Posted by Menagerie on November 05, 2005 at 11:32:31:
ANGUS THE GREAT
With fork and knife in hand, Angus MacTavish was unbeaten. Untied. Unscored upon.
Foes quivered when Angus strode to the dining table. They watched in awe, as he showed the form that made him the world's greatest trencherman. A hundred deviled eggs? No problem; Angus opened his massive maw, and tossed down the ovoids as if they were so many salted peanuts. Twenty pounds of sausage? He slurped down the links faster than a schoolboy nipping through the fence to escape a beating. Potatoes, tomatoes, hares, pears, oats and shoats. You name it; Angus could digest it.
Angus had won every eating contest from Maine to Spain and, truth be told, he was bored. He sat hunched over his usual breakfast, which was a stack of flapjacks higher than the cliffs of Fundy, alongside a slab of ham you could sail back to the Highlands. In between bites, he told his brother and business partner, Hamish, “I need a new challenge, I do. The name 'MacTavish' graces every record book of every eating competition on every continent. Not a week goes by when I don't better me own best. I can devour more doughnuts, gobble more giblets, and polish off more plantains, than any man alive." The Great Man slumped in his throne-shaped chair, which bore the legend, "Sultan of Sup," a gift from admirers in the Middle East. Angus bowed his massive, bald pate, and despondently shovelled in oatmeal with a spoon you could use to nest a hatch of owlets.
As thin as his brother was massive, as intense as he was regal, Hamish clucked in sympathy. "I hate to see you like this, laddie," he soothed. "Sure, we've had our challenges. Why, remember that porky Patagonian, who thought he could best you at paella? It came down to the last, it did, and the two of you were just rice grains apart, but you pulled it off. Why, each day, a new competition arises, a foodstuff strange and alien, and a worthy opponent to be vanquished on his own turf. In fact, I've just received in the mails--" he pulled out the brochure, examined it closely--"an invitation to, ‘The eat-off to end all eat-offs.’ It’ll be on a sunny isle in the Pacific; the grand prize is no less than one million simoleons. Think of the notoriety! Think of the TV coverage! With me working the endorsements, I’ll have your smiling mug plugging everything from Peking duck to Parmesan cheese.”
Angus’ interest was piqued; he speared a dozen kippers and downed them all at once, then asked, “And what is it I’ll be eating, then?”
Hamish kept reading, and when he looked up, you’d have thought he’d seen Duncan’s ghost. His eyes met his brother’s, and he said, with astonishment, “A woman.”
Angus paused, another round of smoked herring on his fork, which you could have used to clean the Aegean stables. “Did I hear you, dear brother,” he said gently, his tones as deep as the bass pipes at St. Giles’ Cathedral, “say, ‘a woman’?”
Hamish was still reading. “Yes…yes…’Each contestant will have the opportunity to consume one fully-cooked woman, to be supplied by his or her team. Whoever consumes the most meat in the time of one hour shall be…’ One million smackers, Angus!” he said, whapping his thin, pale hand across the brochure for emphasis. “D’ya think you can do it, then?”
Angus thought about it. He’d eaten lowing kine and grunting swine. Bleating ewes, kangaroos. Mewling cats, hissing ra--“One million smackers?” he asked. The herring still dangled.
“Aye,” said Hamish.
The massive trident of a fork spun, dove down Angus’ gullet, and came up clean as a whistle, and the world’s greatest trencherman slammed a massive fist upon the table. “Then,” he cried, “a woman, I shall eat! But,” he paused, “where shall we find this woman we are to ‘supply’?”
Hamish was gleeful. “Leave that,” he said, “to me.”
For there were, of course, Angus MacTavish fan clubs, in every land. Schoolgirls swooned at the sight of the massive masticator, resplendent in a size XXXXXXL kilt, a glower peeking through his crimson facial hairs; the full-sized posters had been a hit. Mothers adored him, for they would tell balking young ones, “Angus would surely eat all of his creamed spinach, and everyone else’s, too.” He had become America’s Eatheart.
