He Made a Trumpet of His Ass

He gobbled down a hatchling with a bump on its beak, a small neb used for pinking and pecking at other hatchling’s necks. Its feet went down last, hobbling and jimmy-jamming like live chicken-wires. He poked his tongue around the legs and swallowed, his throat constricting like an ironsmith’s vice. (I so do wish, so I do, that I could put an end to this absurd italicizing). Now that Thanks for Not Giving day was just around the corner the man in the hat felt it prudent to purchase a small to middling turkey, perhaps a utility bird (one missing a wing or a leg) and cook it with yams, yellow or golden-yellow potatoes, carrots, an assortment of green and almost-green legumes and hot-from-the-oven biscuits. He would baste the turkey in its own juices, fats and lipids, giblets (the liver, heart, gizzard, and neck of a bird that has been prepared for cooking; giblets are often boiled to make stock for gravy) and kidneys, liver (pan-fried) paprika, salt and ground black pepper. As he made it a habit to eat alone, not caring much for sharing or giving unto others, he placed one plate, a saucer, a teacup, a fork (the tines bent and twisted) a knife (rusted) and a spoon on the box he used as a table and flattened a piece of torn shirttail to the left of the place setting.