You ever watch a man take pleasure in something ugly?

Not tolerate it. Not wince through it. I mean savour it. Let it melt on the tongue like sin disguised as sweetness. That’s you, Anton. Every twitch of pain, every believer broken open and begging for grace – you turn it into a delicacy.

You dress up indulgence in sermon robes and call it divine.

But I’ve seen your altar.

It’s not gold. It’s not fire. It’s bone – picked clean.

You don’t preach redemption. You curate collapse. You slow-roast suffering until it’s palatable. You season sorrow with scripture, plate it in silence, and call it enlightenment. You serve ruin with wine and a well-rehearsed grin.

Because you don’t feed on food.

You feed on reaction.

You want applause with every course. A gasp when the knife goes in. You want Arcadia to watch you chew through what’s left of its hope and thank you for the privilege.

But taste is a trick, Anton. It’s temporary. It dulls. It fades. And the hunger always comes back meaner.

You of all people should know that.

You built a cathedral out of craving. Like me, you call it “The Way.” But your way ends with a mirror. And I am that mirror.

Not polished. Not pretty. Just cracked enough to show you what you really are.

I don’t want your feast.

I don’t want your theatre.

I want to leave you cold, craving, cornered – with nothing left to devour but the silence.

Because what happens when the final course is served? When there’s no applause, no audience, no taste left to chase?

What’s left of Anton Savor when no one wants seconds?

See, I don’t offer flavour.

I offer fracture.

And fracture doesn’t rot. It remembers.

You call this communion. I call it consumption. But what you consume, I become.

Pain is not a palette. It’s a process. And you’re about to discover what it feels like when you are the dish. No garnish. No glamour. Just raw truth, bleeding on the plate.

Let’s see how your followers swallow that.

Let’s see what they pray to when the golden cloth is pulled back and all that’s left is a shaking hand holding a dull knife.

You talk like you’re feeding the world, Anton. But you’re just feeding yourself. Biting off pieces of people until there’s nothing left but empty chairs and echoing praise.

I’ve sat at that table before.

I’ve been served lies dressed up in velvet. I’ve tasted promises that turned to ash on my tongue. And I’ve learned that sometimes the only honest thing left in a room is the hunger itself.

So bring your blade. Bring your appetite. Bring your carefully aged gospel and that hollow-bellied faith.

I will bring nothing but myself. And that will be enough.

Because when the meal ends…

When the candles burn out…

When the wine dries bitter on your tongue and Arcadia turns its eyes from your indulgent decay…

I will still be here.

Smiling.

Starved.

Still standing.