And when Hamish put out the word that the Great Man sought a special assistant in what would be his greatest gastronomic feat yet, there was no end to the eager volunteers. Some, of course, lost interest when they learned they would be the main course. But others giggled, jumped up and down, raised their hands and cried, “Me! Me! I want to be the one to help Angus set his record!”
They gradually whittled the list down. The president of the fan club in Marseilles was too skinny-“What if my competitors bring along a Valkyrie princess?” asked Angus. The one in Milan, too swarthy. “I’d be picking hairs out of me teeth every minute,” fumed the Great Man
But the moment their plane set down in Minneapolis, and they saw the beaming girl holding the “We Angus” sign, the MacTavish brothers turned to each other and said, at once, “She’s the one!” For lovely Marla Magnusson had tresses of gold, a smile to melt your heart, and was built like a--no, make that two of them. Her bosoms looked like twin artillery guns; her thighs were as strong and sleek as mighty oaks. And her derriere…well, let’s just say a man could go spelunking, and not return till St. Swithen’s Day.
“You do understand,” Hamish said, very slowly and carefully, to the radiant, flaxen-haired lass, “that you’re to be cooked and eaten?” They were at the local greasy spoon, where Angus was consuming his typical light lunch, a quarter side of beef with a side of mashed potatoes that would make Edmund Hillary cry.
“Uh-huh,” Marla said, brightly. “All the girls in the club wish it was them, you know. To be eaten by the famous Angus MacTavish! On TV, too!” She leaned forward, seductively. “You know,” she cooed to the flaming-haired Scotsman, her delectable dugs brushing against his beard, “in school, they used to call me, ‘Marla the Meat’!” Marla laughed; Hamish blushed. Angus chewed.
Marla said her goodbyes--her parents were so proud, the famous Angus!--and the three of them jetted off to Angus’ training camp on Tierra del Fuego. With the contest in less than a fortnight, Angus needed to be at his eating trim, and he practiced on the plentiful local sheep flock. Eventually, the natives had to send to New Zealand for reinforcements; Angus had eaten so much mutton, he’d created a worldwide shortage of mint jelly.
Marla prepared, as well. Wearing a bikini so skimpy Angus could, and did, use it to floss, the comely lass demonstrated to the goggle eyed brothers the attributes that had earned her school moniker. Always the perfectionist, Hamish used calipers and an ultrasound to measure the densest portions of Marla’s muscle mass; here, he instructed Angus, is where the most meat will be, and you will be able to rack up the most poundage. How about--? Marla asked, pouting and propping up her puppies, but Hamish said, negatory. “Mostly fat, not much weight there. We’re talking a full meal, not an hors d’oeuvre. Now, here--“ and with that, he whapped at her butt, nicely framed by the slivers of swimsuit material-“is where you’ll get the maximus gluteus.” Angus nodded and jotted down notes, in between bites of sheepmeat.
Finally, after a full day’s training and a glorious night of lovemaking--the massive Angus and his Amazonian meal-to-be as combustible a pair as St. George and the dragon--they were off to the South Seas. For Angus, a shot at fame; for Hamish, riches. For Marla…well, she seemed to be enjoying it.
WELCOME, GRAND GAL GOURMET CONTESTANTS, the banner at the little single-runway airport proclaimed. The place was a bedlam of activity, bare-bosomed native girls handing out leis, officious-looking officials making sure everybody got the needed paperwork. When Angus set his size 22’s onto the tiny tarmac, though, no introductions were necessary. “The great MacTavish!” the multitude cried; flash bulbs popped, and the men of the press had queries by the score. Most were variants of, “Where’d’ya get the babe?”, and Marla smiled her brightest smile; in her skin-tight mini-muumuu, she truly was Marla the Meat, and some of the other contestants kicked themselves for selecting that girl from the health club. Oh, sure, she had some heft, but--they drank in Marla’s massive rib cage and the mammaries attached thereto, her hips as wide and inviting as the entrance to the Grand Casino at Monte Carlo. Mama mia, said Nino Corzimealo, the champion trencherman of the Mediterranean, she was some spicy meatball.
