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The Vegan Demon
by Bill Tope

"What're you, a cannibal or something?"
she asked in a voice that dripped with
genuine disgust. He gave her his crooked
smile and hacked a drumstick off the bird he
had just deep fried. He held it up as an
offering, but she shook her head no, made
a nauseated face.
"I don't eat other human beings, so I can't be
a cannibal," he corrected her with glee. "No
other creature eats its own--except for lawyers,"
he added as an aside, fully aware that she was
a practicing attorney. He sliced off a bite,
greedily consumed it. She grimaced.
"I don't see how you can consume the flesh of
another creature," she reiterated for perhaps
the hundreth time in their four-month courtship.
He said nothing.  "Don't you understand," she
went on, "that this bird once walked the earth
and mated and flew in the open skies, and...."
"Turkeys don’t fly," he corrected her again. "And
while it's true it walked the earth, I washed it off
before I cooked it. And if it did mate, then that's
the reason they call them effing turkeys.  Speaking
of which, this conversation is becoming a little effing
tiresome.  Can't you think of any new thing to
complain about? What do you hate now?"
At first she remained silent, evoking in him an
expectant look. "Well....?" he prompted.
"I hate it that every time we kiss I end up with my
breath smelling like masticated decaying flesh. I
almost expect flies to just pop out of my mouth."
And that sealed it. At the reception for their
wedding, the guests noshed on Bolon de Verde
and Pesto Trofie.