"Ah hears that in Seoul, South Korea they eat stir fried canines." Myles Oliver, aspiring writer, ski instructor and resident snow stud, stood warming his hands at the stove. We had wood, companionship and in the two weeks since the snow came, eaten all the food.
"Touch Killer Yapp and die, you son of a crack-whore. They breed special dogs, mutts really, not purebred crossbreeds," EE sat in the chair opposite me reading slush and throwing it, page by page, into the fire.
"Killer Yapp's gone, fool. That's why you haven't heard her yappy little bark or stepped in her tiny piles of peekapoo poo-poo. Her piddle-puddle froze her poon to the porch on her morning perambulation. By now, she's a doorstop. Let's make her half a doorstop, what-cha-say-mah-man." Myles brandished a cleaver. EE removed his pince-nez and proffered a boning knife.
"And tomorrow, you'll supply the eggs while I cook huevos rancheros," EE threatened.
"Just as well. Not much meat on the mongrel... I dream of hunting wild animal. Visualize opportunities for slaying beefy, fleshy prey, to stalk raw meat. Think of a prom; always a good idea. First, we insist on a watery theme, a masque in lurid costumes. I'm seeing Bali Hai from South Pacific and Rapa Nui from Easter Island. Lust, skin and naked buttocks. Then we get our girlfriends to sculpt papier-mâché tropical fish and fake stone gods and cover them with Plumeria blooms. Their fragrance aids digestion. The payoff comes when we show up in native loincloths and feather headdress to crown the king and stage a live boar hunt. Blood will flow. Guts will spill. Opanahu will sue for slandering the bay. But we'll eat the bleeding, beating, boar's heart."
"Food, glorious food, eh! Mister Oliver nee O'Keefe and one-time movie star?" I said.