I remember this one time I went into the woods near my house with this guy I used to hang out with in high school to shoot at soda cans with his air rifle, only he didn’t want to shoot soda cans at all and ended up shooting the living shit out of a squirrel before running around the forest with his shirt half off screaming that he was going to “kill absolutely every goddamned thing on this ball of ash before the end of it” and that he wanted to see if a frog’s tongue would come out of its mouth if he shot it in the ass.
One of the most shocking sights in my young life was watching this poor squirrel go shooting into the air and land, squirming and writhing in an insane kind of fit while half of his head was split open, and the kid telling me to put it out of its misery.
I did put it out of its misery and went back to shooting pop cans and trying not to throw up.
Because I helped destroy another life? Because I rent the bond between an innocent being and it’s mortal engine? Because I ended the cascade of all that was to come of that animal for the sake of this crazy devil child and his need to kill?
Mostly, I think, because I missed a serious opportunity to munch.