Chapter 2: The Monsters’ Feast

On the main seat inside the cave sat the Boss: a ferocious face, broad nose, wide mouth, yellow jagged teeth—he looked like either a mountain lion spirit or a bear who’d learned to talk. He wore a battered Golden State Warriors cap perched between two tufted ears. His flannel shirt looked like it had seen more campfires than laundromats.

Next to him sat another demon, ugly as well, but with a scholarly air: long thin face, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his snout, and a suit jacket over a t-shirt that read 'Bigfoot Needs Coffee.'

The little demon threw me to the ground, knelt, and reported, “While patrolling outside, I ran into this preacher everyone’s been buzzing about, so I captured him and brought him to you, Boss and Second-in-Command.” His voice wobbled between pride and fear, like a rookie cop bringing in his first big collar.

“Oh, this is that preacher?” The Boss’s eyes lit up—hungry, like a coyote spotting rotisserie chicken behind a deli counter.

“Wait a minute, Boss—” The Second-in-Command pondered, “I heard the preacher is supposed to be super handsome, with a radiant smile. This guy doesn’t look the part.” He squinted over the rim of his glasses, as if trying to Photoshop a preacher’s face onto my bald, trembling self.

“True.” The Boss snapped back, a little disappointed. “That Monkey never leaves the preacher’s side—how could he fall into our hands alone so easily?” He drummed his claws on the chair arm, thunk thunk thunk, impatient as a diner waiting for his Denny’s order.

“Who are you? Why are you pretending to be the preacher?” the Second-in-Command barked at me, his voice echoing off the stone. He had the air of a small-town principal catching you sneaking out of study hall.

I wanted to cry but had no tears: “I’m not pretending to be anyone, I was just caught and dragged in by them…” I hugged the bedsheet closer, wishing it was an invisibility cloak. The absurdity almost made me laugh—almost.

“If you’re not the preacher, why are you bald?”

“Because of chemo…” My voice cracked, and for a heartbeat, something like sympathy flickered across the Second-in-Command’s features.

“You’re not a pastor, so why the robe?”

“It’s a bedsheet…” I tried to smooth the wrinkles with trembling hands, embarrassment crawling up my neck.

“Boss, looks like this one really isn’t the preacher,” Second-in-Command said. “But he’s talking nonsense, probably a crook or a thief—maybe a local hiding out after something illegal.” He leaned in, sniffed suspiciously, as if expecting the scent of meth lab chemicals.

“Doesn’t matter.” The Boss waved a paw. “It’s been forever since we had fresh meat. Get him cleaned up and ready for the spit—stat.”

My heart jackhammered against my ribs. I tried to scream, but my mouth was too dry. Every muscle in my body wanted to run. I didn’t want to live, but being roasted—come on, that’s worse than dying! Images of myself spinning over a spit flashed through my mind. I jerked free and started babbling, desperation turning my words to mush.

I immediately wailed, “Boss, spare me! I’m sick, full of cancer cells—my meat’s inedible!” I hoped my frailty would buy me mercy, but the hungry looks didn’t budge.

But the Boss just found me noisy and waved for the little demons to hurry up and carry me off. One grabbed my foot, another my shoulder, claws digging through the sheet. I flailed, panic overtaking any dignity I had left.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. I shouted, “Doesn’t the Boss want the preacher’s flesh? Why settle for an ordinary mortal today?” I forced my voice to steady, heart pounding like a snare drum. It was a long shot, but what did I have to lose?

“Wait!” The Boss halted the little demons and asked, “What did you just say?” He leaned forward, his shadow looming. The whole room seemed to freeze.

“The Monkey’s magic staff weighs 13,000 pounds—Boss, how many blows could you take?” I tried to channel a late-night infomercial host, selling the impossible.

The Boss fell silent. He glanced at the others, as if calculating odds he’d rather not face.

“And Pigsy’s nine-toothed rake, forged by the Lord himself—how many rounds could you last?” I tossed out the reference like a trivia ringer at a bar.

The Boss started to frown. For a moment, the fire in his eyes faltered, replaced by a sliver of doubt.

“Even the weakest, Sandy, was once a top general—can you go toe-to-toe with him, Boss?” I tried to sound casual, though my voice trembled.

The Boss looked away, claws tapping a nervous beat now, confidence leaking away like air from a tire.

“And even without those three disciples, the preacher is protected by a host of guardian angels: the Five Directional Spirits, the Four Duty Officials, the Six Ding and Six Jia Generals, the Eighteen Saints… Boss, how many of them could you handle?” I made a sweeping gesture, like a coach rallying his team.

Sweat began to bead on the Boss’s brow, glistening on his fur.

“Boss, if you want to eat the preacher’s flesh, you have to get through all these obstacles—miss one, and you won’t get a single bite.” I let the words hang, heavy as summer heat in Bakersfield.

“Who exactly are you? How do you know so much about the preacher and his disciples?” The Boss looked alarmed, voice shaky.

“To tell the truth, Boss, I am gravely ill, with little time left. The only way to prolong my life is to eat the preacher’s flesh.” I threw in a cough for good measure, dabbing my mouth with the bedsheet.

“You too…?”

“Exactly. I also came for the preacher’s flesh. I’ve studied his disciples for years.” I puffed out my chest, trying to look as knowledgeable as possible.

The Boss’s eyes lit up again. “So, you have a way to deal with that monkey?”

“…Just a stable boy—dealing with him is already in my plans.” I threw out the line with confidence I didn’t feel. Inside, my stomach was flipping like a short-order cook’s pancakes.

“Ah, we almost roasted a real hero!” The Boss slapped his thigh. “Quick, untie him, give him a seat, you lot—bring out the best beer and burgers!”

Thank you, 1986 Journey to the West TV series. Thank you, director Yang Jie. I’d just saved my own skin, at least for now. Someone shoved a Bud Light in my hand, and a cheeseburger, greasy and loaded with pickles, landed on a paper plate. Bags of Cheetos were scattered around. In that surreal moment, surrounded by monsters, it was the best meal I’d had in months.