“No, don’t eat that. It’s poisoned.”
The colonel slammed his hands down upon the table, upsetting the Lady Deathridge’s glass and rattling Mr. Wiseman from his daydream.
The Lady Deathridge was the first to speak: “I say!” she exclaimed, turning toward the colonel.
“My dear,” he said in a low growl. “Forgive me, but the impertinence, the impertinence—”
It is unsure for how long the colonel would have continued this chant, but the boy continued his impertinence:
“No, don’t eat that. It’s poisoned.” His voice was high and soft, filled with the natural timbre meant for church choirs or portraying the heavenly calls of angels in Christmas pageants.
“The nerve, the nerve,” remonstrated the colonel. “These moralizing louts want to keep their dinners all to themselves. They’re not happy less we’re all miserable!”
“Dear!” Lady Deathridge’s tone was unmistakably corrective.
“Don’t dear me, dear,” he said. “I’ll not be bullied by the likes of this welp,” and he promptly started shoveling his food into his mouth.
“No, don’t eat that. It’s poisoned.”
The Lady Deathridge refused to look at the boy, though she deigned to address him. “Really!” she said. “If it’s not quite apparent, we do not want your company, young man.”
“Please,” he said. “It will kill you.”
“What nonsense, what utter, muckraking nonsense.” The Lady Deathridge took up her fork.
“No, don’t eat that. It’s poisoned.”
“You deal with him,” the Lady Deathridge said, turning to Mr. Wiseman.
“What?” he asked, his attention suddenly arrested from following the erratic flight patterns of the flies buzzing around the corpses of the neighboring table.
But the Lady Deathridge was in no mood to repeat herself. She now lowered her fork toward her plate, and daintily lifted the food to her pretty, little mouth.
“No, don’t eat that. It’s poisoned.”
“Now, now, see here,” said Mr. Wiseman, taking the tone of a lecturer. “We can’t have you brandying about misinformation like that. On what authority does this come down?”
“Sir, look around you. This place is full of the dead.”
“Nonsense. Sure, a few dead bodies litter the place, nothing is perfect, but see how many squirming maggots and buzzing flies there are. This place is hardly dead.”
“Well, sir, see your own colonel, he is turning blue.”
“Coincidence. Can you cite one authority to corroborate your claims?”
“None, sir, but the old man’s.”
“The old man is a liar,” cited Mr. Wiseman, and proudly took up his fork.
“No, don’t eat that. It’s poisoned.”
But Mr. Wiseman, congratulating himself on his practicality in rejecting the old man’s warning, and smiling at his own good reasoning, did eat. The boy was silent thereafter, and he watched the three of them pass away. The colonel went while furiously and fruitlessly clenching and grasping at the air; The Lady Deathridge quietly, softly, without making a fuss; and Mr. Wiseman, who was distracted at the time—well, we are still waiting for him to notice that he is dead at all.
Tale Told 