offal

Wilson was a connoisseur of food, both foreign and domestic. His was a proclivity towards meat, and he spent the lunch hour diving deeper and deeper into the bowels of the city to seek it out. The further he went, the more his fetish grew. More bizarre, more obscure.

The long lunches did not go unnoticed by his colleagues. Not long after, his boss Michael, whom he considered a friend, confronted Wilson and demanded to know where he went. “Is it drugs?” Michael said. “Are you hooked on the crack rock?”

Wilson laughed. “No, no, don’t be silly. I’ll take you if really want to know. But no judgment.”

So Michael and Wilson trekked to a dark alley in the Hmong ghetto. They climbed to the top floor of a dirty building. Wilson knocked three times. The door opened, chain snapping. “Who dat?” a burley voice demanded to know.

Wilson leaned in and whispered: “Ku n-guy.” The door shut, the chain rattled, and then opened again. A pervasive smell of offal gripped Michael by the throat. “What is this place,” Michael gagged.

But Wilson didn’t answer. He was high on the sweet, sweet smell of the Sautéed flesh of silverback gorilla. He turned to Michael. “Let’s eat!”

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