Angus, meanwhile, was sizing up the competition. That Corzimealo, he recalled, could put away Genoa salami like a prosecutor racking up plea bargains. In the distance he could make out the globular form of Herman “Back Forty” Backus, so named for the way he plowed through acres of corn and beans. And, could that be--
“Angus, old bean!” he beamed. “Hello, Nigel,” growled Angus; the Brit was impeccably attired in a sky blue leisure suit, tailored to his five by five foot frame. “Just back from the Beef Bite-Off in Texas,” Nigel smiled. “Or, as it’s now known, the ‘Lone Cow State.’ We really chowed through the competition, didn’t we--Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Angus MacTavish, my companion and meal for the competition, Miss Tonya Tuchus.”
Miss Tuchus, mouthwateringly attired in a low-slung tank top and shorts that ended at about half cheek, would surely have caused Rubens to reject his Helena. “No meat on your bones,” the artist would have sneered. “Go drown yourself!” For Tonya's figure was an hourglass that would run for at least a couple of decades; her bosom was so full and bountiful, the dairy herds of Marla's home state would curl up their udders in despair. Succulent and ripe, her hormones were busting out all over, and she and Marla eyed each other coolly. "Silicone," said Marla evenly, "isn't edible."
"Ladies, ladies!" chortled Nigel, his monocle wobbling. "You are both quite mouthwatering, and I'm sure the great MacTavish and I will be quite sated when we feast on your frames. However, old boy," and there was a glint in that eyeglass, "I do believe that this time, you've finally met your match. Come tomorrow evening, it will be I converted those million soldiers into Euros, and you will have to be content with but a bellyful." And with that, the couple sauntered off, the paparazzi parting like the Red Sea for a Moses who looked like he'd swallowed both of those stone tablets. And the burning bush, too.
"Hmmph," said Hamish. "Snooty Limey. Don't worry, Marla; you're optimal. If Angus finishes you off, tete to toes, we've got the 'Grand Gal Gourmet' title in the bag." And the Great Man, for emphasis, belched.
Marla smiled, sunnily. "I only hope," she purred, stroking the world's greatest trencherman's curling whiskers, "that you find me very digestible."
The contest had its first controversy shortly thereafter. The judges inspected all of the women who had been brought along to be prepared for the competitors, and one of them was disqualified. "Injected with vegetable oil," reported the judge, as the Russian Igor Bytchatitzoff and his comely, 300-pound companion, Ivana Sukya, slunk away in ignominy. "Would have gone right through him like Metamucil." The disgraced Bytchatitzoff was stripped of his Hero of the Gustatory Revolution award; Ivana went on to fame and glory hefting the hammer for the Russian National Track and Field team, until she was revealed to have more extra chromosomes than a hill clan in Kentucky.
Marla passed muster with flying colors. "Outstanding orifices," commended the lead judge, a wizened Swiss cheese magnate who knew his holes. Touching her toes, Marla smiled demurely as the judge dropped a ball bearing on her bare bottom, only to have it bounce right back up into his hand. "She is as firm as a Sealy mattress," he declared. "One of those Posturepedic jobs. I do hope the great MacTavish's famed choppers are up to the task."
No problem there; Angus' steely incisors were being employed at that very moment to puncture a beer can. The Great Man kept his teeth in shape by prying open shellfish, armadillos, and the occasional Volkswagen. Marla Magnusson's ravishing rump would offer no more resistance than a spoonful of sorbet. Nevertheless, its ampleness gave even the Great Man pause. "I wouldn't try to eat it all at once," Hamish urged his insatiable sibling during their pre-competition skull session. "Go for a little rib meat, maybe a neck bone. Once your stomach gets to growling, then, go for it, a cheek at a time."
