Marcus Goldfinch's Messy Feast

Marcus Goldfinch sat in his oversized highchair, a gleaming contraption of polished oak and chrome, custom-built to accommodate his sprawling frame. The highchair creaked faintly as he shifted, his adult diaper rustling beneath a velvet robe embroidered with golden finches. The dining room, opulent with crystal chandeliers and silk wallpaper, was his playground, and the mahogany table before him was a canvas of chaos.

A platter of donuts, glazed and glistening, sat beside a steaming mound of mashed potatoes whipped with truffle butter. Carrots, roasted to a vibrant orange, lay in a neat row, their tips glistening with olive oil. A basket of warm, fluffy buns teetered precariously at the table’s edge. Marcus’s eyes gleamed with mischief, his fingers twitching with anticipation. He didn’t eat food—he played with it.

With a theatrical flourish, Marcus seized a carrot, its surface slick and warm, and plunged it into the hole of a donut. The glaze oozed, dripping onto the tablecloth in sticky rivulets. He cackled, mashing the carrot-donut hybrid into the mashed potatoes, the creamy mixture squelching as it enveloped the sugary dough. Bits of potato flecked his robe, clinging to the velvet like snowflakes. Undeterred, he grabbed a bun, split it open with a dramatic rip, and thrust the gooey, potato-smeared carrot-donut concoction between the halves. The bun groaned under the weight, crumbs scattering like confetti.

“Perfection!” Marcus declared, holding his creation aloft. A glob of mashed potato plopped onto his lap, seeping into the diaper’s elastic edge. He barely noticed, already reaching for another carrot to repeat the process. The table was a battlefield now—donuts collapsed into soggy heaps, mashed potatoes splattered like abstract art, and buns lay in tatters, their insides smeared with glaze and vegetable bits. A particularly aggressive thrust sent a carrot skidding across the table, knocking over a glass of wine that bled crimson into the mess.

Marcus clapped his hands, delighted by the carnage. His laughter echoed as he scooped a handful of the slop—potato, donut, carrot, and all—and smeared it across his plate, sculpting a lumpy tower. Another flick of his wrist sent a bun sailing to the floor, where it landed with a wet splat. The chandelier’s light caught the chaos, casting sparkles over the sticky, colorful disaster.

“Maid!” Marcus bellowed, his voice booming through the mansion. The door swung open, and in shuffled Clara, his long-suffering maid, her apron crisp but her expression weary. She surveyed the scene—tablecloth ruined, floor speckled with food, Marcus grinning like a child caught finger-painting. Her sigh was audible, but she said nothing, fetching a bucket and mop from the corner.

“Clean it up, Clara!” Marcus said, leaning back in his highchair, crumbs clinging to his chin. “Make it spotless for tomorrow’s feast!” He patted his diapered waist, satisfied, as Clara began scrubbing the table, her movements mechanical. The slop sloshed into the bucket, a gloopy testament to Marcus’s culinary antics.

As Clara worked, Marcus hummed a jaunty tune, already dreaming of tomorrow’s chaos—perhaps he’d add jam to the mix or try skewering a bagel. The possibilities were endless, and the mess, he thought, was the point.