fenway - tastes like chicken
fenway chucked his backpack heavily on the ground, and gestured angrily.
"when, exactly, were you planning on telling me about this? radios dead?"
"this? we took care of it - no worries." fenway found jurgen's thick scandanavian accent bothersome.
"no worries? i've been out there—" fenway gestured toward the impossibly dense foilage surrounding their spartan camp, "all day trying to figure out what's edible and get together enough food to last until our extraction."
"yeah, and we've been here making camp and putting together some basic defenses. that was the plan. so there was a little trouble—" the big blonde man gestured at the massive corpse with his makeshift spear, "we took care of it. where's the problem?"
"you left me out there to collect food, when enough food to feed us for three weeks wandered into camp. you kill our dinner, and i'm still tramping undergrowth. you didn't think i'd want to know? maybe get away from the fist-sized mosquitos and god knows what else?"
"wait .. food? you're seriously suggesting that we eat what looks to be an adolescent t-rex?"
"think: at the end of the 20th, there were two schools of thought on these things; one, they were cold-blooded and reptilian. two, they turned into birds. best case scenario: it tastes like chicken."
"sure, but what's the worst case?"
"tastes like alligator. perfectly edible."
jurgen looked askance at the thick american. "i gotta say i'm suprised, fenway. you don't seem like the kind of guy who goes in for any of that exotic animal-protein meat clone."
"i don't. alligator's weren't always extinct."
"wait—i thought a citizen was only allowed one Diversion in their lifetime."
"every fifty years. and i didn't have it on Diversion."
"damn," jurgen furrowed his heavy brow, and looked suspiciously at fenway. "how old are you?"