The Feast

It's true what they say about the dead: they certainly know how to liven a dinner party.

The stuffy, monotonous affair turned into a rave.  Screams rattled the crystal chandelier, causing the delicate lights to flicker like a strobe. Bodies collided in a mosh pit of carnage. Red wine bled into arterial spray, staining the pristine white table linen. Single-breasted suit coats doubled as body bags as the guests dropped like tweaking kids on LSD. A slam of a victim against the stereo cabinet caused the track to skip repeatedly, cries of anguish raging along with Handel's techo beat. Rotting teeth tore into the plump flesh of the dinner guests, while tender game hens, moist and golden, nestled in beds of mixed greens awaiting the feast.