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Once finished with my meal, in view of a glorious mountain range with three suns and a dragon flying about, Alexander the Great gets on his hands and knees and offers to fellate me. I usually decline. He then bids me farewell as the dragon lands before his perch. Alex straps his legs into a specially made harness as one of the young Swedish women present a piece of the shroud of Turin that held Jesus Christ. It is folded over a silver and wood gripped Colt 1911 with .45 ACP that has absolutely no idiot-marks on the side lever or scratches or deterioration of any kind. Alexander the Great, in perfect English, screams my muffled name with this gun in his mouth and blows his brains out, limply hanging off of the harness. The dragon devours all but one of the Swedish women, the fairest. I voraciously mount her over the purple wooded Madagascar table and leave her shuddering to eventually come to and clean the mess I made. Meanwhile the dragon flies off with Alexander the Greats limp carcass hanging off into the horizon, never to be seen again. Although I eat this way every day, my body still resembles that of a Greek God's and I always feel comfortably full, never hungry, never too full.
