The air is so aromatic, you can practically see the smells. They paint pictures around your head of the meal to come: huge steaming hunks of moist beef; trays of sweet, golden corn; pillowy mounds of mashed potatoes; erotic trays of peach cobbler, sopping with sweet juice. You hear the far-off voices of those lucky few who already found their seats, laughing, eating, and chatting with friends new and old. The sight and smell of the smorgasbord makes your stomach gurgle and your loins stir. You need to get something in your mouth, and quickly.

But first, you need to pick a table. You can't make out any of the faces particularly well yet, but you mentally divide the courtyard into six different areas. You decide on one and begin planning your route, trying to minimize the number of posteriors you have to rub yourself against, for once.

You wonder if you should pocket some corn cobs for later. After all, it has been difficult to find toilet paper.

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