The chicken had been trussed and diced, tossed and scorched, salted and peppered and laid on a bed of boiled rice that had been shoved in front of the gruff farmer. The two, destined to be one – at least temporarily until the farmer had to go to the loo, were the silent protagonists at the lunch. The noisy element were quite obvious; the vegan, who seemed incapable of be stilling her tongue and Roscoe, who buzzed with intent over the burnt birds carcass – no doubt a compromise, because he would have much rather a go at the bird after it had been separated from the farmer in the loo.
‘How can you eat that, do you know what that chicken has been through’ the vegan inquired with genuine horror.
The farmer knew, after all he had bred the chicken for this very role. Nevertheless he kept his peace and proceeded to rip a limb of the carcass, an act that was met by a loud howl and fluid release from the vegan’s saline globes.
‘How would you like it, if someone cooked and ate you’ she inquired in between her tears. The farmer was unresponsive; he was blessed with that most blessed of superpowers, the ability to completely shut out annoying, whinging vegans. He continued to devour the bird.
She would have reached for his plate then and there and tossed it to the heavens, imploring the flame broiled bird to take flight, but Roscoe, growing in confidence at the sight of the fast disappearing bird, chose this time to fly a little closer and increase his nuisance.
The vegan lacked the farmers steely disposition and was clearly bothered by the irritancy of the noisy diptera, bothered enough to be distracted from her animal rights tantrum.
With her teary eyes and mind focussed on the insect, she sneaked her left hand gently to her reading material, a periodical on animal rights, rolled it up into a club and waited menacingly. Roscoe, unaware of the danger landed on the table to catch his breath, before another attempt at the chicken.
He was to fly no more; the publication that exalted kindness to non human living things came crashing down on him spreading his guts all over the table.
‘Got him’ she said proudly to herself.
She wiped Roscoe’s guts from the magazine with a napkin and basked briefly in the euphoria of her speed of hand. When it was gone and the happiness of ridding herself of the flying and buzzing distraction abased, she refocused on the cruel farmer.
‘You are a terrible man, an animal murderer!’ with that declaration she stood up and made a dramatic exit, no doubt to fight another battle on behalf of all living things.
The farmer, unaffected and unreached, continued nourishing himself.
Roscoe lay dying, a cruel, painful death.
i kyambadde
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