The three of them exhaustively planned their strategy, Marla dutifully displaying parts of her bodacious body as Hamish drafted the plan of attack. Like all other competitive sports, eating has a rhythm all its own; the accomplished trencherman learns to quicken and slow his pace based on the signals from his digestive tract. One false move, a frankfurter or mountain oyster where there was no longer any free space, could trigger a dreaded "Roman-method incident"--a "regurgitation" to the unwashed--that would soil both the clothing and the reputation of the tarnished competitor. Angus had esophageal muscles of cast iron and had never lost his nine-course lunch; still, one could not write off the possibility of a round-trip meal ticket, and even the Great Man had his limits.
In the end, the plan was agreed upon. Angus would start with a light snack of Marla's supple belly; then, he would work his way through her back ribs and shoulders. By then, he should be positively ravenous, and ready to polish off one of those Black Forest thighs. "Now, don't overstuff yourself, you greedy thing, you," Marla teased; naked as a jaybird on steroids, she sat on Angus' lap, from which you could launch F-14's, while Hamish traced up and down her body with a laser pointer. Angus, who had tossed down a couple of braised bandicoots just to keep his stomach walls limber, smiled back at her; he had actually grown quite fond of the girl. And their final night of frenzied lovemaking, had they been attached to a generator, would have lit up the skies like Kilimanjaro.
That, of course, did not stop the world's greatest trencherman from conveying his exacting specifications to the cadre of chefs who would be cooking each of the competitors' meals to order. “Now, these,” he told them, holding up one of Marla’s magnificent teats for emphasis, “are not to be done too well…maintain the marbling. The rump is to be lightly seared to seal in the juices; arms and legs, rubbed with salt. Got it?” Humbled in the presence of the great Angus, the three mustachioed chefs nodded in unison.
The scene was a touching one, as each of the world-class eaters escorted his companion to the barbecue pits, bade her farewell, and described to the white-clad cooks how she was to be prepared. Each of the women gleefully shed her abbreviated garments and minced to the staging points, where she would be skewered, seasoned, sauced and set over the coals. Within minutes, the hubbub of activity and chorus of giggling goodbyes was replaced by moaning, the creaking of rotisserie machinery, and an ever-present hiss.
"Nothing fancy, now," Angus instructed his assigned Head Chef, who dutifully took notes. "I've a delicate stomach, you know," before pausing to take another bite from the emu's leg he'd procured for breakfast. Marla smiled warmly at him, waved bye-bye, and daintily traipsed to the pit labeled MACTAVISH, where she was instructed to bend over. Those magnificent glutes were pulled taut, and the Head Chef nearly fainted dead away; it took him four tries before his steel rod found the correct aperture.
It was quite a sight, a dozen giant, economy sized lovelies from the far reaches of the globe, all turning over the white-hot coals. Mon Chee, the Gastronome of Guangzhou, had directed that his fair maiden, Sou Bel Lee, be prepared with a liberal dose of monosodium glutamate. "One hour after I eat her," he chuckled, gesturing to the helplessly wriggling flower of the Orient, "I be hungry again!" Chunky Pierre, who had developed sophisticated tastes from sampling the finest French cuisine, wanted his belle ma’amselle, Claire de Spoon, basted in a cream sauce, her dainty breasts injected with custard. “Eh, Claire?” he guffawed, poking her in the ribs as she slowly turned.
The air was soon filled with the rich scent of roasting damsel. As ever the attentive manager and concerned brother, Hamish frequently visited the pit to ensure Angus’ directions were being carried out to the letter. “They used tart cherries, not sweet, to fill your vaginal canal, correct?” he inquired of Marla. Her fair skin turned bronze by the fire and slick with the grease drawn from within her, Marla managed to make a circle with her bound thumb and forefinger. “Good girl!” he cried, and she tried to wink, but it came across as more of a grimace.
