Epergesis (e-per-gee’-sis): Interposing an apposition, often in order to clarify what has just been stated.

My brother Wilton, the one covered with tattoos who smells like baby shampoo, is coming to visit for three days. He’s a “vegetarian” in NYC with his friends but becomes a carnivore when he visits us. We have to buy pounds of meat to feed him, not to mention at least three bottles of medium expensive red wine from Australia. I think the only reason he comes is for the meat on our table. Porterhouse steak is not cheap.

The second night he was there, there was a knock on the door. I opened the door and Wilton’s girlfriend walked into the dining room. Wilton had a sizable piece of steak skewered on his fork, his mouth open, ready to shove it in. His girlfriend screamed and fell to the floor yelling “You beast! You carnivore! You flesh ripper! You murderer! You traitor.” She had brought a giant zucchini to share. Instead, she got up off the floor and started beating Wilton with it, bloodying his nose. All the while, Wilton begged her for forgiveness. She kept hitting him until she was too tired to swing the zucchini any more. She dropped it on the floor, turned, and called an Uber to take her to the train station.

. It should be clear, if Wilton’s love of meat was revealed, he would lose his job and be known among all the people he knew as a total hypocrite.

Wilton had to go back to NYC where he worked for a company that made organic snack foods. It positioned itself as a staunch ally of vegetarians, using Ghandi’s image on all its products. It’s “Nehru’s Spicy Chick Peas” was my favorite.

What follows, is gleaned from the police report:

First thing, when he got back to NYC, Wilton’s girlfriend texted him and told him to meet her at her apartment at 9:00 that night. He agreed. When he got there he pressed the intercom button and the entrance door clicked open. He went upstairs and knocked on the door. His girlfriend opened the door, and suddenly, two of his “friends” grabbed him under his arms. “Intervention!” everybody yelled—there were at least 5 people standing in the living room. There was a children’s swimming pool on the floor filled with a marinade made from liquified Carolina Reaper peppers, Habanero pepper juice, and tequila. “We are here to save your job, your romance, and your life. We are here to get you off of meat.” Wilton’s girlfriend gave a thumbs up and yelled “Let the weaning begin. Tear off his clothes, handcuff him, and put him in the pool.” In he went, face down—the burning concoction went into Wilton’s eyes, nose, ears, and mouth, and down his throat. He thought he was going to die, and he did.

They let his body marinade for three days in the “Intervention Sauce.” Then, they ate him, over the period of two weeks, cooking his butchered body piece by piece on the grill on the apartment’s balcony. They were caught when somebody accidentally dropped Wilton’s left butt cheek off the balcony. It hit a pedestrian and knocked him down. The butt cheek was covered by tattoos, so the pedestrian knew it was human meat. The most unusual tattoo on the butt was Wilton’s Social Security card. Wilton’s butt tattoo enabled the police to track him down. The tugging match over Wilton’s butt cheek made it clear that one of the parties was implicated in Wilton’s butchering.

The police were called to the disturbance over the butt cheek and rounded up the cannibals who had cleverly disguised themselves as radical vegetarians, and who had conspired together to eat Wilton. Wilton’s so-called “girlfriend” played a key role in his demise, surprising him, faking anger and then inviting him to a barbecue at her apartment, cynically knowing that Wilton was intended as the main course. As the investigation continued it was determined that the cannibal club—“The New York Ogres”— was responsible for the disappearance of five victims—men and women. They had dumped the bones in the Great Swamp in New Jersey.

Now, due to the “butt bomb” accidentally dropped off the balcony, they have the rest of their lives to vegetate in their cells at Rikers Island Jail. Already, given their fame as “The Manhattan Butt Bombers,” they’re trying to sell their hot pepper marinade on Etsy. They have made it into an alcohol-free condiment they’ve named “Killer Hot Sauce.” There’s also a cookbook being written titled: “Eat Your Neighbor.” I find this hard to believe, but I find Wilton’s death even more difficult to believe.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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