The Feast of Famine

A short story.

Erik Jaanastra sat in his office at the top floor of HyperVolt Dynamics' corporate headquarters, a mammoth building constructed out of steel and glass that covered an entire city block. He swivelled his char, pivoting to gaze out of the office's floor-to-ceiling windows at the the manufacturing plants and bustling shopfronts that surrounded the company's headquarters. His creation. His empire.

From the barren deserts of Nevada to the space just beyond Earth's atmosphere, Erik's name and the name of his company was attached to everything. Vast arrays of solar panels that powered every major city on the west coast, self-driving vehicles, social media platforms, cutting-edge robotics – he was the man who made the impossible possible.

And everyone knew it.

Erik's finger flicked along the glass of his phone's screen as he scrolled through today's headlines: Erik Jaanastra Promises Mars Colony By 2032...HyperVolt Energy Surpasses Government Grid Capacity...Jaanastra Hints at Personal Quantum Computing Device. It was endless, but it wasn't enough.

There was always more for Erik to do, always more opportunities to grow his unrivalled wealth and business acumen, always more of the world and the space beyond it to conquer. His mind buzzed constantly with possibilities – each project more ambitious, more world-changing than the last – to the point where he slept only a few hours each night. There was a time when he was celebrated by many as a genius visionary who would save humanity from its own limitations, but recently he had received nothing but denigration from the public for accumulating unnecessary wealth at the expense of his fellow citizens.

Erik didn't need praise, and cared little for criticism. He wasn't in it for applause and adoration. He was building the future. Still, his ego became more and more inflated every time his name was spoken with reverence.

“Sir?” a voice cut through his racing thoughts. It was the voice of Mary-Beth, his personal assistant, who was now hovering by the open door to his office. “An envelope arrived for you. Hand-delivered. The courier was...unusual, not from any company I've heard of, but they insisted you receive it immediately.”

Erik's eyes narrowed. Unusual? He didn't tolerate unusual. Everything in his life was meticulously calculated and planned to perfection. Any deviation or dissent was dealt with swiftly. He gestured for Mary-Beth to bring the envelope forward.

The envelope was dark and ornate – almost velvety to the touch – and sealed with an iridescent wax stamp. It bore no company logo, no branding, no fanfare whatsoever. Just ERIK JAANASTRA inscribed in a basic calligraphy, as though whoever had written it hadn't been trying too hard to please him. The lack of branding alone raised Erik's eyebrows. A letter? he thought. Who sends a letter when an email would suffice?

“Shred it and bin it. Immediately.” Erik said, tossing the envelope back to Mary-Beth without a second glance. He had neither the time nor the energy for this unsolicited nonsense.

But Mary-Beth didn't move. “Sir,” she said, her voice low and hesitant, “I don't think this is something that can be discarded.”

Exasperated, Erik stared at her with a menacing look. “Since when did you question my orders?”

Mary-Beth took the envelope to the electronic shredder in the far corner of Erik's office and placed the envelope into its intake tray. The moment she flicked the on switch, however, the shredder shuddered violently for a second and then stopped, black smoke emanating from its insides.

Furious, Erik leapt out of his chair and strode over to the shredder. He snatched the envelope from the tray and tore it open with one swift move, and pulled out the slip of paper contained within. The letter was written in a neat, flowing script:

Erik Jaanastra,

You are hereby invited to a feast in your honor. Your vision is unmatched, and your achievements unparalleled.

There is nothing left for you to conquer – except for this.

The feast awaits.

There was no signature, no further details. Just the coordinates to a location deep in the wilderness, with Blackwisp Manor written underneath it.

Erik furrowed his brow. He wasn't one for cryptic, mysterious nonsense. He was a man of logic, science, and reason. Yet somehow the letter stirred his curiosity – it filled him with a sense of intrigue that he hadn't felt in many years.

A feast. In his honour. After so many days spent trying to ignore the harsh criticisms of the public and his peers, he was in no position to deny a night of reverence and adoration.

Against his better judgement, he felt the corners of his lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. It wasn't every day that someone dared to surprise him, certainly not a complete stranger.

“Mary-Beth,” Erik barked, abruptly rising from his chair. “Have my helicopter at the ready. I will attend this feast.”

The journey to Blackwisp Manor was uneventful, yet an intense feeling of foreboding hung in the air like a thick fog.

Erik's helicopter touched down on a remote strip of grass in front of the manor, surrounded on all sides by a forest that seemed dense enough to swallow sound. The clouds hung low, heavy, and dark in the sky above.

The manor itself was as curious as the letter – clearly an old, grand feat of architecture, yet visibly decaying as though time had forgotten it completely. The windows were dark but not opaque, as flickering lights could be seen within. Erik felt a tug in his chest – a mix of curiosity and hunger. I am here, he thought. Let's see what this feast is about.

Erik stepped out of his helicopter, moving towards the manor's entrance with his usual confident stride. As he approached the door and held out his fist to knock on it, the door silently swung open. No one was behind it waiting to greet him, but Erik's overpowering curiosity moved his feet past the threshold and into the room beyond it.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of sweet things, of cooked meats and melting wax. At first the place was impossibly dark, but as Erik stepped through the entrance and the door swung shut behind him, the room became brightly lit as it opened up into an enormous and lavishly-decorated hall.

