in with a warrant to close the place. I refused to leave until I had finished and began hefting the lumps into my mouth, stopped eventually by the handcuffs.
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