Peaeater

I manfully tackled the mammoth portions: shoveling, gobbling, grunting. Didn't chew much - waste of energy. A small crowd formed, their faces aghast with horror and amazement at first, but they began to thrill to the vigour of my macrophagery, each forkful a step closer to victory, and before long they were cheering and stamping and waving their arms about, eyes bugging out of their heads in disbelief and sheer excitement. Their hurrahs drew more people, and soon the entire airport had gathered around - they were doing the wave, they were singing English football songs and taking their shirts off to whirl them in the air - the place was in a fever pitch, and I had never felt so "on" in my entire life. My arm pumped like a piston, plate to mouth, plate to mouth. My jaws gnawed and mashed tirelessly as if they were made of iron. I was alive, I tell you, alive and eating.

When the final moment came, when I had cleared away all but the last morsel, you could have a heard a pin drop. The air was alive with tension. I lifted up the last forkful, and a hundred faces leaned in closer. A faint smile played across my lips and I paused. Just for a moment. Just to make them sweat. Then I popped it in my mouth, chewing fluidly, polishing off the last bits of rice and pita and feta cheese in masterful triumphant swallows, and the crowd leapt up with a thunderous shout, a crashing wonderful noise that shook the rooftop. I saw strangers hugging each other in fierce joy, businessmen punching the air for victory with tears streaming down their cheeks, and then they all came at me in a wave, lifted me into the air and carried me on their shoulders in a spontaneous victory lap around the waiting area. It was perhaps the finest day of my life.