Michael B. Duff

[Originally written to cheer up molls.]

It seemed to take forever, watching Frank Evil consume Bambi’s Mom. I didn’t think a man could consume that much deer meat, but Frank kept at it. He grilled her and fried her and baked her into pies.

He made her into sandwiches and brought her for lunch. I asked if he wanted to share the meat one day and he said no. He wanted to eat her by himself. It seemed important, somehow, to consume the whole thing by himself.

He finished her last June, choking down the last bits of gristle and fat. I thought that would be the end of it, but Frank had a habit now. I tried to give him normal deer but Frank had a taste for magic now. He wanted to eat the ones that talk — deer that feel and think and whisper prophecy to the trees.

I didn’t ask him about the morality of it. I mean, you can’t reason with a guy named Frank Evil. Even I knew that. Instead, I asked him if he ever worried about consequences, worried that the deer would call in favors and fight back somehow.

Frank just laughed at me and loaded fresh shells into his gun. “What are they gonna do?” Frank said, “Grow wings and fly away?”

UPDATE 14:03: Apparently, my prose is so surreal, I even confused Scott Slemmons. Do you know how hard it is to out-weird Scott Slemmons? He’s like the Barry Bonds of weird.