Free Drone Games by Joel Narlock

indicating that for the moment what little was left in his stomach had opted to stay.
    He swished a mouthful of water from cheek to cheek and spit. He envisioned the lead story in the Atlanta Constitution: “Hometown Finalist Pukes at Pirelli International Technology Awards Ceremony.”
    Didn’t that happen to someone else at a foreign banquet ? he wondered. Yes. President George Bush Sr. Right next to the Japanese Prime Minister . Wonderful .
    The scarlet towel draped over Robertson’s shoulders made him look like an escapee from some princely barbershop. He patted his face with more water and examined the outline of his month-old beard. It had filled in nicely. His wife was right—he did look more European. Every little bit helped.
    Robertson folded the towel and then his hands. He wasn’t overly religious, but he occasionally chatted with the Almighty whenever he needed help. This was such a time. “Dear Lord . . . you know how I feel about winning. In the meantime, please make the food disappear, and please . . . don’t let me get sick in front of two thousand people and world media. And if I do, then please let it be on the Germans. Amen.”
    Robertson returned to the banquet room and his seat at the head table. His entrée had been whisked away.
    One prayer answered.
    It had started with the appetizer, bread piled with tomatoes and thin-sliced meat soaked in olive oil. He should have known from the stench that something was wrong. Ham wasn’t supposed to be translucent blue. It had obviously outlived an expiration date.
    No one else complained, which meant it was either a conspiracy against Americans, or the Italians had simply developed a tolerance for sunbaked pig. Then the main course—oily, deep-fried sea-something with an odor of catfish stink bait. After two bites, his stomach went over the edge.
    Linda Robertson bent for her purse and caught a whiff of her husband. “Oh my, did you throw up?”
    “Throw up?” he squeaked. “Why would you think that?”
    “Your knees are dusty, and I do have a nose,” she quipped. “Michael, look at me. You did, didn’t you?”
    He grimaced. “The fish had a funny aftertaste.”
    Carlo Burno, the master of ceremonies, was making his way down the lengthy table, greeting each of the ten finalists and their spouses.
    Linda checked the time and tore open a roll of antacids. “Do you want to lie down? There’s a lounge upstairs.”
    Robertson’s only response was a sour belch.
    “Professor, I’m your wife, and I love you.” She turned his head. “See that saxophone player? If you make a scene at this table, I’m going back to the hotel with him. Chew.”
    “You barely ate anything,” Carlo observed as he reached their table, massaging Robertson’s shoulders. “Perhaps we should have prepared something a little more American. I hear y’all are partial to fried chicken.” The remark drew a table chuckle.
    “It’s the competition,” Linda spoke up. “He’s a little queasy. He’ll be fine.”
    Carlo smiled sympathetically. “Parasites. Sometimes they hide in the suction cups. It’s rare, but it happens. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. I’m reminding all the finalists about the press conference. The winner will have a few minutes to address the media. With so many reporters here, we might as well take advantage of the publicity. Good luck.”
    Suction cups? Robertson felt his stomach undulate. His mouth filled with saliva. Focus. Concentrate on the audience . . . no—read something .
    He snatched the ceremony’s program booklet. Candidate biographies. The inflow of information successfully routed his brain away from suction, stomachs, and food. He had never seen his name in gold leaf before. He flipped to the back page and an English version of the menu. His eyes widened:
    . . . remove eyes, outside skin, and intestines . . . cut off head and tentacles . . . combine ingredients into cavity and sew closed . . .
    “I’m sorry I missed