Shadows of the Damned - The Man Who Never Had His Fill

There was a cold and snowy eve:
certainly no night for a man without a home
to be walking these grey and
endless streets.

Inside the pizza parlor, George Reed spun a
lively tune on his harmonica. The local
children giggled and pointed excitedly at the
"harmonica man" as their parents glowed
with approval.

His reward would be all the pizza he could
eat - six pies, at least - and a warm bed in
one of these folks' homes. He knew they were good for it.

But when he tucked in for the night, George
had not had his fill.

As the years and calories stacked up, most
men would have gotten older and fatter. Yet
for all he consumed, George only got thinner
as he washed from town to town.

Tonight he plied his trade with some
grannies and orderlies in a nursing home.
Hooveewaah! His harmonica filled the room
with joy.

After devouring three helpings of pork
chops and mashed potatoes, he eyed the
plate of the old woman next to him.
Juice dribbled down his chin.
"Go ahead, Georgie," she said. "You're such
a good boy; you shouldn't have to starve."

But George had not had his fill.

Early the next morning, he was already on
the freeway with his thumb in the air. "Where
ya headed?"
said the man in the truck.

"Nowhere," said George. "Anywhere."

It was a New decade, and tonight George
played to an all-but-empty bar
in the city. He had lost a lot of weight.

Afterwards, the only woman in the joint
took the stool next to him and asked him his
name.

The bartender leaned over the counter. "You
don't know this guy, Mary? George is famous.
Been all over Tri-State area." With awink, he added, "Man's insatiable."

And that night, George proved it as he
buried his face in Mary's beaver.

"Play that harmonica," she purred, but even
after five trips to heaven and back, he had
not had his fill.

The morning after was an awkward affair, as
they stared at each other over coffee. One
wanted to feel more; the other just wanted
to feel.

In his final days, George was all skin and
bones.

His... last meal had been a mistake.

It was on a sidewalk one night in a small
suburban town that he came across the boy.
Hungrily, and with an agonized grimace, he
opened his mouth to beg for help.

Hooveewaaah! Ooveezah! Out came a
cacophony of wheezes and toots. But the boy
understood.

Once he was alone, George Reed looked at
the candy bar he held in one hand, and began
to cry. Hoo... hoo...

They found George's half-eaten body in a
market the next town over.

In one hand he held a knife; in other, a
fork. Chunks of flesh had been torn from his
chest and his arms... Blood framed an eerie
smile.

The wind that morning blew fierce, and as it
whistled through the hole he'd carved out of
his own neck, the harmonica man played his
last song in this world.

There were gawkers, and many knew him.
They shared stories of how he had filled them
with hope, filled them with life. They, at
least, had had their fill.

THE END