"Guys, you don't know how much I hate having to wear pieces of meat instead of clothes," said the unhappy young man, porkchops festooning his shoulders. Fine metal wiring connected these chops to hotdogs and then whole chickens, from which depended hunks of stewing meat and finally, a fringe of minute steaks. All of them cheap cuts of meat and they were beginning to smell rank. People would not go near Frank. "You're lucky it's winter," observed one of Frank's buddies, standing a good distance away, "otherwise there'd be a lot of flies."
"A good point," interjected Ian, the strongest of the group. He picked up a nearby piano and squeezed. There was the sound of groaning wood and tortured "pling's." Ian put down the wreckage. "Now let's see you dance the meat dance," he said to Frank.
A low beat of drums began, from somewhere outside. The sound seemed to charm Frank's feet and they began to move to the rhythm, slowly at first, then picking up speed and surety as the drumbeat escalated. The meat apron slapped against Frank's flesh, his sides, his high lifting legs. As he swayed and twirled, he looked like a butcher's window in motion. Faster and faster he danced, the music feeding his frenzy. His friends had vanished through convenient doors, which they now barred from without. Then came the clanking sound of chains rolling onto windlasses, and the grate began to rise inside the great arched portal. Wild animals bounded through the archway: tigers, wolves, lions, feral pussycats, they all rushed in with the sounds of many different winds. Frank was torn apart where he danced, still unaware of his peril. Blood spattered the arena: the feasting wolves soon had red mouths, and the tigers licked gore from their paws. The pussycats rubbed their sides against red stained pillars, meowing for the next course.
Aagh! Unk! shreiked the writer at his terminal. "This stuff is abolutely insane!" "I agree," said the purple pink-spotted rhinoceros looking over his shoulder. "Stop breathing so hard," said the writer, "you're blowing away my paper." The rhino sat down in the corner and lit a cigarette. "How long do you think you can get away with this?" it asked.
"With what?" said the writer, typing away even though it was time for the movie.
"With using fantasy situations and impossible things in place of real characters," answered the imaginary creature.
"As long as it takes my head to be emptied out!" the writer shouted with what was really a sort of scream mixed in with a drawn out moan.
. . .
(c) Jack Ruttan, 1999