Horrors d’oeuvre, sir?

“One of those swanky parties?”

“Black tie, RSVP, the whole drill. St.John never does anything halfway.”

“Ostentatious bastard. Probably pumping the crowd for votes, too. Check the coats dear, I need to powder.”

I traded the coats for a pair of claim tickets, and stepped into the dining hall.

At the front of the room, a young lady stood waiting in a bathrobe. Cameras flashed as the robe dropped to the floor, and she spread herself across and elevated dining table, completely nude.

A man seemed to be directing her… Bouncer? Bodyguard?

My wife returned from nose-powdering and peered over my shoulder.

“Ooh! I’ve heard of these. Nyotaimori, they’re going to serve sushi directly from the model’s body.”

The bodyguard fellow was donning a chef jacket.

“Sure I can’t stomach anything like that, sounds unsanitary.”

Screams. He was wielding a meat cleaver, hacking.

“Not sushi.” I could see clearly for one heartbeat before the dinner crowd stampeded.

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