The Wedding Eaters

Many moons ago, and a few continents past, I’d taken quite kindly to a new watering hole in the Philippines. Mind you, it takes quite a bit of atmosphere, a very large whore-quotient and beer that costs mere pennies for yours truly to belly up at a new establishment and feel at home. This new place, called The OT, had it all. They had live music, better than average bar food, it happened to be owned by a fellow American and of course it had its share of wackos with stories to tell.

I was moments from falling out of my chair, drunk as a weasel, when three guys dressed in tuxedos walked in and sat at a table behind me. They looked like they’d just come from a wedding but the look on their faces told a different story. They began speaking to one another and each one of them took turns breaking out in tears. Tears. Since I don’t speak Tagalog, I had to wait for them to leave before asking the waitress who served them drinks to tell me their story.

She was hesitant at first but after a bit of prodding she gave in. It turns out that the three of them had, in fact, just come from a wedding. A friend of a friend was getting married and they’d all spent the day at the church and then the reception. During the reception a friend of theirs accidentally brushed up against the brides butt and did not apologize. Instead he laughed then stumbled off to find the bar. Shortly thereafter the groom, the wife’s brother and father found the guy, took him out back, beat him to death with their bare hands and chopped up his remains. They cooked up the man’s body and mixed it with the food that was yet to be served to the wedding party.

No one else in the wedding party, or any of the guests, found out about what had happened to the food until after the festivities had concluded. The guys behind me were friends of the man who was beaten to death and they had eaten his remains like the rest of the guests.

Had I found any of this out before the three of them left, I would’ve asked if their buddy tasted like chicken. Then again, given the consequence of an accidental-ass-brushing, it’s probably a good thing that I didn’t.