Congratulations Finicky Eating Soldier!

After the Second Great War ended, you spent thirty years waiting on an island for news of a glorious Imperial victory, but it never came.  You were never told that you should return to your home village and take a wife, or that you could perhaps return home and take up a mediocre, tedious trade such as fishmongering in order to eke out a living in a state that, while you were willing to die for it, had little real need for you beyond that.  You just waited and waited.

At first there was an entire battalion of you there, patiently awaiting some sort of order.  You had supplies enough to last a decade, augmented by animals you could catch from the island.  But the animals died off faster than anticipated, and the supplies ran thin after a handful of fat soldiers decided to step up their rations against the will of the commander.  These soldiers were executed, then fed to the men they had stolen food from.

This led to a three decade long conflict wherein various factions hunted down and murdered their fellow soldiers before eating them.  You survived mostly by keeping your head down and following whoever seemed to be the best at killing at any given moment, and when the smoke cleared and you were relatively certain you were only one of a handful of survivors left on the island, you murdered your last ally with a rock, took his head to display your dominance, and assembled the remaining desperate men together under your leadership to build a raft and return home, orders be damned.

Along the way, you ate two more men and a bunch of sea turtles, which you developed quite a taste for.  But once you returned home, you had a problem: society didn’t really have a place for an aging, desperate collective of murders, and you also didn’t really like food that wasn’t human flesh or turtle meat.

It was manageable for a while.  Lax regulations meant you could get away with eating endangered turtles up until the late nineties, and a sexist and corrupt Japanese legal system meant women could occasionally “disappear” without too much trouble.

But now you’ve grown old, and twilight approaches.  You await the grim specter of death and, as you do so, you long for one more satisfying meal.  So today your grand niece will approach you and, after hearing you request human flesh for the fiftieth god damn time, cut off both your hands in a fit of rage and feed them to you.

Your hands, your calloused, sea soaked hands that have seen so much blood and done so much harm, will have been seasoned by their actions until they taste amazing.  Like, really, really good.  Impressively good.  They’ll be the best hands you’ve ever eaten, and you’ve eaten quite a few.

You’ll thank your niece for her ingenuity, then die with a series of extravagant gasps.  It’ll be kind of dramatic but your niece, who didn’t much care for you, won’t be impressed.  She’ll just be kind of bummed about having to dispose of your body alone, since all your other relatives will have long since abandoned you, thanks mostly to your constant rants about how amazing people taste.

Congratulations Finicky Eating Soldier!