Soy Protein Isolationist

The devil talks to me. He brings out food on silver trays and whispers softly as he fingers improbable lengths of bacon--skeins of pork belly unwound from a spindle hidden in the room's northern corner. He clucks out creaking folk songs with a rasping throat, songs of feasting and bacchanal, of flesh and lust and crushed animal bones. As he sings he twirls a round of chicken asiago sausage gingerly on his four-knuckled finger, taunting me.

A cow is led into the room. The devil begins to procure hamburgers from its side, steaming blackened things piled high with horseradish and guacamole, packed with cayenne, fresh ground pepper and pressed garlic. He takes a fist-sized bite, and as he chews, the barest flash of pink dances on his tongue, and I know I am lost. Before he pours the cups of spicy mead, before the dancers arrive, before the orgy and the orchestra and the filet mignon stuffed with foie gras-stuffed truffles, he has got me.

Early the next morning, glutted and debauched, I will stumble up the rocky path toward daylight, guiding the cow by its thin silver chain, my tongue a tiny flash of pink behind sharp teeth.