In a dining room of timeless refinement—a subtle blend of Art Deco and Victorian macabre—two extraordinary beings sit at the table.
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Hannibal Lecter, in an impeccable three-piece suit, pours a 1982 Château Margaux into two crystal glasses. At the other end of the table, Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon, watches him with a glimmer in his eye, his grin stretching ear to ear—both carnivorous and amused.
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— I must say, Doctor, your hospitality is... *deliciously* unsettling! says Alastor, twirling his fork like a conductor’s baton.
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— And you, *Monsieur*... the radio, is it? You intrigue me. It’s rare for my guests to share my appetite... for aesthetics, replies Hannibal, setting a plate before his guest.
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The dish is a work of art: seared medallions of meat with black truffle, glazed in a reduction of... *questionable* origin. Gold leaf adorns the porcelain as if Hell had invited Versailles to dinner.
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— This dish, Hannibal, is a *poem*. A symphony of flavor in C... *sinister*! exclaims Alastor, driving his fork in with demonic glee.
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— It’s liver. A very *particular* kind. I used an old... German recipe.
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— From an unruly patient?
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— A food critic, actually. He lacked... refinement, the doctor replies with an almost imperceptible smile.
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They toast. The atmosphere is soft, almost warm—if one ignores the silhouettes hanging from meat hooks in the neighboring kitchen and the whispers of damned souls only the most sensitive can hear.
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— Tell me, Hannibal... why invite me here? It’s not every day a human, even one as refined as you, takes an interest in a demon.
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— You amuse me, Alastor. And... I’m curious. Your reputation in Hell nearly rivals mine on Earth. We could learn from one another.
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— Oh! An alliance between refined horrors? I’m *all ears*!
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They laugh. Their laughter differs—Hannibal’s is restrained, civilized, icy. Alastor’s crackles like an old, poorly tuned radio, shrill and antiquated.
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The meal continues, punctuated by discussions of 1930s music, the best way to season human brain, and the sad decline of mortal culinary standards.
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— And you, Alastor, have you ever cooked?
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— Oh, I’m more the type to... *play* with my food, though I dabble in jambalaya now and then. But I must admit, your approach intrigues me. Perhaps one day, we could... *collaborate*. You, at the stove. Me, handling the *presentation*.
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Hannibal tilts his head.
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— A macabre opera in multiple courses. Tempting.
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The meal concludes with a bone marrow-infused crème brûlée and a digestif of absinthe. The center candle flickers, as if even the flame hesitates to remain in their presence.
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At last, they rise, exchanging a courteous, ominous bow.
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— The honor was mine, Doctor.
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— The pleasure was all mine. Do return whenever you wish. And should you ever pass through Florence...
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— I’ll bring the wine.
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With a burst of static-distorted laughter, Alastor vanishes in a crackle of noise. Hannibal stands alone, gazing at the empty table, a faint smile on his lips.
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Then, softly, he murmurs:
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— *Finally*, a guest to my taste.
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