“Hey, Tootsie.”

On a bright sunday afternoon, while the shepherd of a hopping meat sack caresses would-be stoat chow, imagination summons the taste of rodent blood for a dreaming feaster who watches from afar, a stoat.

“Damn weasels.” The man says. Acknowledging its presumptive presence. “You ain’t getting near this one.” He says and looks at the rabbit. “Buh-dum-tish.” The rabbit says. The man picks her up. “Hush, little one.” He says.

His wife’s death in a car accident has made him pet the rabbits today, that or it was an expression of his love.

He looks the rabbit in its eyes and summons his inner beastiality — as thoughts of a chimpanzee in a thong begin to race through his mind, a highly evolved fantasy. He places down the rabbit and scoots it on the ass. The chimpanzee, his tulpa, winks at him and blows him a kiss.

“Buh-dum-tish.” The rabbit says. The man adjusts himself. He’s turned on. He looks around himself. There’s nobody there. “Hey, Tootsie.” He says. His tulpa’s name. Behind him is an open field. Only the stoat sees him.

He used to hate this about himself, but like a pedophile who goes on to work at a chuck-e-cheese he forgives himself; he does nothing in the fight against nature; far from it, he surrounds himself with such nature in a socially proficient manner — he is a farmer. Since his wife died, acts of beastiality on the farm have escelated.

He looks around himself again once more. “Buh-dum-tish.” The rabbit says. No one is around. He picks it up and fingers it for like five seconds.

The end.


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