Oh Tim, such torpor plagues my winter months! How I yearn for the days of yesteryear, when our ancestors had to search through dying fields for animals to prey upon. A sick idea began to swirl around in my head like a snifter full of brandy. I knew the path that lay in front of me.
It was a frigid Tuesday afternoon, and I simply had no food in my cozy little apartment. This is when I decided to act on my impulse: Why walk to Shoprite when I could do as my forefathers did, and hunt? But there are no animals in this city, I thought to myself. So what’s a guy to do? And then it it hit me: The most dangerous game, Tim; I would be its first player in many a year! But who to pray upon? The options were endless; however, the decision that finally settled into my brain, the sordid wish that had been billowing its way through every orifice of my visage, Tim, resided in my desire to eat a very close friend: my delicious, wondrous roommate, Jonathan.
I brandished my knives at 5 PM. I cleaned the cheese grader at 5:15. I carved a pitchfork out of a fire-escape grate at 5:30, and I preheated the oven at 5:45. Oh, to live inside a moment, Tim, to teem with such desire! My mind was hovering in several stratospheres; in fact, I wet my pants with each secretion possible, all at the thought of the moment ahead: when my succulent counterpart would strut his way through the door. Christ! I felt so alive, I felt as if the world was this giant, swirling Cinnabon, and Jon’s skins would soon be the icing.
And yet, I found as though my prey had eluded me, for when six o’clock rolled around, there was no Jonathan in sight. Fifteen minutes later, still no signs. At a half-hour past, I decided to check the stairwell, brandishing my finest steak-knife. Oh, Tim, that’s when I heard it! The downstairs door creaking open; the scent of human flesh wafting through my olfactory! The tasteful loafers, the slim-fitted corduroys: my fastidious friend had arrived. I began to salivate — so much so that a puddle had appeared at my feet. My head was so clouded with rumination that when I decided to inch forward, I ended up slipping on the puddle. The hearse flashed its headlights as I tumbled down the flight of stairs, where I landed, in sheer irony, on the sharpened end of knife. Christ, I had impaled myself, Tim! I was bleeding out! When Jonathan found me, he began to weep. The fool! Had he not known that it was I who should have been weeping? Pulling out his phone, he began to dial for an ambulance, but I stopped him. And then, as if out of altruism, as if in my dying state, my body had become filled me with a kindheartedness I had never yet exhibited, I issued my final orders to my beloved friend.
“I am ready to die,” I proclaimed, “and the oven is ready. Cook me, Jonathan, eat my delicious frame.”
artwork by the renowned basper01
Originally published at deartimtheblog.tumblr.com.
