Feast of the Seleychelles

Mungo the Giant Lord Bean settled down to his Seleychelles platter.
Spread before him was a sea of trishells of butter chicklens, boiled
phlegmouse, crustacean fards, onculating frissoles, gapolling crotches
and a host of other of other unpronounceable dishes brought far and
wide from all corners of his fiefdom.

The feast of the Seleychelles unfolded.. the annual festival of food..
where all his subjects vied to present him with the rarest and finest
delicacies they had to offer, in competition for the Golden Carp.. the
most favoured prize in the fiefdom of Carpalunia. Each year they
surpassed themselves.

Keenly the assembled tribal representatives with pride and gusto
noted.. that their giant master and lord had covered in bodily expanse
even more of the Cerebus throne than the previous year with his growing
gargantuan frame, his ceremonial garbs overflowing. This boded good
signs for his gumptiousness appetite.. they beamed and nodded with
anticipatory approval.

Within the complex scaffold construction of the ceremonial garb.. a
little brown skinny man.. Lord Bean Mungo.. suspended in an elaborate
hanging frame.. beaded with sweat.. shovelled plates of the vilest most
pungent substances arrayed in the most garish of displays into a
concealed opening in his robe, just below his chin. There a chute took
the sleazy, greasy contents, squelching down to the bottom, through the
seat of his throne and to a cavern below. A royal wheeled wagon so
positioned accepted the contents.

Occasionally when some of the food attempted to squelch its way up the
shoot.. Mungo would let loose a frantic kick with his dangling feet..
thus freeing the flow
to a generally downward movement again.

By the wheeled wagon, four liveried footmen stood, weapons primed to
attention. They awaited the signal to cart away the squealing
contents.. this was their third load.. and there was no sign of the
flow abating.