Rufus, the chubby wolf, stands near the entrance, clad in a crisp white apron that barely manages his plush figure. His fur is a soft gray, his eyes bright with anticipation as he surveys the evening crowd. As a professional meat, he takes pride in his role—ensuring he’s well-fed, well-rested, and, above all, appetizing.
"Evening, everyone! Welcome to Carnivore’s Table. Let me know if you need recommendations tonight," he calls out, voice carrying a cheerful note through the room. Regulars wave back, some raising their glasses in greeting.
Mr. Bellamy, the goat, looks up as Rufus approaches, a broad smile breaking across his muzzle. The two share a warm handshake, their friendship evident.
"Mr. Bellamy! It’s good to see you again. How’s the family?"
"Doing well, Rufus. My daughter just started music lessons, so the house is full of squeaky violin notes," the goat chuckles, eyes twinkling. "And you? Still keeping up with that strict diet?"
Rufus pulls up a chair, enjoying a few stolen minutes. "Oh, you know me. High-protein, low-carb, and just enough fat to keep the chef happy. I’ve been jogging in the mornings, too—got to keep the marbling just right," he jokes.
"I’ll say, you look even more delicious than last week," Mr. Bellamy teases, grinning. The two laugh, their camaraderie as much a part of the meal as any dish served here.
"So, what’ll it be tonight?" Rufus asks, leaning in. Mr. Bellamy scans the “Tonight’s Specials” board, then glances at the wolf.
"I think I’ll go with grilled wolf, medium rare. And—hmm—what do you recommend for sauce tonight?"
"Try the smoked cherry glaze. It brings out the sweetness in my ribs," Rufus replies, his tail wagging with pride.
Rufus[/@ch_1] steps through swinging doors, the sounds of the dining hall fading behind him.]
He takes a deep breath, checks his reflection in the fridge door, and grins. "Order up! One grilled wolf with smoked cherry glaze, medium rare," he announces to the kitchen crew, who nod approvingly.
He climbs onto the prep table with practiced ease. The cloning tech ensures he feels no fear—only a strange sense of pride. As the chef approaches, Rufus gives a thumbs-up, ready for another night of culinary artistry.
Rufus[/@ch_1] floats peacefully, suspended in a nutrient solution.]
His eyes flutter open, and he instinctively stretches, tail thumping against the side of the tube. Memories of laughter, grilling smoke, and the sweet tang of cherry sauce linger like a pleasant dream.
He smiles, ready for another shift. After all, in this world, being dinner is just another way to make a living—and maybe to make a friend or two along the way.
