The relationship of the gourmand to food is so exquisitely intimate, and we feel this is even more true of us than it is of you. An audacious claim, we know it well, and so plead your indulgence as we lay out our case. It is crucial you understand the depth of our knowledge with regards to food, that you comprehend that it is we and not you who are the genuine epicureans, the few truly sincere sybarites. Accepting this is the only thing that may prepare you for what is to come.

For instance: there was a girl. Not much is known about her aside from her name, which was Alice. Her mother had labored for many months to knit her a woolen cloak, which she cherished. The girl's grandmother, Ekaterina, had been brought over by her parents from the old country and suffered from a disease of the blood where her veins did not swell as they should with vitality, requiring supplementation through nigh-constant engorgement upon sweetbreads and sugary confections. We know this because Alice and her grandmother were briefly contained in the stomach of Sigfrid, a wolf who happened to be a meal of ours. The lining of his stomach, bitter and salty on the tongue, remembered the feeling of the girl and her brittle бабушка held among the sloshing ocean of acid, and through him these memories became ours as well.

But you are unconvinced, and so we shall furnish another example. Frederik, now he was a good man. A humble farmer who eventually held parlay with his king over land reform, and a successful merchant with a loving wife, friends to spare, children who adored him. By middle age he had acquired more gold than he could hope to spend, and so whiled away his days doting upon his beloved Astrid, playing with his boys, smoking a bit of tobacco upon his porch, for who could deny such a man one vice in which to indulge, and nursing calloused fingers earned through the joyous tribulations of an amateur harpist. This was all brought to an end when the regular folk, diminutive to his eye, felled that massive beanstalk and Frederik along with it. The villagers took some weeks to saw through his gargantuan limbs, boil some of him down for stock, soak his joints with tar and oil of vitriol to render them easier to pry apart and haul off to the waste-fields, but of course such places are our feeding grounds, and so we came to know Frederik all the same.

Still you remain unpersuaded? All right, one last tale for you. Klaus and Johan were brothers, of six and seven years respectively, and they loved each other as the hammer loves the nail. Their father Niklas was strong, and as he was their model for manhood Klaus and Johan thought strength to be the measure of worth, and thus any expressions of love for each other as brothers were made through proclamations that the other was strong enough to handle anything, survive anything. To assume their brother weak would have been more than insult, it would have been a declaration of hatred.

Even their play was brutal, crafted to test fortitude. When they played explorer, they strapped snowshoes to their bare soles and trekked through the cold at the witching hour, worrying their mother half to death. When they played businessman, they demanded real money from the children of their neighbors and broke into their father's study to smoke his cigars and partake of his snuff box, their youthful lungs straining to suppress coughs and wheezes. And when they played butcher, they took it with equal seriousness. Klaus took the role of butcher, Johan took the role of swine. Having fetched a tin pail and the sharpest knife from the kitchen Klaus slit his brother's throat, emptying him into the pail, precisely as they had seen slaughtering done before, while watching old Hjalmar work at hogs strung up on hooks. It was only proper, and of course Klaus believed Johan strong enough to handle such a thing.

That last bit is conjecture, you understand, as only Johan has greeted us in the earth as of late and he is whom we have eaten, whom we have come to know. Perhaps, years from now, when we get a bite of Klaus, we may discover his brother had misconstrued his motives. We are eager to know, but also patient. This is because our relationship to our food is simply the most intimate, loving, and totalizing relationship that there is——a fact which cannot be denied! We maggots have won a reputation as humble creatures; nevertheless we cannot help but confess our vanity. We find ourselves incapable of being gentle with the truth, and would not wish to be so even if we could.

The truth we speak of is this: we have come to know, through our previous meals, that you have many legends of sacred shepherds who serve as your custodians for the journey beyond life. We have heard tell of noble St. Peter with his high brow and golden hair, of old Charon the ferryman with his diffident frailty and pragmatic greed, and of the great Lady Izanami no Mikoto who rules over Yomi with the aid of her Gashadokuro, that dread golem composed of limbs harvested from neglected, defiled, unburied corpses. Whatever lies beyond the veil, we regret to inform you that these figures will not be there to greet you. We are the true custodians; none get to heaven save through our bellies. You could never come to such knowledge, as you do not love your food as we love you, but worry not for all is forgiven. We look forward to knowing you. Many years from now, rest assured, yes, many, many years, and we are happy to wait. We are certain that you shall be delicious.