And there it was. The feast.

The table in the centre of the hall stretched on for what seemed like miles, piled high with a vast array of foods that defied description and assaulted Erik's senses. Platters of roasted meats glistening in golden hues, china bowls filled with fruits that sparkled like precious jewels, thick pastries that dripped with honey and cream, and fountains of dark red wine bubbling from the centre of the table. The smell was entirely intoxicating – a mix of savoury, sweet, and something else. Something faintly sickening.

At the head of the table in an opulent dining chair sat an unsettling figure – a tall, gaunt man dressed in a long, flowing coat that shimmered with a strange, otherworldly pattern. His wide-brimmed hat hid his face under a deep shadow, but his gleaming eyes pierced through the darkness like two burning coals.

Erik looked the figure up and down, his instincts now on high alert. “Who are you?”

The figure slowly stood up from his chair, and as he turned to face Erik he gave a small, mocking bow. “I am Scrubdangle Maggotpants,” he said, with a comically theatrical flourish of his hands. His voice was loud yet smooth and slippery – each word laced with a dark amusement. “And all of this,” he gestured to the endless feast before them, “is all for you, Erik Jaanastra. Welcome to the Feast of Famine!”

Erik raised an eyebrow. “Famine?” he replied, his smirk almost turning into a laugh. “This is hardly a place of famine!”

Scrubdangle's grin widened almost to the edges of his face, revealing far too many teeth, all bone-white and dripping with saliva. “Isn't it?”

Erik ignored him. He had no time for such games. His stomach loudly growled, and he remembered that he had not eaten that morning before arriving at the office. But there was something different about this hunger – it was somehow deeper and more primal than any he'd felt in recent memory. As if pulled towards it, Erik sat down in a chair at the opposite end of the table to Scrubdangle Maggotpants, his eyes greedily scanning the food spread out before him as his stomach continued to growl and move.

It had been years since Erik had allowed himself to properly indulge in anything. Every aspect of his life was measured, carefully calculated for maximum efficiency. But here, now, the food beckoned to him, calling for him to dig in. Without hesitation, he grabbed a golden fork and reached for a slice of roasted pork belly and sunk his teeth into it. The taste was utterly incredible – rich beyond words, more flavourful than anything he had ever tasted. He had barely finished chewing before he reached for more. A pile of succulent lamb, a bowl of creamy bisque, a mountain of glistening crimson grapes.

But as he devoured bite after bite, something unusual happened. Instead of being sated, the hunger inside him grew fiercer. His belly churned with every mouthful he scarfed down, his body desperate for more. He threw down his fork and grabbed more food with his bare hands, stuffing it into his mouth, chewing with increasing speed.

Yet the gnawing emptiness in his stomach only deepened. His greasy hands trembled as he reached for a crystal goblet of wine, gulping down its contents in one big swig, but the liquid did nothing to quench his thirst. His chest tightened, and his pulse pounded in his ears.

Scrubdangle watched Erik with amusement as maggots crawled out from under his sleeves and squirmed upon the tablecloth.

“What's wrong, Mr. Jaanastra?” he said. “Are you still hungry?”

Erik's mouth was full and wine was trickling down his chin, but he stopped and looked up at the trickster whose eyes still burned like embers. “What...is this?” he managed to croak between gulps of meat and freshly-baked bread. “What...are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” Scrubdangle replied, his voice dripping with feigned innocence. “Why, I am only giving you what you have always want – more.”

The hunger in Erik's stomach twisted and mutated into something more than physical. Instantly, it became bottomless, ravenous even. His filthy hands clawed at the table, pulling more dishes towards him – pâté, steamed lobster, potatoes soaked in golden butter. His hands moved faster than he could swallow as his belly roared in protest, but still he continued to eat.

Nothing helped. The more Erik consumed, the emptier he felt.

“What have you done to me?” Erik gasped, his voice ragged and hoarse, sweat pouring over his brows and into his eyes.

Scrubdangle tilted his head to a terrifying angle, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “Oh, Erik. Have you not figured it out yet? You have spent your life constantly chasing more. But it was never enough, was it?”

Erik froze as the realisation dawned on him like a slow, creeping nightmare. His eyes widened to their fullest as he stared at Scrubdangle Maggotpants.

“No matter how many of your competitors you swallowed, no matter how many accolades you receieved – there was always that hunger inside you, wasn't there? You believed that you could consume the world, even while the world was consuming you.”

Erik's hands trembled. The food slipped from his grasp as he realised the truth of the situation. The feast wasn't a reward – it was a reflection. A mirror of his own endless greed.

Angrily, he pushed his chair back from the table and stood. His legs were shaking, his very bones heavy with the weight of his own gluttony.

“I've had enough!” he yelled, shoving the plates away from him. “I'm done.”

Scrubdangle's grin grew even wider as he rose from his seat and moved around the table's edge to stand next to Erik. “But you can't stop, can you?” he said as he began to chuckle. “The hunger is inside you now. No matter what you do, it will never leave.

