The thing of it is Jordan Purvis wasn’t the kind of guy who ever made a big deal of eating. He liked to put together events, liked to watch people have a good time, and even on those occasions when stuff got out of hand, he hadn’t personally told anyone to do it. But they were into it, by the time it all started, all the way.

He just nibbled at his food, sipped a few drinks, though people thought he drank tons.

At first, the dinner parties were just a way of getting together people who might be interesting. He invited some propellerheads, and then a mystery guest, who could be a whiz game-programmer, or a Navy Seal, or once BJ Coombs, that BJ, the all-star wide receiver from Seattle. You never knew who might be coming. No one, not even me, figured out how he was getting them to come. Not for money. Then, after his parties started to make a name, he took them somewhere else. He’d bring in people you’d never heard of—people no one had ever heard of. But they were strange and powerful or amazingly weak. You never knew. By then people were paying a grand to sit at his table for the evening. Ten guests, himself, and one mystery guest.

Two dinners a month. He was clearing 16 grand a month. The mystery guest got nothing except the meal. I think. I don’t know what arrangement Jordan had with any of them.

The dinners changed. I guess the idea of the dinners kept changing and we hadn’t noticed. But Jordan noticed, Jordan made it happen. It got best when it got worst. Like with Oliver. Oliver, male and female, it just got really bad what we all did to him/her. No one wanted to talk about it, but some came back for Lucas. That was the worst or the best dinner. After Oliver, I figured  we would kill the next guest. The food was to die for, Cajun like you’ve never had before.  We devoured him, sort of, and who knows what would happen, all rules had long ago been transgressed, and some people were more and more open about their specific hunger. Some lines hadn’t been crossed yet. Maybe two lines.

No publicity for Lucas. Jordan just found him wandering around Pike Market. So they got into some words about market life and why anyone bothered to come. Jordan told him he had something that would never cause him to say that, ever, under any circumstances. Great food, and people he’d remember. But was he the right kind of man for it? Was he willing to do anything? Lucas gave him a look, apparently, and said, like what? Jordan whipped out a handkerchief, blindfolded himself, asked Lucas to check it. Then he gave Lucas his wallet and said, tell them if I don’t make it. Call the number on the pink card. Then he walked across the street. The main one, blindfolded. Cars screeching, someone yelling, You crazy fuck!

Afterwards, Jordan took off the blindfold like he was taking a Kleenex out of his pocket—apparently—and said to Lucas, Your turn.

Lucas just looked at him. Jordan smiled, come to dinner. The food’s fantastic and I can promise you any drink in the world you want.

So it happened.

And me? I’m Jordan’s brother, the one no one knows about.

– End of Chapter One –

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