Dry feast

The feast was dry and barren. The table held a bounty of savory foods, but no drink. One could scarcely take a bite before it came to thirsting. Those that ate the meal were left desolate. What they took meant nothing. It was entirely useless without its counterpart.

Off in the far corner of the same staggering complex was laid a fountain of pure spring water. Life. If only they could reach it, but fearing they would lose their rich food should they leave it--or perhaps simply desiring it presently instead of seeking it later--the dinner guests would scarce seek it out. In fact, they barely took in the splendors all around them for their single mindedness, and the host, though having left explicit instructions, would return to find many of them near death.

Eldredge Rotchit was not one of them. Born a hotdog salesman, he knew the value of a good beverage. And, that is why he, on a wondrous and perilous journey, drank from that fountain and gloriously returned, moisturized and dripping. Ready to partake of that deep fried non-fat high-sodium chicken.