Angus, meanwhile, had donned his ceremonial kilt, the one emblazoned with the crossed knife and fork. He entered the arena like a prizefighter, mighty hands clasped above his head in self-congratulation, as the open air arena rocked; eager fans had traveled thousands of miles to witness the Great Man’s most astounding feat, and young girls swooned at his feet. I’D FRY FOR YOU, ANGUS, read one of many placards, and the glowering Scotsman checked out the plump, peach-skinned girlie who was eagerly waving it; there may, after all, be a rematch.
The other competitors had entered to various levels of applause; Nigel, bedecked in naught save a loincloth and his trademark monocle, was the favorite of many. So often, runner up to MacTavish, the two of them leaving the horde far behind as they gnawed through crawdads or stuffed pullets down their gullets. This time, the Brit thought, smugly, Tonya and I will win one for God, country, and Maalox.
And it was not soon after that Nigel’s partner in the event arrived, steaming hot from the spit; borne on the shoulders of a half dozen sturdy, native men, Miss Tuchus rode the silver platter regally, serenely. Her magnificent mammaries propped up her torso like the earth upon Atlas' mighty shoulders; round and radiant with the heat of the coals, they shimmered like twin oases in the desert sun. Marla's insinuation to the contrary, they were 100% natural, and as fresh as all outdoors.
The crowd was murmuring, awestruck. Tonya had been converted into a mound of meat so rich and sumptuous, it was as if each spectator had been gripped by the nostrils and was being drawn stageward. Her prodigious hams joined at buns so massive and majestic, one could imagine Sol peeking over them to greet the day. Her back, broad and well-fleshed, could well have served as a youth soccer pitch. Nigel himself was momentarily struck speechless, and the fierce competitor willed his stomach juices into overdrive; he had his work cut out for him.
Angus, too, was impressed, but confident, for the climax of the fricasseed female parade, as befitting his stature as the world's greatest trencherman, was the entrance of his lovely Marla. Her golden tresses done up in a style that would impress the French royal court, her features daintily highlighted with the liquors of berries and extracts of herbs--it was as if she had made her grand arrival at the most formal of balls. That is, is the attire were a skintight gown, in the hues of barbecue-bronzed flesh.
Yes, Marla’s bare bod was fair radiant with the captured heat of the coals, shimmering in marvelous reds and yellows; her skin gleamed in the tropical sun. Those awe-inspiring thighs, thick as schooners’ masts, bulged against the fragile dermis within which they were encased; shoulders and loins, too, filled out to the point of near bursting. And although each of the broiled broads conveyed a delectable aroma, the unique fragrance of the maiden from Minnesota seemed to pluck each observer’s salivary glands and draw them toward Nirvana. At his lovely fan turned feast was placed before him, Angus’ eyes misted over; and he made a mental note to commend the Head Chef for using just the right blend of leeks and garlic.
There they were, a dozen pretties on platters, the belles of the bowels, gustatory goddesses…and, crouched before them, each sporting a look of intense determination, the competitors who would consume them with passion. And, perhaps, a bit of béarnaise. As the crowd roared in anticipation, the lead judge eyed the contestants sternly, and raised a gloved hand; the arena was hushed, and the arbiter declared, in the tones of Zeus as he was just about to grab some mortal poontang, “Let the Grand Gal Gourmet contest…begin!”
Some of the competitors immediately experienced difficulties. “Back Forty” Backus was the first to concede; only a few bites of arse from his corn-fed country cutie left the gargantuan hillbilly rolling on the turf, hugging his massive belly as if it were a b’ar and he, Dan’l Boone. Inadequate hygiene on the part of the cutie was later adjudged to be the cause, and the organizers made a mental note to inspect entries for infestation in future contests.
