Fried rice and chicken is soo good. It is like reading the Shining, or some great Stephen King novel except that the ending is better than the film. It's like talking someone to death, or picking their lock in the night, surreptitiously clamoring up the stairwells, prying the hinges from the night room door and slamming an icepick through their cranium. The rice is so dry, and yet clumps together on the fork. The carrots and fried chickens are like crumbling bread crumbs on the salad. The fear, the ever-so-seductive fear of the chickens is like a metronome, throbbing dully in the night of my palette. I can taste the buttery eggs as each tender morsel of yellow deliciousness coats my tongue and tonsils with its sobriquet of chicken-to-be.
The roof of my mouth drips with the savour of chicken as each delicious morsel claws its way, fried and battered, scratching and tumbling down my throat. The helpless caws of the birds as a cacophony of feathered flutterers cheerlead a timeless massacre. With every chunk, I feel them screaming into the blood red haze of my willful damnation. The rice is so sticky, so dry, and yet so filling. It tastes a hurricane of new life into my flesh, the moribund delicacy of fried rice and chicken as my eyes glaze over. A stupor or pall hangs upon me, and I attire myself in winged beast before me. The carrots glow and glitter like chickadees and the tormented cries of the rice are like wine intoxicating and drenching me in their salubrious goodness.
Sweet, syrupy Oriental tenderloin dripping and crackling with native oils, juices pouring over stretched lips drowning me in viscous rivulets cascading gracefully across my features ablaze in the warm glow of a winter night's roasting hearth
Golden brown, the meat slides along the bone, succulence flosses the gums, the slick bone dangles from clenched jaws, opening and closing, helpless and unaware the marrow spills explosive hot through brittle and spittle, tender flesh receives the acid shock of delicate juice years in formulation.
It is mostly to my own taste. Palahniuk has not written anything since his depiction of home-made castles. At least in my opinion. He is one of the most against-the-grain, unusual and thought-provoking authors of his time, and my early adolescence, but he is not a Hemingway, Tanazaki, or William Golding. In the right light, Tanazaki's truly excellent "Seven Japanese Tales" is truly excellent, and funny. It more than redeems his early works like "The Secret History of the Lord of Musashi."
One of the main inspirations for my writing is the unparalleled decapitation scene set to Yoko Kanno. The social construction of Samurai culture in Escaflowne is second to none. We can see Van is like a ninja.
EPT
