Speaker 1: The Scum Kings created and written by Mike Daltrey, Episode seven,
The King's Portion.
Speaker 2: Cob was no longer a coward. He was an artist,
a priest. The pig our hard won prize was his altar.
With a focus I'd never seen in him, he set
to work. His knives, now wickedly sharp, moved with a
sureness that was almost beautiful. He bled the carcass with
a clean, quick cut, and there was no wasted motion
as he skinned it and broke it down. The rest
of us scum Kings watched in reverent silence. This was
a holy moment. Then came the fire, and with it
the torture. Cob built it high and hot. He mounted
the best cuts, the loin, the belly, the shoulders on
sturdy green branches, and set them to roast over the flames.
The first sizzle of fat hitting the fire was like
a gunshot in the quiet camp. A collective involuntary sigh
went through the crew. Then came the smell. It was
the richest, most glorious scent that had ever graced this
miserable hollow. It was salt and fat and roasting meat,
a promise of life itself. It filled the air thick
and intoxicating, and it drove us all half mad. The
gnawing ache in our stomachs became a ravenous, demanding beast.
I watched my men. Their eyes were glazed fixed on
the browning, crisping meat. Stiggins sat cross legged, his jaw slack,
a thin line of drool tracing a path into his beard.
Gicks stared with an unnerving intensity, as if he were
trying to memorize the pig's dying screams. Even or so ever,
the stoic had a tightness around his mouth, his knuckles
white where he gripped the hilt of his dagger. We
were a pack of wolves chained just out of reach
of a kill, and the chains were fraying. The waiting
was the purest form of torment I have ever known.
Minutes oh stretched into hours. The sun went down, and
the fire became the only world, a blazing orange heart
in the darkness, and at its center was our salvation. Finally,
cob his face gleaming with sweat and pride, declared it ready,
it is done. He announced, his voice thick with emotion.
Civility did not break down. It was never there to
begin with. It had only been sleeping. As Cob lifted
the first heavy branch of sizzling meat from the fire,
the crew surged forward, not with cheers, but with a low,
collective growl. They crowded around the makeshift, spit, their faces
feral in the firelight. It was a tense, snarling affair,
each man jostling for position, eyes darting from the meat
to each other, assessing threats. My rule is simple. I lead,
I take the risks. I eat first. It is the
law of any pack, and it is the only law
that matters. But hunger makes men forget laws. A young whelp,
a boy we called rat on account of his twitching
nose and beady eyes, let his hunger win. His self
control snapped as I stepped forward to claim my share.
His hand darted out, quick as a snake, snatching at
a piece of crisp, crackling skin hanging from the loin.
He never touched did. I moved without thinking. I grabbed
the boy by the collar of his tunic, my knuckles
digging into his throat. I lifted him off his feet
and slammed him face first into the dirt, inches from
the fire's scorching heat. He grunted as the air was
forced from his lungs. The snarling stopped, the jostling ceased.
The camp fell dead, silent, save for the crackle of
the fire and rats pained gasps. Every eye was on me.
I stood over the steaming carcass, the choicest cuts laid bare.
With the tip of my dagger, I pointed at the
whelp on the ground, then slowly moved it to gesture
at the rest of them, my silent challenge. Hanging in
the hot, greasy air, I let my gaze rest on
each man, one by one. Then I spoke, my voice,
low and clear and carrying the weight of absolutely law.
The king eats first signal box