Erik stumbled backwards, falling on his back to the floor, his mind swirling and racing. The hunger gnawed at him deeper than before, but it wasn't just in his stomach anymore – it was in his chest, in his throat, even in his breath. He could feel it spreading like a sickness through his body, an insatiable emptiness that no amount of food and wine could fill. He crawled to his knees and reached for the table again, his hands trembling more violently than before as they hovered over the heaped platters. All of his instincts were screaming at him to stop, but the hunger was louder, more demanding.

“You can't do this!” Erik yelled, his voice cracking and rasping. “I control everything! I've built an empire! I am humanity's future made flesh! I--”

Scrubdangle laughed heartily, a sound that was both sharp and hollow, like a wind-chime made of bones rattling in the wind.

“Control?” he said with glee. “Oh, Erik. You have never had control. Not over this. Not over yourself. You have spent your life consuming, believing that you were feeding your ambitions. But in reality, all you were feeding was the hunger. And now, that hunger is consuming you.”

Erik's hands shot out, one grabbing a chunk of perfectly-baked bread, the other a handful of roast duck, shoving them into his mouth with frantic desperation. The hunger tore through him, twisting up his organs as the void inside him grew and grew. He tried to chew but his jaw ached terribly, his throat dryer than the desert, as if his body was rejecting the food even as it kept demanding more.

“NO!” Erik screamed, spitting out a mouthful of half-chewed bread. “This can't be real. This must be some kind of illusion. I'll leave! I'll--”

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” Scrubdangle interrupted smoothly, stepping closer to Erik. His coat shimmered as he moved, the patterns shifting like a swirling galaxy. The maggots now crawling down his feet wriggled as if in approval, squirming in and out of the dark cracks that were appearing in the floor.

“You see, Erik, this isn't just a feast – this is your truth. You have been gorging yourself on this world, believing that you could fill that chasm inside you with more – more wealth, more power, more adoration. But all you have done is deepen it.”

Erik shook his head, the sweat now pouring down his face. He doubled over, his breaths coming in shallow gasps as his heart pounded louder and louder in his chest. “I've – I've changed the world,” he rasped, as if repeating it over and over again could somehow make it come true. “I've done more than anyone else alive. I've earned this. I've--”

“You have eaten yourself alive,” Scrubdangle finished, his voice soft but colder than ice. “And now, you're nothing but an empty shell, chasing after something you can never have. More. More. More.”

Erik's legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed onto the floor, his body violently shaking with the force of the insatiable hunger that was now tearing through him. His hands scrabbled at the ground – he tried to pull himself towards the door even as he continued reaching for the edge of the table. He was desperate for something, anything to make this feeling end.

His vision blurred as the edges of the room began spinning. As the lights in the banquet hall began to flicker and dim, the walls seemed to close in around him.

“I just need...a little more,” Erik whispered. “Just a little more.”

Scrubdangle knelt beside him, his face mere centimetres from Erik's. His grin was impossibly wide, his teeth sharp and gleaming in the room's dim light.

“That's the tragedy of it, Mr. Jaanastra. You can take, take, take, but it will never be enough. Because the hunger isn't in the world, it's in you.”

Erik's hand shot up and knocked a platter from the table's surface. It fell to the floor and landed in front of Erik's pained face. The food was now rotting, the smell pungent and sickly sweet. Erik didn't care. He shoved it into his mouth, gagging on the decaying flesh as the hunger inside him roared so loud that it drowned out the sound of his thumping heartbeat.

But it wasn't enough. And just like Scrubdangle had told him, it would never be enough.

Scrubdangle Maggotpants stood up, looking down at the broken billionaire on the floor with a kind of amused pity.

“You see, Mr. Jaanastra, the thing about greed – true greed – is that it devours a person from the inside out. It starts in your belly and grows until it gnaws at your soul. You spend your entire life thinking you're filling yourself up, but all you're really doing is hollowing yourself out until there is nothing left. Nothing human, at least.”

Erik gagged on the rotten food, his entire body violently convulsing, his vision narrowing to a tunnel of pure darkness. He could feel the emptiness inside him expanding, a black hole that consumed everything in its path.

“I can't...I need...”

Scrubdangle's voice was softer now, almost gentle in cadence. “And that, dear Erik, is why you have failed.”

The hunger tore through Erik's soul like fire. He clawed at the ground, at the table, at the plates, at the food on the floor, but it was useless.

The food turned to ash in his mouth, the taste of decay filling his throat. His vision darkened further, the room spinning into oblivion as the hunger consumed him whole.

Scrubdangle watched as Erik collapsed, his body limp, the hunger having devoured the last reserves of his body's strength. The maggots at Scrubdangle's feet squirmed in delight, feasting on the remnants of rotten food that were left.

“More...” Erik whispered one last time, his voice now barely a breath.

But there was nothing more.

Scrubdangle Maggotpants straightened his spine, his cloak swirling around him as he turned away from Erik.

“Well,” he said to no one in particular. “Another satisfied guest.”

And with that, the lights in the banquet hall flickered out as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Erik Jaanastra – a man who thought he had everything – alone, devoured entirely by the one thing he could never escape.

The hunger.