Bear Meat, by Ernest Gordon Taulbee

“I can’t eat any more bear meat,” he said. “It’s just all gristle and grease. It’s so damn hard to chew it makes my jar hurt. I’m serious. Enough is enough already. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

The bear lay on its belly. The table around it was surrounded by diners all digging their utensils into its back that had been opened up and the fur pulled back, exposing the meat cooked to a bloody rare.

“You have two choices,” the bear said. “You can pick that fork back up or I can eat you.”

The man complied.


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