Drabble: Processed Game

He could smell it – the tangy, sweetness of its flesh and the salty musk of its oily sweat. It was very near. A clever beast, it would make no sound until discovered. But he was cleverer still, and hunger drove his cunning as a whip drives a slave. It had been whole hours since he’d eaten anything. Dangerously, his mind strayed to thoughts of eating its smooth, yielding meat. He imagined his butter knife slicing into its side. He struggled to master his mind and rid it of delicious distractions, but it was too late. The SPAMinal had already pounced.

 

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