AgricMeat: The Most Forbidden Meat
Being stone cold sober on this occasion, I leaped over the fence in a matter of seconds and sprung on the table below, knocking over several full beers on impact. To my surprise, the group at the table did not appreciate this athletic display and quickly spewed vulgarities. I apologized profusely, gathered my faculties and said, “I am terribly sorry, I will refresh all your drinks. What does everyone want?” They seemed to calm down and begin telling me some nonsense about what they were drinking, which I promptly ignored. I then moved inside to the bar and order 3 beers and 3 shots of whiskey, and then made a beeline to the handicapped bathroom. I went in, locked the door and finished off my drinks.
I must have dozed off because the next thing I realized was someone was pounding on the door demanding entrance. A decision would need to be made. Should I open the door to quench my thirst, thereby forfeiting my prime bar seat, or wait it out? I opened the door. It was my old nemesis, the bouncer. “What the hell were you doing in here for two hours?” He always asked cryptic questions.
“You’ve got the wrong guy, friend. I just got here; you’re looking for an Agric. He went out back.” His fist unclenched so I assumed he had bought it. “Stay out of the bathroom or I’m going to throw you out again.”
“Sure, sure pal, I’m just here to have a drink.”
I walked up to the bar, and that’s when I spotted her. Well, actually first I spotted the maroon shirt she was wearing and suppressed the urge to vomit. I kept looking; she was an Agric, no doubt about it. She was drinking, the lady’s choice, a tequila shot chased by whiskey. She was surrounded by Agrics, no doubt celebrating their victory, before having to mount their wagons and returning to their crops before dawn. I wished to approach her but was afraid her clan would fly into a blind rage and trample me with their hooves.
I took a sip of liquid courage and sidled up next to her. We made eye contact for the first time. Or rather, I craned my neck upwards to look into those perfect, soft, canary eyes. She was no less than 6’9” and was filled out like LBJ (the basketball player not the President). I did what any other man would do in my place. I unhesitatingly said,” It’s not that I think bestiality is inherently wrong, but rather it’s an issue of consent.” I figured I would show them I was sympathetic to their causes. She stared at me slightly befuddled, and then without warning extended her enormous paw and pulled my head to her as if she were about to take a bite of an apple. It was the end, exactly as I always imagined it, being devoured by a horde of Agrics at Scruffs.
But instead I soon discovered that far from eating me, she was attempting to navigate her tongue around my still tightly gritted teeth. Realizing I was no longer in danger, I succumbed and was soon wrestling the most gargantuan, technically gifted tongue I had ever encountered. I would make a move, believing I had bested her, only to discover she was three moves ahead of me. It required such exertion to keep up with her that I soon discovered the only thing that kept me from toppling over were her hands greedily cupping my ample backside. This continued to the point that I was so dizzy that I believed I would loose consciousness. Then it stopped and I was being foisted into her arms like a suckling baby. I knew resistance was futile so I indicated with barely audible whispers the directions to my home.