PriPri Eats Herself to Death

PriPri was tired of everybody telling her to eat more, so she decided she was going to teach them all a lesson and eat herself to death. She’d fill her face until she fell with steak, cake, chocolate and ice-cream. She’d drink full fat milk and regular coke. A twinkle in her eyes of a culinary suicide became a never ending rack of spare ribs dripping with barbecue marinade, followed by double chocolate fudge cake with cookie bits and free-flowing hot caramel sauce. And whipped cream. If you could follow a never ending rack of ribs with cake, that is.

Excited by the idea she threw on a coat, stuffed a chicken drumstick in her mouth, and headed two steps at a time to the shops. She’d fill a trolley to the brim and send it straight to her stomach until her insides exploded. She’d pour pure butter down her throat until it leaked out the sides. However, before she could reach the shops she slipped on some of this rare October snow and fell face first. The chicken wedged itself into the back of her throat and she couldn’t breathe. She died.

PriPri is in limbo now until they decide whether she should go to That Place or The Other Place. PriPri isn’t even sure which is which. She sits in a courtroom most days, the wrong side of a river of fire across from a mountain made of raspberry ripple ice-cream, staring at the unreachable delicacy. “What a hellish place this is,” she told herself. “What foul mind devised such torture?”

“You’d best get used to it I’m afraid,” said her lawyer. “You could be here a while.”

“You see, dear,” said the devilish looking fellow in charge of her fate. “Your case is quite unusual for us. On the one hand you’ve been a fairly good girl for most of your life, so in the normal run of events you’d be heaven sent, no doubt. Until, that is, you decided to kill yourself. Now suicide, for better or for worse, is still one of our mortal sins, and invokes direct passage to the basement. But all of us here really can’t decide definitively whether you killed yourself or not.”

“The thing is, dearest, you decided to do the deed digestively. On the way to buy the murder weapons you tripped and choked on a piece of roasted poultry. The trip itself was accidental, of course, but the motive was there, the intent was there and, finally, the act was committed. It raises many interesting questions about culpability which I and the chaps have been knocking back and forth for hours. In a very real way, you see, you did, in fact, eat yourself to death.”

“I know,” said PriPri. “I really did.—”

“—But I thought I’d have more fun doing it.”

Ω

Christopher James lives and writes in London, England, but is shortly moving to Jakarta, Indonesia, to live and write there.