I made a sandwitch today, do you want half?
I woke up this morning and decided it was time for a sandwitch. I looked in the fridge and found two pieces of bread. Next I took the butter out of the fridge and spread it thinly on each slice.
After I put the butter away, I picked up a bag and broom from the cupboard and flew to the beach. When I got there two hours later I was hungry, so I ate a stray dog. Once I finished him off, I quickly filled my bag with sand and returned home to add it to my sandwitch.
After putting the extra sand away for another sandwitch I grabbed my wand, and soon my left hand was sitting on my sandwitch. I put the other piece of bread on top and cut my sandwitch in half (which isn’t easy one handed).
I ate my half and now I’m looking for someone with a strong left-hand to eat the other half. Well, they’ll have a left-hand when they eat the sandwitch.
That, my friend, is quite a question.
Would I want to be a food that’s never eaten, like brussels sprouts. I could live out a very nice life, grow up, meet a nice sproutette, get married, have some kids, grow old together and die in peace.
Or maybe I’d be a food that is brutally murdered and eaten. Feel the anguish of literally becoming mince meat. And if I somehow survived that, experiencing the journey through the human digestive system and coming out the other end.
Or I could be an animal, because they’re technically food. Like salmon, or kangaroo, or lamb. And maybe I don’t even have to be eaten by humans, like a penguin, they’re eaten by leopard seals and sharks. Maybe I could actually be a human, we’re dinosaur food, or human food, if you’re into that.
Or maybe I’d be poisonous. Like a berry that kills you a moment after you eat it. I would just laugh in your mouth as you chew me up, knowing that I was releasing the very poisons that will kill you in seconds.
The possibilities are endless.
Let me explain it to you again.
Bill, my friend of seven years, lies face down in the sand on the beach. He was found just after sunrise as the tide headed out. His clothes and hair were wet.
There were five stab wounds to his stomach. His wrists were bound together and a rope was tied around his ankles, and the other end was frayed.
His wallet is gone, and he was a billionaire businessman at 27. He had no wife, very few friends and all his assets went to his best friend in university who gave him the business idea in the first place.
And yet you, a detective, say Bill’s death was caused by a serial killing vampire?