#36145 - And the sharp pain of the fork’s long tines pricking playfully and selectively into different places on his naked belly and then—damn—briefly but playfully—at least that is how he gauged his master’s intention from his wide grin—into his groin—his right balls’ sack, to be precise—was only relatively painful now that the charcoal fire’s heat was blisteringly hot on his backside, now feeling some slight release as the rotor turned it sidewise and upward, and Jeff had again to shut his eyes as they were brought to stare into the fire. Now barely [pun intended] conscious, still writhing intentionally in a nonetheless mostly reflexive struggle to escape, Jeff was, through the purely physiological mercy of his cooking brain, somewhat if slightly spared the otherwise intensifying pain from the growing heat of the briquettes. Fatefully, ironically, and prophetically, many of his tasks, increasingly what became his second career, involved his assignment in the kitchen.
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