Mon Chee was next to drop out; a near-fatal attack of Chinese Restaurant Syndrome left the Gastronome of Guangzhou writhing while the medics rushed to his aid. Then the contestant from Northern Ireland fell to a shattered jaw; his lovely Prima O’Grady had neglected to tell him about the steel plate inserted after a skirmish with the Orangemen. The remaining trenchermen barely acknowledged their fallen foes; they continued to gorge themselves on the meat of their corpulent courtesans.
Angus had stuck with the plan. Marla’s belly meat had gone down as easily as a rasher of bacon; he had picked his way through her back ribs as the MacGregor had marched through Colquhoun. Nigel, as ever the showman, had wrenched one of Miss Tuchus’ limbs free at the knee, and was chomping through her calf as if it were a meager buffalo wing. The cagey Briton enthusiastic entourage chanted football songs and extemporaneous cheers: “Nigel, Nigel, that’s the word/He can eat the whole damn bird!” Playing to his audience, the loin-clothed aristocrat waved the half-eaten limb in the sultry, equatorial air, and the ladies in the cheering section swooned.
As each of the lesser combatants staggered away from his savory slut, an electronic device supporting the platter measured how much of each wench has passed his palate. Some of them had been inspired to greater heights than they had ever known; Nino Corzimealo’s meter registered “32.3 KG” before he could no longer down another bite of his lovely signora. As he stumbled away in search of the Pepto, assured of the handsome engraved platinum chamber pot that accompanied a third place finish, Corzimealo’s loyal followers serenaded him with a Venetian bloat song.
And it had come down, as so many knew it would, to these two, the great MacGregor and his arch-rival. Separated in their homelands by a few dozen kilometres and in their gastro-intestinal capacity by much less, Angus and Nigel steadily chewed through their coal-charred chicks, each mindful of the other’s score, and of the clock, which was rapidly closing in on the one-hour time limit. The crowd was in a veritable frenzy; several of the comely young women who had arrived at the event clad in next to nothing, in hopes of urging on the Epicurean passions of their respective warriors, ended up getting treated at the First-Aid Station for bite wounds delivered by overzealous spectators.
Angus had not realized just how sturdy Marla’s gargantuan gams were; it had taken him much longer than expected to strip each of them of its meat, down to the femur. Nigel had eked out a narrow lead, but Angus had one last ace up his kilt. Marla’s voluminous buttocks were still fully intact, and Angus knew—for he had gripped them fiercely in their evenings of passion—that the chick’s cheeks had the density of petrified lumber.
As he bent over the delicious derriere, the Great Man opened his mighty maw, and his cleaver-like pearly whites plunged through that cast-iron caboose like…Dear Reader, yours truly has run out of historically significant similes. Suffice it to say MacTavish arose with a mouthful of assmeat, and the electronic readout over what was left of Marla Magnusson climbed like the decibel meter at a Motley Crüe concert. Nigel, frantic, grabbed for the nearest morsel within reach; as he tore the meat free and devoured it, the scoreboard above Miss Tuchus jumped…a mere half a kilogram. For he had selected one of Tonya’s bosoms.
Observing it all from the sidelines, Hamish said in astonishment, “They were real. There was simply no substance to them.”
The gala festival celebrating Angus’ victory had gone on into the wee hours, and the Great Man had demonstrated he could down a hogshead of brew with the same elan with which he had polished off the bimbo from Frostbite Falls. Bleary-eyed and smiling weakly like they’d just completed their 30-day free trial offer at the Mustang Ranch, the MacTavish brothers received a royal sendoff the next morning. Hamish clutched a briefcase containing his brother’s million smackers; Angus, a doggie bag holding the rest of Marla. “It’s a long flight,” he explained.
As they winged back to the Highlands, the brothers debated how Angus would go about defending his title the following year. “You’ll not find another Marla,” Hamish declared. “The next go will be a stern test.”
Angus nodded, belched, and reached into the sack; his titanic paw emerged grasping a sandwich, Marla’s Rump on Rye. “Absolutely,” agreed the Great Man, before taking a big bite, and muttering around the mouthful, “No butts about it.”