The teary eyes are never enough. For a great entree he needs sushi-grade kidneys, and even the cheap leftovers are hard to get. He’s lucky he got the Clearing House chef gig; at least they have a source of fresh meat.

He picks the back lock and quietly lets himself in, imagining how McMahon would have asked this. “Time’s up, Petulia Gibbons,” he says. “How did you spend your ten million?”

“I got everything I wanted,” whispers last year’s winner, lolling bloated in cocaine ice cream and Benjamins.

“Time to give a little back,” he replies, and marks out an incision.

“Martha, these are NOT monkey brains!” howls the Pickle, and brandishes a spoonful of tapioca as proof.

“No, they aren’t,” she agrees, “and my name is Moriah. Please put your spoon down.”

He does, scowling. “I’m a pickle,” he adds hopefully.

“Yes, you are.” Moriah pats him on the head and leans over to help Mrs. Pursey, who has transposed her own pudding with a shoe.

“Why do we even serve tapioca?” asks Yurt, breezing by with the dirty-dish trolley.

“Cheap, filling, lots of carbs,” sighs Moriah, at which point the Pickle, bright-eyed, stabs his spoon into her skull.