My Dinner with Ancient India

So I navigate my ship around the ocean till I discover Ancient India. I hop out and go knock on the triangular wooden door of the nearest teepee. A very kind robot-butler appears at the entryway and gives a greeting: “I am Devlin,” he says; “welcome to Ancient India.” He offers me food; for he can tell that I’m famished and exhausted from yelling at my mariners to “Row, row, row the boat!” Devlin the robotic butler therefore sweeps me off my feet, cradles me in his arms of love, carries me over the teepee’s threshold and sets me down on a throne in the dining room. I blink and ask: “Why are you being so good to me, dear Samaritan?” Devlin answers: “I can tell that you have had a hard day, after getting fired from your job in Medieval Spain; so my heart yearns to help you. However, for the record, we are Indians, not Samaritans.” This little speech causes a smile almost to work its way onto my face, and I respond: “Well I thank you kindly, O Samaritan. Now let’s eat.” Devlin the robot-butler bows low; then he heads over to the cafeteria’s kitchen. I watch as he fixes a pair of feathered snakes upon a spit and holds this over an open fire. Meanwhile, the population of Ancient India shuffles into the room and fills the rest of the seats at the long table. 

Devlin the robot-butler ends up cooking the meal far beyond well-done. When he enters the dining hall to serve it, we see that the caduceus has become a black hole that is a vortex to another dimension, and its rod is glowing hot. 

I lose my temper and shout angrily: “Bad Samaritan! Don’t you know how to make Serpent Jerky!? You’re not supposed to burn it to a crisp — the meat must undergo a process of curation by being cut into long, thin strips and then carefully dried.” I sit there fuming for a moment, while the robot-butler neither changes his shocked expression nor replies to my tirade. So I say: “Give me your hand.” The butler extends his robotic arm to me. I strike it hard and say “Wrong! No overcook!” Then I stand up from my throne (all of Ancient India arises as well, out of politeness), and I announce “I’ll show you how to prepare this dish the right way.” 

So I catch another snake and toss him in the deep fryer. 

Then, when serving the meal, it turns out that there’s enough to feed the whole multitude; and we even have leftovers for tomorrow. 

But it turns out that there shall be no tomorrow for the Old World, because, after everyone enjoyed my meal thoroughly (I received nonstop compliments from my tablemates; even Devlin the robotic butler, when invited to join the feast, expressed his approval), Ancient India dropped dead — not from natural food-borne illness, as you might guess, but from scientifically intensified exposure to my conquistador virus.