(At least that’s what it says on the tin…)
“Poor little match girls bedamned,” Porkulips Troughswallower grunted, shoveling heaps of some kind of meat thing into his grotesque mouth, framed by a cauliflower chin and a potato-y nose, natch. “Never seen ’em do a lick of work, not one minute.” He waved his fat yet tiny hand toward the window, outside of which they’d stacked up the match girls like cordwood, for lack of something else to do with them. “Never worked hard like we’ve worked hard, amirite boys?”
All the boys (they weren’t really boys, but febrile men between the ages of 52 and 93) snickered and guffawed and snorted, messily spilling gravy and port all over their blouses (they really couldn’t fit into regular shirts anymore) and ties (clip ons). It’s fair to say that none of the boys (or “boys”) were much in the way of what one might call a self-reflectin’ type. Some silent witnesses brought in the 17th course. One might suppose their tongues had been removed, but one would be wrong, thank heavens, they were merely the spies of a foreign power. None of them knew this of the others, but all thanked their lucky stars they’d landed such an easy gig (and on Craigslist, no less!), with secrets rolling out of mouths as easily as the food rolled in.
PT breathed heavily, because he always did, leaning down to try and reach his dropped fork, fallen out of his thick yet teeny fingers, until giving it up for a lost cause and grabbing one from his neighbor.
There wasn’t much talking after that (they weren’t big on words, you see) and the sounds of slurping and chomping echoed on long into the night. Their appetite, it would seem, could never be sated.