The ogre scraped the last bits of meat from the femur with his teeth. “The meats the sweetest close to the bone, me mum used to say. Ain’t that the truth.”
He threw the bone onto the putrefying pile in the corner and picked at his teeth with a piece of rib.
“Germans are too chewy,” he chuckled, “and the French, too cheesy. The Brits are always lean and tasty, and go down so bravely. But the Scots are the easiest to eat. You can tell which ones have the meatiest thighs, even before you peel off their little kilt.”