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Default A Feast of Warlike Proportions!   #1  
The Feast of Gratitude, what a time to be alive. The tables were beginning to bow with the sheer amount of food upon them, and even more was coming. The gathered crowd salivated and swooned over the magnificent spread, but all eyes and mouths waited for one thing: The turkey.

The chatter and laughter of the gathered people ceased as they heard the footsteps. The chef appeared, arms straining to carry the burden that was the massive bird. The meat glistened, and every watering mouth and hungry eye followed it as it was escorted to its own table of ceremony for the occasion. All mouths were hushed, not a noise was heard save for the sound of the ponderously slow footsteps of the culinary artiste who had produced for them this legendary turkey offering. All listened, all watched, and all saw in what felt like horrifyingly slow motion as the chef trod upon an errant glob of custard.

His foot lost traction with the ground, meeting the slick treat instead. Too much force behind his step sent his foot shooting outward in front of him. His balanced askew, his body fell backwards. Panicking, his arms flailed upwards. With muscles toned from his days of youth pole vaulting and his career in lifting and cooking ridiculously heavy meals, he launched the turkey in to the air. And as he fell, the turkey rose.

Up through the air it climbed, gaining more altitude in death than it ever could have dreamed of in life. It rose upon deliciously cooked wings and the hopes and fears of a hundred hungry guests. It climbed, and upon being able to go no higher, it fell...directly on top of the chandelier.

Chaos exploded among the guests. The chef forgotten, the crowd was now a mob turned upon itself, each person scrambling hungrily upwards in an attempt to be the first to have a go at the turkey. One leaped upwards to it, close to that basted salvation before his travel was cut short by a powerfully launched scone. A second scone followed, missing its target and striking an elderly gentleman who had been caning the ankles of another guest in an attempt to get to the head of the pack. His eyes became alight with the fire of rage, and his aged hands raked through the massive boat of cranberry sauce before propelling the jelly substance forward. Several guests were blinded in the sauce assault, clawing at their eyes to pull delicious cranberry offerings from them.

The war was on!

Food went airborne, raining down as a hail of hearty meals as the guests all fought to get to the turkey. Larger portions of the feast were being used as melee weapons, loaves of bread and roast battered against each other as improvised weapons of tasty destruction. Those struck by the cranberry sauce smeared it in to their skin as war paint, shouting and charging back in to the fray. One enterprising family had turned over a table as a barricade, launching pies and cakes from behind it while the patriarch of the clan shouted orders.

"We're pinned down! We've got a bird in the air and multiple mangoes, I mean tangos! Little Tom got peppered and we're down to our last meringue! We can't hold much longer! We've got to get to that turkey!"

As one, the family pushed against their table barricade, attempting to charge through the crowd. Their efforts were wasted however, and they hit the floor in a hail of baguettes and dressing as they were attacked from the sides. The patriarch let out one final desperate roar of "Turkey!" before he was silenced by a delicious deviled egg to the face.

The feast raged, the dinner flew, and the Fight for Food began!



(From now until November is over, you might get hit by flying food! Be watchful of your posts!)
Old Posted 11-27-2015, 12:40 AM Reply With Quote  
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