They’re coming to eat me tomorrow. The landlady and her fat son. I’m expecting them for Sunday brunch at 11:00, right after church, and I’m supposed to have everything ready by the time they arrive. The fat son is a football fan and if they’re not home by noon to see the kickoff on TV, he’ll throw a tantrum and lock himself in his room and refuse to come out until dinner. Or possibly an afternoon snack. Or maybe a late lunch, since brunch is, by definition, ambiguous and doesn’t really count. By rights, they could have eaten me as early as yesterday, a full week after rent was due. But the son had a pediatric dental appointment and the landlady hated to cancel. You see, it’s not easy to get a pediatric dental appointment in the first place, especially for a thirty-five year old. And Saturday was no good because the landlady’s brother and his wife and their two brats were visiting from Chicago, well, Oak Park. And anyway, Sunday brunch has such a pleasant feel, doesn’t it? Saturday brunch could never be half as nice, not if it practiced all week. I told them Sunday would be just fine; it’s all the same to me. What’s another day, more or less? Besides, the delay gave me a chance to go to the farmers’ market and pick out a couple of nice, ripe melons and a cantaloupe, for a fruit salad. While I was there, I found some beautiful oranges to squeeze for their mimosas. A thousand times better than the concentrate I have in the freezer.

Now, all that’s left is a long, leisurely soak in a bath full of teriyaki marinade. Without it, I’m afraid I would be a little tough, and perhaps a touch gamey. First thing in the morning, I’ll climb out of the tub, set the table, and crawl into the oven. I should be medium rare, pink but not bloody, by just about the time they arrive. Yes, I think they’ll be pleasantly surprised by how nicely I turn out, tender and juicy, with plenty of drippings for sopping with rolls.

But here’s what they don’t know, the landlady and her fat son. I’ve invited the credit card company to eat me at 11:30. And the auto finance group are coming at 11:45. I’m expecting the student loan office at noon, and some friends from the bank at a quarter past. There’s a waitress I stiffed on a cup of coffee with two refills. She’s penciled-in for 12:30, assuming she can cover her shift. And right behind her is the dry cleaner, whom I wrote a bad check for three button-down shirts with medium starch. I probably could have wriggled out of this one, because one of the sleeves was scorched, but I figure the more the merrier. And finally, at 1:00 sharp, I have an appointment to feed the IRS.

So, I imagine, it will go something like this. When the credit card company arrive at 11:30 to discover that the landlady and her fat son have already consumed me, they will immediately eat the pair of them in my stead. Then, at a quarter of, the auto finance group will come and eat the credit card company. No sooner than they’ve had their fill, the student loan office will come and eat them. Next, the student loan office will become lunch for the banker and her party, who will in turn be eaten by the waitress and/or dry cleaner, either or both of whom will be gobbled up by the tax men.

Meanwhile, I have sent an email to various relatives, who still live nearby, inviting them for the reading of my will, on Sunday at 1:00. As none of them is fanatically punctual, this should get most of them here by 1:15-ish. I have advised them to come hungry. I couldn’t resist playing a joke on them, and made the email a tad cryptic. It read, "It is my will that you come for a reading, on Sunday at 1:00." They’ll think I mean to subject them to a recital of my latest self-indulgent doggerel. But when they find my last will and testament, stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet, they will discover that I have left to my family all that I have to leave, which is only myself, roasted in a teriyaki glaze, with the appropriate trimmings. They will soon put the pieces together and see that they have been cheated out of their inheritance. (We are an intelligent bunch; it’s in our genes). They will promptly devour the IRS along with any scraps that may have been overlooked. (We are also a greedy and vengeful bunch; it’s in our genes, too.) In this way, all my affairs will be put in order and no one will be left out.

Now, in hindsight, a decent life insurance policy would have been more practical, I admit. But I’m afraid I have all too late in life acquired a taste for the arsenic-laced merlot of the bourgeoisie. At the very least, I can die satisfied in the knowledge that I will leave my kin well fed on the fatted flesh of my enemies, which I’m sure comes very close to capturing the transcendental essence of life, in its purest and most elegant form. Lying here in the bath, I put my feet up on the faucet and cross my arms over my chest. The aroma of teriyaki is soothing; the marinade is tenderizing me already, no doubt. I close my eyes and can picture them, aunts and uncles, siblings and cousins, all sitting around the den, reclining on my spartan furnishings, their belts unfastened and bellies distended. Nobody moves. No one says a word. They stare lazily into space and smile. They are satisfied, all of them, and at this moment, so am I.

Don Hucks's fiction has recently appeared, or is forthcoming, in Cerebral Catalyst, Clockwise Cat, The Pedestal, and Pindeldyboz.