Walthingham

He was not a fat man; nor was he a particularly skinny man. He was likewise neither rich nor poor. And so he bore no mark of, or ready explanation for, the uncommon and unrelenting fervor with which he pursued food of any quality, at any time, and by any means. His methods ranged from simple footraces towards the food source to more cunning ruses - bait-and-switch, rope-a-dope, follow-the-birdy, breathe-very-deeply, lookout-for-that-bear and three-card-monty - usually called for when he’d lost the race or when other factors conspired to see another possessed of the food before him, such as the restaurant industry. Nothing in his past told of any period of deprivation and so theories of compensation were of no greater merit than those which posited some sort of inner emptiness as he was a particularly joyful person. Except, that is, for whenever food was present or presented shades of its own possibility at which times an assiduity overtook him as if the existence of his race depended on his immediate attention and inexorable determination. Yet it was this very singular will which arguably prevented such a peculiar proclivity from ever proceeding to the detriment of his reputation or social station. People were often taken aback by such wanton displays as him hiding with a Christmas ham or pouncing on a pile of pulled pork spotted from afar yet whatever alarm initially dawned in those in witness invariably gave way to a sort of admiration for, and inspiration by, the profound purpose which propelled him from one now-ravaged salad bar to the bus pan scraps just behind those always-swinging doors. And all agreed that he was indeed an estimable sort.