Garrett's Inferno - Part I

This is just a little bit of creative writing I have been playing with, after I decided to read Dante's Inferno for like, the umpteenth time. A fine book if you've never read it, I suggest an annotated copy to help you follow it though as it references a lot of pop culture of the early 14th century in Florence, but it's still quite awesome. I did an inferno piece back in college which was kinda crappy, so I decided to re-work it again but from a new direction.

Anyways, I'm having fun writing this even though creative writing has never been my forte, so like it or not, here it is. It'll be coming in parts whenever I find a chance to finish them. Hope you enjoy! Comments encouraged!
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Since I was home alone with nothing to do, I cleaned my fridge because the eyes on those ancient potatoes had an evil stare blazed upon them and their roots began to form small beards of sorts; the spuds becoming akin to angry, ancient men. A horrid stench prevailed that was reminiscent of either bad meat or good cheese, which it was I know not. The cleaning was well needed and order would give me peace of mind, so gloves donned I set upon my self-ordained task.

To my surprise I found in the back of my fridge, Elizabeth Taylor, saying she had come to guide me through Hell to teach me of the grievous food addict sins that society’s anabasis into gastrotastrophy was committing and the divine punishment that there lay in.

She said M.F.K. Fisher heard my rallying cries against humanity in relation to food and wanted to help, but couldn't miss the episode of Friends with the sexy phlegm, and thus sent Elizabeth. I was surprised she sent Elizabeth, as she wasn’t dead or had much to do with food, but I guess that much liquor and prescription drugs makes traversing the planes of existence a relatively minor task when they aren’t as solid to your sense of perception. Plus, she was awesome as Cleopatra and isn’t that reason enough?

Down we went through the first circle of hell, my ears ringing from the cacophony of tormented wails from snooty food people. There we found the haughty conniosseurs who in life may have indulged originally out of love, but then did so out of self praise, status, and gustatory bravado.

They looked down upon Two Buck Chuck and milk chocolate, since fine Shiraz blends from Chile and bitter 68% cacao from the Congo were more expensive and had greater character due to their possession of the exotic ingredients and high price. Who doesn’t love a Hershey’s bar, and smore-ific memories they bring? Sometime a cheap wine isn’t necessarily a bad wine, that’s what college teaches you. They had forgotten these simple pleasures, and pitied those who enjoyed them.

As punishment they were forced to stand in a pool of Napolean era, well preserved Brandy, while a tree of organic, rare terroir peaches hung from a tree above them. When they wished to analyze the oakyness of the brandy, in would recede. When they reached for a peach to inform all their friends about it’s superb flavor profile, a breeze would blow the limbs and fruit out of reach.

They would cry out in suffering and with great agony moan over their classist approach to food, wishing they would have relegated themselves to a glorious chance encounter with a street side hotdog.

“Beware,” moaned my slightly inebriated guide, “Here, is where downfall first comes. Be aware of food, enjoy its finer points and appreciate its subtilties, histories, and those who bring it to fruition. But do not use it as status or a way to separate yourself amongst the mass and place yourself upon a pedestal. They there who ache for food and drink scoffed at those without the financial means to be able to chance appreciation for it, and those who found joy in less vainglorious delicacies.”

This is what awaits, and with that we descended…

To be continued...