Did you know that all angels have a hard shell?
Despite their humanoid appearance, angels lack the softness and pudginess we have on the outside.
When meeting one, the first thing you’d notice is how pue they look. Pale and unblemished, even the finest porcelain china could never compare. Then you’d notice the rigidness of their features, as if the dips beneath their brows were etched, dim eyes slotted in and noses sculpted.
You’d also notice their lips, stretched into a smile and seemingly held in place by some invisible wire. They’d look soft and welcoming, but you’d find out that they were cold to the touch and nothing but.
Have you ever seen how a cone snail eats?
If I had to compare an angel to another hard shelled creature, I would compare it to a cone snail. As beautiful as they are, they are both viscous and deadly.
Unlike many snail species, cone snails have a proboscis, or an extended feeding tube as you might call it. Attached to the tip of proboscis is a modified tooth, packed with enough venom to paralyze and kill their prey. They use this to repeatedly jab their prey when hunting for food.
Angels are not much different, I’ve come to find. When an angel attacks, its non-existent jaw seems to unhinge, turning its perpetual smile into a gaping maw within a split second. When this happens, you’d hear a cacophony of noises— a simultaneous mix of trumphets, nails scraping against metal and babies’ laughter. If you’re distracted by the sound, even for just a moment, the angel’s fleshy feeding tube would introduce you to a quick death.
That almost happened to me once, but I was quick to dodge. Despite the horrid thing barely grazing my cheek, I was in agony for seemed like an eternity.
Though, I suppose God decided it was too soon for me to start paying for my sins.
How do you enjoy your snails for dinner?
In the western world, these delicacies are often slathered in sauces and eaten with a fork. While I too enjoy my snails this way, the best experience I’ve had when eating snails was in a crowded Southeast Asian alleyway. The vendor had merely boiled the snails in large pot while they were still shelled and alive. He then scooped them up into a paper cup and handed them to me, motioning for me to suck them straight out of the shell. And so, slurp them out I did, savouring as their juices flowed into my mouth and hijacked all my sense.
It was filling, and it was delicious.
I suppose I get the same thrill with what I do now. As I pry open the angel’s lips with a pair of metal pliers, it weakly struggles against the chains attached to the basement wall. Despite the numerous beatings it had sustained, its hard skin shows no sign of bruises or injuries. But just as I wanted, it’s finally gotten to a point where it’s too weak to attack me now.
Like snails, angels are soft on the inside. So with one hand, I hold a kettle and begin pouring its boiling contents into the angel’s mouth.
The angel is thrashing on the ground now, my foot pinning it down. The wails it lets out no longer disturb me, but play a tune that’s music to my ears— church bells, funeral marches and the loud crackle of flames.
When the angel stops writhing, I caress its cheek and gently press my lips onto its.
I begin to suck.
Bon Appétit.