The Cafe

In the cafe I locked eyes with a Yorkshire terrier wearing a Sharks Rugby jersey. His eyes spoke of his dissatisfaction with life and his longing for death. The humiliation of his anthropomorphic half-identity moved me to tears. Suddenly his manner became as that of some Hell beast. He transformed into a hulking, eight foot tall mass of fur and misanthropy with drill bits where his eyes had been. With an up-close gaze he drilled into the eye sockets of his keepers before sucking out their brains using the thorn-lined proboscis that had replaced his formerly adorable snout. A chorus of screams accompanied his flight into a nearby forest plantation. In his honour, I opted for salad instead of potato wedges as my side dish.