The Diet of Power: A Dystopian Satire

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Marcus was not a gourmet. He was an architect of efficiency. In a world where calories cost more than gold, and excess weight was punishable by a "social inertia" tax, food had become a weapon.

On his table, magnificence steamed. A steak of synthesized marble beef, a mountain of fruits from the New Eden greenhouses, a decanter of thick, rich energy drink.

It was Breakfast. A ritual of power.

Marcus ate slowly, methodically chewing every bite. He was loading himself with fuel. Ahead lay a day of heavy negotiations, boardroom intrigues, and mental duels. He needed the energy of an emperor.

"Eat breakfast like a king," he whispered the old truth, wiping his lips with a snow-white napkin. Not a crumb for anyone. The full power of the morning belonged only to him.

At noon, he met with Leon, his deputy and the only man he almost trusted. Lunch was more modest, but more refined. Two glasses of wine, a light salad, fish.

"Lunch like a prince," Marcus thought, pushing the plate with the best piece toward Leon.

It was an investment. By sharing calories, he was buying loyalty. A fed Leon would work better. A fed Leon would feel gratitude. Partnership requires nourishment, but not oversaturation. They were like two princes sharing a kingdom, but not yet wearing the crown.

Evening came. The city plunged into neon twilight.

Marcus stood by the panoramic window of his office. On the table lay a tray with Dinner. It was a heavy, greasy meal. Fried potatoes, pork, a sweet cream dessert. Sleepy, viscous food that makes eyes stick together and thoughts heavy. The food of the poor, who have no strength to think about tomorrow.

The door opened. Victor entered, Marcus's main competitor. The man aiming for his seat. Victor looked tired and hungry.

"Marcus," he nodded. "You wanted to see me?"

"I wanted to make peace," Marcus smiled broadly and pointed to the tray. "I know you haven't had time to eat today. Please. I'm not hungry. I prefer to dine like a pauper."

Victor's eyes lit up. He hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours. He pounced on the food, devouring fat, sugar, and heavy carbohydrates. He ate and didn't notice Marcus watching him with cold calculation.

"Give dinner to your enemy," Marcus thought, the twist on the old proverb sounding like a verdict in his head.

In an hour, Victor would be sleepy. His brain, busy digesting heavy food, would slow down. His reactions would dull. Tomorrow morning, at the decisive vote, he would be sluggish, bloated, and weak. He would be defeated before the battle even began.

Marcus drank a glass of pure water. He was hungry, angry, and absolutely empty.

He was ready for victory.

© Ilya Rosenfeld.

Read also: The Uroboros Protocol