Properly prepared, human skin was as crispy and bubbly as crackling, but the chops were never as succulent as pork tenderloin. Then again, Harlan glamorized his memory of backyard barbecue in times long past, so he couldn’t be sure.
He and Knut reached for the last rib, but Knut was faster.
“It’s a pity.” Knut gnawed flesh from bone, grease glistening in his ducktail beard. “Pigs are pork, cows are beef. This needs a name.”
“Bakolo.” The word came from the far corner. The friends swiveled their necks to meet two pairs of eyes.
A clean-cut, thirtyish man sat in a booth, his severe stare unwavering. Before him, a juvenile pig hunched on the tabletop, softly grunting.
The man raked fingers through his upswept, tawny hair as he approached. “Actually, very few animals have separate words for their meat, but bakolo is what cannibals in Fiji called … well …”
“People?” Knut sucked sauce from a fingertip.
“Prey.” The stranger stuck out his hand. “Name’s Sigmund. First time at a Sapieneria?”
Harlan and Knut exchanged a glance, then shook the man’s hand.
“Cerberus loves ‘em.” Sigmund thumbed toward his pet pig. “Then again, she’ll eat anything.”
Harlan gaped at the poetic justice. “You feed your pig … human meat?”
“Bakolo, yes.” Sigmund grinned. “She’s doing her part. The population’s already dropped to early millennium numbers, with six months left in the harvest. At this rate, we’ll reach pre-Industrial Revolution levels.”
Knut scoffed. “Sociologists predict equilibrium before then.”
“Yeah, right.” Sigmund wedged himself onto the bench beside Knut. “Veggie burgers aren’t going to cut it, now that folks got a taste for it.” He waved at the pile of bones, picked-clean. “Come January, we’re supposed to go back to lab-grown meat? Fried bugs?” He wrinkled his nose. “No, thank you.”
“They’ll lock you up,” said Knut, tossing in the last bare bone.
Sigmund folded his arms. “Only if they catch me.”
Cerberus squealed plaintively from the corner table. Sigmund rushed to cradle her, caressing her floppy ears. “Can you believe people used to eat these furbabies? Barbaric!”
Harlan withheld the many times he’d consumed Cerberus’ ancestry as a boy.
Sigmund paced before the smoldering sunset outside the diner’s full-height windows. “At least with bakolo there’s implicit justice: man versus man. Beyond culling the population, we’re satisfying our natural blood-thirst. It’s therapeutic! The bonus? Billions fewer carbon footprints!”
Knut cleared his throat. “So, have you ever …?”
“Killed a man?” Sigmund brightened. “You bet! Not to eat, though. The juicy ones are too easy. The competitive ones are tough, like jerky. The Purina plant gives me two grand per head for the inedible ones. Apparently, dogs love bakolo.”
Harlan caught Knut’s gaze and nodded.
Knut closed the distance to his quarry in a single bound. Ochre sunlight glinted on his carbon steel blade as it glided across Sigmund’s neck. The man collapsed, his beloved pet lapping at ribbons of blood.
“C’mon,” said Knut. “Let’s get him into the kitchen.”