here - Jersey Devil Press

ut this block of rotting cheese was clearly the guest of honor and
commanded the attention and respect of the diners. The little girl
next to me licked her lips. An old man, probably a great-uncle,
rubbed his hands together in a disturbingly sensual fashion. I
stared at it. Camilla’s mother, with eyes so big they threatened to
tip over her head, passed out the bread. Her father doled out
chunks of cheese to all the guests.
Camilla’s grandmother, an extra in this Olive Garden
commercial of the damned, noticed me gazing at the cheese and
said, “Afrodisiaco!” I offered a vacant smile to match hers and tried
to avoid any more eye contact.
Noticing my inactivity, Camilla took the casu marzu and
spread it on my bread. The larvae wiggled. Camilla told me earlier
that this was a good sign. Dead maggots meant the Pecorino was
dangerous to eat, even more so than live maggots were dangerous
to eat. Dead maggots meant the cheese was too toxic to support
their lives. Larvae could survive in anything; even humans. Dead
maggots meant a truly deadly cheese. Live maggots meant a
potentially deadly cheese. Lucky me.
In the manner most mistakes are made, I dug into my meal
quick enough to avoid turning back. I took a bite. Putrid. The little
girl on my side begged to differ and tore into hers liked an escaped
zoo animal coming out for flesh. Despite what I knew from direct
evidence to the contrary, my fellow diners made it look appealing. I
took another bite. It didn’t taste like food; it was flaming poison.
My tongue couldn’t process why I was doing this to it and went
numb. A gulp of red wine and a couple of bites later and my plate
was empty except for two maggots writhing in the center.
I thought I gulped it down but everyone else had already
finished. Like a cult inducting its newest member, they all smiled at
me. Camilla, most pleased of all, gave me an uncomfortably long
kiss at the table. Her breath stunk; mine too. Everyone remained
smiling.
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