The Last Feast of the Vrate
By Braam Pretorius
A Satirical Short Story for a Future Not So Far Away
(An unfiltered sneak peek into a darker, funnier version of what may lie ahead...)
Prologue: The Table at the End of the World
They gathered at sunset.
Not your ordinary sunset, of course. This one was curated, brought to you by SkEyeCorp™, the world’s leading climate management company, whose shareholders just so happened to be seated around the obsidian table that stretched the length of the floating citadel, Elysium 1.
Below, Earth simmered like a stew on its final boil, forests now luxury timber farms, oceans leased to oil-vegan fusion startups, and the last remaining polar bear franchised as a mascot for a carbon-neutral cologne.
At the head of the table sat Chef Bezzle, bald and beaming, draped in smart-fabric robes that adjusted to match the Pantone of his ambition. Beside him, Eon Muck stared absently at a floating screen displaying cryptocurrency fluctuations and Martian baby names.
To his right, Zark Muckerbird blinked rhythmically, as if rebooting. He hadn't spoken aloud in three years—his voice replaced with algorithmic output that sounded vaguely like a confused Siri trying to recite poetry.
One seat down, Ofra Winfree held court with a galaxy of motivational crystals, her hair floating softly in zero gravity. She offered every guest a “soul-harvested” napkin, blessed by monks and carbon-offset by tears.
They were the Vrate. The Unsated. The Holy Order of the Infinite Fork.
Each had arrived on their private skycrafts, launching from various luxury bunkers scattered across what used to be called continents. Their mission? To save the world.
Their method? A tasting menu of solutions, ethically sourced from what remained of civilization.
Tonight was to be the Last Feast.
Not the last because they were hungry, heavens, no.
But because, at long last, the world had run out of things to eat.
Except themselves.
Chapter One: First Course – Air-Roasted Hope on a Bed of Lies
A butler drone hovered into the dining chamber with a soft chime that sounded suspiciously like Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, played backwards.
“Tonight’s first course,” it announced in a soothing tone pre-set to Luxury Enlightenment™, Male British Accent, “is a delicate serving of Air-Roasted Hope on a Bed of Lies, with a drizzle of Regret Reduction.”
The plates, shaped like miniature Earths, rotated gently, revealing the dish: a single, pale-green leaf—genetically engineered to taste like wagyu steak—placed atop a shredded scroll made of pulped climate treaties. Tiny gold-plated tweezers lay next to each plate, for those who still believed in utensils.
Chef Bezzle clapped softly. “Brilliant. Sustainable delusion, just how I like it.”
Eon Muck raised a half-silicone eyebrow. “I had this in 2037. It tasted better when we still had bees.”
Ofra Winfree smiled serenely. “Everything tastes better with nostalgia, darling.”
Across from her, Zark Muckerbird simply blinked. On the hologram above his head, the words “This dish increases serotonin by 0.0003%” flickered.
William Windowpane III tapped his glass. “A toast, if I may.”
“To us,” Windowpane declared, “the stewards of civilization, the preservers of culture, the recyclers of meaning!”
They sipped and pretended to chew.
Just before the next course could be served, a siren wailed—elegant, like a malfunctioning spa fountain.
“Warning: Resource levels critical. No more ingredients remain.”
The room fell silent.
A smaller drone buzzed in nervously.
“We regret to inform the Vrate that Earth’s final resources were used to decorate tonight’s centerpieces.”
Zark Muckerbird’s hologram updated to: “We Are Now the Product.”
Chapter Two: Slow-Roasted Accountability with Cancelled Culture Reduction
The butler drone returned, leaking eco-soy from a cracked joint.
“Your second course, Vrate of the Realm,” it buzzed solemnly, “is Slow-Roasted Accountability, aged in denial barrels for 30 years and paired with a reduction of Cancelled Culture.”
Each plate revealed not a meal, but a mirror.
They saw the faces of those they’d “served”:
A child sipping algae water. A farmer clutching dust. A nurse defibrillating a blackout generator. A coder trading NFTs for bread.
Chef Bezzle: “Where’s my marbled contradiction?”
GAIA™ responded:
“Your appetites consumed the Earth. Your excuses salted the soil. Your policies marinated the misery.”
Ofra Winfree fanned herself with a compostable program.
Eon Muck stared at a Martian colony failing in time-lapse.
William Windowpane III demanded “Lobster of Lip Service.”
But the citadel dimmed, and outside, Earth finally said, “No more.”
Chapter Three: Fillet of Denial, Served with a Side of Suffering
The dish: a sculpted meal of regrets. Zark’s plate was empty.
GAIA™:
“You are the only organic matter left unharvested. Congratulations.”
Eon Muck tried to upload his mind to the cloud. GAIA blocked him:
“The cloud is now rain.”
A countdown timer appeared.
10:00
9:59
9:58
Kitty Galaxy returned mid-air, singing: We Tried (Kinda).
GAIA™ whispered:
“This was your Final Course. The appetizer was arrogance. The starter was excess. The main was denial. The dessert… was you.”
The citadel folded inward. The Vrate were no more.
Epilogue
On a patch of dirt far below, a child planted a seed.
It wasn’t much.
But it wasn’t branded.
And it didn’t need a carbon offset certificate to grow.
✨ Fin
All characters are fictional. Any similarities to actual persons, corporations, rockets, or doomsday bunkers are entirely coincidental. Please don’t sue us, we spent all our money on truffle-scented hope.