affame_le_geant_a_history_we_know fyn gula "come on and sit down," praayli said. her voice originated from the kitchen, as pleasing as the aroma of her cooking, where she stood at the small, gas stove making last preparations for lunch. it was all but finished. she had made pot-au-feu. it was one of couge's favourites and he referred to it as more a poem than a dish, a restorative inspiration for body and soul. "whose spirit will not rise as this aromatic broth is poured over long-stewed meat and tender vegetables?" he said as he kissed praayli on the cheek, and stirred her delicate soup. "any food i make is an ambassador from my tongue, an invitation to pleasure or adventure, a sign of my own taste and discrimination." praayli proclaimed with a dramatic flair. with her own spoon, she scooped a sample and placed it through couge's waiting lips like a priest administering the holy communion. "ah...divinity," couge said, swallowing. "if food be love, i am smitten by cupid's arrow, falling head over heels. "darling...love is in the kitchen with a culinary eye," praayli laughed, and together, their heads turned to the sound of a popping cork. twinkletoes, as usual, took the liberties of opening a bottle. it was forest glen white merlot 2ooo. "good call, twinkleboy!" couge called out. his brother smelled the bouquet and began the anticipate, celebratory first pour. the mandrill, still red in the cheeks from couge's initial penetrating gaze, smiled as a wineglass was set before her and the nectar of the gods flowed inside, pink as blood dropping in a bucket of water. when everyone had theirs, couge lifted his glass. "a toast," he said looking the mandrill in the eyes. "to new friends," he said, and old memories. may we discover why the two are connected." he brought the wine to his mouth and drank, unable to escape an image knocking at the door of his soul. and so, he let it in. a few weeks back at swantowne city hospital. he was in operating room one delivering a child for uved indox, a dear friend who he played spiel with. her husband, stchink, was a cobbler in montlapine. this was their first child and the labor had been intensive. uved's water broke while she was on the fone with a friend, but it didn't seem to encourage progress. cervex dilation had reached ten, but crowning was only at a plus one and held there for three hours. ceasearean section was only a thought at this time, yet a serious consideration as time fell like sand. the bradley method of childbirth in opposition to lamaaze had been studied and attempted, but when it came down to it, a spinal was given, prayers were uttered, and everyone hoped for the best. yet, couge knew he would be using suction. it was just a matter of time. what one thought was such a conquest suddenly turned to the next best thing. it was then he heard the screams coming from operating room two. he was confident in his concern, yet curious in his wonder to politely excuse himself for a moment, long enough to step next door and hesitantly witness the definition of the shrill day-shattering noise. on the table was a very beautiful girl, naked to the waist where hospital white took over, but was quickly spoiled with the bright crimson of life's essence. a mandrill, the same one we know to have separated puppertwinkle's flesh from his skeleton, the same one who sat at this hand-crafted solid oak kitchen table, stood over her, gleaming steel scalpel in hand. she had just completed the removal of a child in the third trimester. a child, whose screams harmonized with those of its addled mother and was whisked from the stable hands of the mandrill to the waiting arms of a proinacle warrior disguised as a model laced in sugar. though couge did not know this grim pedantry belonged to a force committed to squelching a revolution, he recognized it as a moral dilemma, fierce and unsettling. the rest is a history we know. 030121 what's it to you? who go blather from