Eheu Eheu

So you’re having dinner with Hannibal Lecter and he’s a stand up old world sort of 

chap in a svelte blue suit and a cornflower blue tie like wow who matches blue on blue 

and he’s got on a pinstripe blue collared shirt to top it off: Fashion Police would be proud.

He’s got this banquet of something fancy French splayed out on the table that he says 

is his former accountant Mr. O’Rourke but you hear green beans and pork

Just to be polite you know because you do know it’s really people

Come on now anyone with autocorrect could guess that his name is literally one letter away from cannibal, but you’re a non-judging sort of guy and you respect Hannibal’s life choices

You’re no saint yourself: you just got out of a psych hold for trying to abort a baby with a coat hanger except there wasn’t a baby and you mistook your next door neighbor Randy for your wife, which to be fair was an honest mistake because they both have large tatas and trouble fitting through doors. You’ve had a lot of wine, which is probably blood knowing good old Hanni, who’s also your therapist, which probably says a lot about why you’re not getting better, and why you’ve got a dead hooker in the trunk of your Mercedes right now, so you excuse yourself to the bathroom to take a leak, but you get lost between the stacks of psychology textbooks and cookbooks and find yourself in a room with no windows and no furniture.

Mounted on the wall is a single painting, roped off like the goddamned Mona Lisa,

Of Vladimir Putin’s face superimposed on a Ritz cracker. Suddenly Fred Astaire plays through the floorboards and Hannibal’s standing behind you, beaming, dabbing off bits of people with his napkin and he starts giggling like a school girl in heat and he sings by way of explanation

“If you’re blue and don’t know what to do, why don’t you go where fashion sits: puttin’ on the ritz”

(You’re not even surprised at this point because the last time he invited you to brunch you met his pet snake in a top hat that looked you dead in the eyes with his beady coal eyes and tipped his hat like an English chap and said “A baguette in the butt would be a pain in the ass.”)