, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

by Richard Baldasty

He ordered Diet Pepsi and veal piccata. In a vegan bistro. The server explained the impossibility politely and quietly so as not to embarrass him in front of the other patrons. But he seemed to crave their attention, for he stood up and roared in anger. He had never, he exclaimed, heard of such a thing: God had created us as carnivores, and carnivores we must remain until that day when we transform into beings of pure light with enormous transparent wings. He had returned to the city just that morning after twenty years in the rocky wilderness as a hermit living on snakes, spiders, desert rodents, dew, and honey. Now he wanted Diet Pepsi and veal piccata. He knew that the chef would accommodate him. Or else, he added sotto voce with coiled menace. And he sat to wait.

Richard Baldasty lives in the Putin satrapy of Trumpistan. He tweets on Twitter @2kurtryder.