Chapter 2
In “The Case of the Speluncean Explorers,” the four surviving members are interrogated after recovering in the hospital.
They confess to killing and eating the fifth explorer, Roger Whetmore.
According to medical experts, none of them would have survived for long, had they not taken the drastic action of consuming their companion. It was either eat or die.
Their testimonies stated that Whetmore had been the first to propose cannibalism but quickly took it back just before they drew straws.
It fell to him by bad luck, and he was killed and eaten.
At the end of the book, the four defendants were charged with murder and sentenced by the supreme court to death by hanging.
I proposed a final vote to the group. Miguel wanted to say more, he said we had an obligation to hear him out, but our patience had worn thin. It was already four in the morning.
“Are we serving human meat? Yes or no?”
“No,” voted Miguel.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Piglet did two victory twirls around the living room with his arms spread wide, almost hitting the TV. Miguel threw a fit, hurling pillows at the wall and insulting us.
“Our future’s at stake here. You can’t be so selfish, Miguel.”
“It’s not being selfish! It’s about right and wrong!”
“We took a vote,” I said. “It’s the most democratic way to settle this.”
Miguel, his eyes welling up, clung to the one condition he had left:
“It’s only going to be the one time, right?”
“Just this one time.” I went to hug him and whispered in his ear: “Everything will be okay, trust me.”
Piglet and Hugo looked at each other. They had much more they wanted to say but decided against it.
There was a lot I should have said. Like how “The Case of the Speluncean Explorers” is actually inspired by true events.
How the four defendants were acquitted but then put right back on trial years later because they’d killed and eaten other people.
How they’d gotten hooked on eating humans. How they couldn’t stop.
Human flesh is addictive.
That’s what I should have said, but I didn’t. For that thirty thousand, I kept my mouth shut, too.
Once, on the wall of a public restroom, I saw a poem:
EVERYTHING IN LIFE HAS
A BEGINNING
A MIDDLE
AND A FUCK IT