This morning... He fed.

His orange juice casts a long ominous shadow across the breakfast table.  The bacon lies flat on his plate, much like he lay flat on the floor after his kung-fu demo.  Two eggs glare back at him, two yolkie yellow eyes wondering why he doesn't return meet their stare.  "Oh, right"  they say.  "The sunglasses."

The eggs reflect in his sunglasses.  He can feel it growing inside him... the brain tumor.

It comes from deep within, moving from the frontal lobe, then spreading to the dark, rank, inner reaches of his bowels.  He struggles to contain it, but the hunger is a unquenchable force that can never be put to rest ---  much like his razor sharp prose which has again graced us with a "second coming."

Who will be his next victim?

His eggs?  The bacon?   Some toast maybe?