It was another shit-storm of a day at work, goddammit. Norm had so many useless meetings and sales pitches to lay on deaf ears, not to mention the habitual hour he spent watching Benny Hill on his phone in the Mothers’ Nursing Room, that he completely missed lunch.
Waiting for the bus, he dreamt lustily of all the foodstuffs he was going to masticate as soon as he got home: fistfuls of Fritos and Spaghetti-Os slurped right out of the can.
His mouth was going to get into a melee with maple syrup and meatballs; his fangs into fisticuffs with footlong franks and french fried frogs; his tongue would tryst with tubes of tooth paste and teriyaki taffy.
He sat, waiting for that bus, feeling the hunger roll through his insides like a Sumo wrestler in a hamster wheel, sublingual glands flooding his mouth with warm saliva.
“Come on, you motherpricking bus! I want to get home and—–”
Norm never got to finish his threat on public transportation and he never got to pillage his mother’s kitchen after work (in all honestly, Norm only had a can of Old Milwaukee and a fruitcake from 1987 in his own kitchen). Because just like that, with one quick snatch and snark, Norm had become the meal of someone hungrier than he, and all that remains of him is a few green feathers littering the ground like crumbs.