What restaurant they were advertising?
Sautéed, fried, baked, boiled, or… slow cooked I wondered?
Not to play on the Zone, I pondered further.
War, the ultimate sacrifice, and so the gods must be served.
Appeased? Well they are.
Wars rage throughout the planet,
Opportunities, promising, looking down approvingly,
Inhaling the aroma, smoke yes, cooked flesh.
The old gods, the smell of burnt flesh
mixed with new seasonings and ingredients
cooked up by the scientists and servants,
conducting themselves as they should
obeying the rules and laws.
Sweet the smell, the best, nuclear fire cooked.
Peace, an abomination to our kind.
False prophets, blasphemy…not our kin,
of poisonous taste,
to be struck down again and again.
Glory be to the warrior, the server of the Gods.
First in line, the methods do not have to be sublime.
Peace: the time to replenish the stock
“Wait no more.”
The blood, the aroma, the stain addicted.
“Cook the flock.”
“Tar-Tar, my lords?”