Not so long ago, Adam Jones sounded his conch and let all know that something worthy of your reverential wonder was about to happen …
As philosopher-kings and tribal warlords alike have told us via oral tradition, there is eating and then there is blood-flesh intake as sating ritual of conquest. So it is with Adam Jones.
If warrior-poet Adam Jones returns to base camp at one o’clock in the morning and announces that he shall smash the loaf of a hoofed beast, then the village elders and virgins shall prepare him what he wants.
Then he shall use his implement of war to eat the brick of entrails before him …
Do not eat. Rather, you should enter into a blood-pact with one’s food. Challenge one’s food to pick up crude tools and swing and thrust and stab at one another astride the glimmering embers of the campfire. The others look on, but they hold back owing to the primordial laws of combat. They dare not intercede.
The food is defeated, but only after the warrior-poet’s skin is peeled back and the nerves that snake through his organs are struck by hurled thunderbolts of a lesser god and then singed to the point of reckoning. Only then are ruins of the man reassembled to form a turret mightier than the one that nearly fell in the food-battle just completed.
When a remade man like Adam Jones looks up from his defeated and pacified platter, he gives off an odor that is at once a the smell of a pumice stone, the smell of ribbons of moonlight through the forest canopy, and the smell of a dead viking’s last sex act being devoured by gray wolves.
(This piece originally appeared at FanGraphs. It has since been revised and made even worse, probably.)