Men do not deal well with mortality, especially on Mondays. Virile and meaty, with an impressive masculine girth, Don had always stood his ground as king of the crop. He was the last great hope for the weakened mycelial network that had shot him forth, the magic coupling of hyphae now depleting the nutrients that had brought them together.
Now, gills plump with purpose, Don is just on the edge of blasting his spores. But Monday brings its doom. Don feels a looming presence behind him… and then a cattle car transport in cramped crates to some gawd forsaken health food store. Finally, just as he’s getting his bearings, he feels feminine fingers groping and stroking all over his brown body. They poke at his most intimate parts and rub his gills, and then this thing sniffs at him, eyes widening at the rich earthy thrill.
This feral creature is without mercy and, in her kitchen, makes the mushroom witness to his own mortality. It’s an out of body experience as Don watches her saute 4 sliced green onions in butter then add his sectioned corpse to sizzle in the pan. Just as everything begins to crisp and brown, she throws in a handful of flat leaf parsley and turns off the heat. A sprinkle of hemp seeds is the final mockery, the last shovel of sand (literally if they’re stale ~wink) on his open grave.
The injustice is too much for Don. The only solace is to any man’s ego at seeing the exquisite pleasure on a woman’s face as he gives all of himself to her. But even that is tainted by her lewd, almost pornographic enjoyment of his flesh. But somehow she can’t seem to bring herself to look him in the eye. And as she places his little face gently in the trash, his mouth still open in horror, the last words he hears are: “so I guess this is how vegetarians feel about meat?”