My lunch with Cormac McCarthy

At a recent party I played a game in which we were asked to choose a writer, living or dead, with whom we would most like to have lunch. I chose Cormac McCarthy. This is how my fantasy lunch would go:

I would start out by shooting him in both feet, so he could not leave too quickly. He might find me to be boring, or the food unappealing, so I wouldn’t want him to leave right away. Then, just for fun, I’d shoot him in the gut. You know, a straight shot through the intestines and colon, just to stir things up.

I’d then skewer his Achilles tendons with a sharpened stick, and haul him up with a rope, so he hung upside-down from a tree branch. I’d use a stick, or maybe a coat-hanger, to pull some of his intestines through the hole in his gut, so the flies would have something entertaining to do.

I’d probably pin his eyelids open with cactus spines so he wouldn’t go to sleep, and I’d spoon-feed him little bits of his minced genitals. I would build a small fire under his head, not so close as to catch his head on fire, no, just large enough and close enough to slowly roast his brain, while I read to him from Strunk and White.

Yep, that’s what I’d like to do, have lunch with Cormac McCarthy.