I MET him in the supermarket. I was wondering whether to buy chicken “Fed on
a Non-Genetically Modified diet” when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Big guy, bad
skin, yellow eyes. Prominent piercing. He mumbled something about setting the
record straight. Well, he looked like he needed a square meal, so I invited him
to dinner.
His table manners were primitive—he slurped his soup. To be fair, he
had been living wild, subsisting on roots, nuts and berries, so a little
roughness around the edges should be forgiven. But I was surprised to find him
articulate and…
