Cannibal Enrichment: The Sorrows of Young Werner

Short Story Winner of the Ontario Recommenders Grant for Writers, 2018

I

Werner Donner was an abnormal creature, and yet his eccentricity couldn’t be attributed to any social infirmity or physical defect. Mentally I’d venture to say that the only thing awry about his thinking was that he was a relativist in the truest sense of the term. 

As a result of this philosophical affliction, morality came to Werner like the laugh track to a sitcom he always managed to miss, in the sense that he’d clumsily contrive a chortle, just as the last prerecorded cackle ebbed to mislead and impress upon his companions the perception of being a harmless dolt. 

Regardless of this partially successful endeavor to be perceived as aloof, Werner’s delayed and or, non-existent response to empathy, sympathy, and compassion was something the boy had been acutely aware of at a very young age and so he did everything to conceal this. Werner would even imitate his cohorts, to satiate any curiosity posed by his “plebian underlings,” who couldn’t for the life of them see beyond good or evil…

When the boy was five he stuck his hand on the oven burner which caused his mother to dethrone her teal-colored sofa, this being a rare act that signified great concern on the part of the couch gargoyle who would otherwise have remained in a vacuous gaze iambically linked to her television set. 

Mrs. Donner shambled forth and discovered her son huddled on the floor tearless and oddly salivating. There he dwelt, stoic and unnerved, he began sniffing and then chewed off the burnt pieces of flesh that were mingled with Kraft Dinner noodles encased around the burn, in a rather sickly manner quite reminiscent of Tolkien’s lovable cave creature Golem.

His manatee of a mother who was garbed in a zebra-spandex onesie shouted “How many time’z I gotta tell you’z to keep yer handz’ off the goddamned oven burner! And stop biting it! If yer hungry I can microwave some leftovers fer ya! Now go wrap a towel over that thing and let yer mum finish watching her Maury Show!”

It was then that he discovered neither fear of the oven nor the delectable flavor of reheated macaroni and cheese… rather, that he was a cannibal…

As Werner grew he became a self-described meatatarian, he renounced any form of sustenance that didn’t have to die for his satisfaction. Having adopted this alternative eating habit he naturally became embroiled in the politics and activism surrounding his dietary preferences - an expected outcome to be sure. 

As for his father, Merle, Werner was fortunate in that Mr. Donner was both an alcoholic and a butcher. Therefore, Werner had a steady and consistent source of meat without ever having to deal with a sober benefactor making inquiries into his son’s moral objections to eating vegetables.

Merle Donner was a well-established drunkard who was highly sought after as a professional in the field of vice and excess, so much so that he once attempted to lay claim to Ruby Taverns’ Golden Tab Prize, a prepaid five-drink tab issued by Ruby herself.

The prize was wreathed in a raggedy sort of golden fleece thing perched atop this dilapidated icebox that gave off enough heat to be used as a makeshift furnace come winter. None dare undertake the quest lest they have the endurance of a true drunkard who has mastered the art of wretch.

It was the highest honor the tavern bestowed to any worthy contender that was audacious enough to down a bottle of Newfoundland’s finest rum, Screech! The challenge was to devour the contents of the bottle under the four-minute and fifty-two-second length of AC/DC’s famous anthem: Thunderstruck!

Merle began that evening by steadying himself then limped off his barstool in a befouled kind of swagger to the goads of many-a-lout who bet their month’s rent on his projected failure. One of the various flies at the bar was kind enough to put down his grog and empty out a container of discarded chicken wings to use as a chunder bucket.

Finally, after noticing the vote of no confidence our hero of the bottle smugly turned his head away whilst waving his hand like a dilettante as if to declare, “I’ll swallow my puke if I gotta thanks anyway’z ya fuck’n goof!”

Unfortunately, his valiant effort to suppress an eruption of putrefying ale and pickled eggs was too much for even a veteran like Merle to handle, resulting in a violent splurge of bile and vomit that spewed all over his pal who just minutes ago mockingly volunteered to hold up the bucket. 

The bar fiends laughed Merle out the door following his failure, beset by shame and humiliation he lamented over the embarrassing event. In a lubricated waddle, he snatched up a hunk of pork that was left marinating in a poorly wrapped plastic bag at the end of the bar and began his wayward journey home to the laughs and continued jeers of his fellow tavern harpies.

Merle was unconscious of how grossly intoxicated he was after the Golden Tab competition. He shimmied forth through the back entrance of their rundown home and sneered at his lethargic wife, who was as round and robust as the couch she languished on.

Mr. Donner nearly kicked his son accidentally as he stumbled into the kitchen. Werner, avoiding his father’s feet, followed his guardian into the kitchen galley to catch a glimpse of the meat before it was contaminated by all that seasoning which he felt was an unnecessary aspect of the culinary experience.

Cautiously approaching the swaying tramp, Werner detected a disgusting smoky smell emanating from his father’s slacked jaw.  He asked, “Daddy, what’s that smell and why is your mouth all black?”

Merle’s mouth was covered in an ashy soot type of substance; the true contents of this concoction he would later find out consisted of charcoal that was sprinkled with a bit of chalk, another one of Merle’s infamous tricks.

His father gazed down at the six heads that appeared to belong to his son and in inebriated earnestness answered, “Ya know how Santa sometimes brings them naughty bastard kids coal if they’re no good?”

The little boy uneasily answered, “Yes……”

“Listen here, yer daddy’s been a bit naughty this year. Some would say it’s cuz he’s been nipping too much of his favorite medicine," he flailed his arm in the direction of a half-consumed bottle of whiskey barely concealed above the sink, “Ya know the medicine daddy keeps in his paper bag? Well to be honest with you son, yer daddy’s taken it out a lot this year.”

Merle frowned and continued, “And so what does yer old man do? He calls up ol’ Saint Nick early this year to get some advice. And ya know what he said? He told me to eat some coal to fool those goddamn cops out there who think yer daddy’s prescription ain’t no good for him when he’s driving, those bastards!” 

The towering figure stopped to burp, “What was I saying….? Oh ya, me and Santa sometimes we gotta team up to fool the cops by eating black stuff so that daddy’s breath doesn’t reek of medicine, do ya know what I mean?”

"Do I have to eat coal daddy?” Werner nervously asked his father.

“Shhhh no son… now don’t ya worry about that, yer ol’ pop here has eaten enough coal fer the whole year so you can thank me for letting you go on being naughty till Christmas, but don’t tell yer Mum,” Merle winked with his only operable eye.

Werner, despite being excited by their new secret, was still confused and so pressed his father a little further, “I still don’t get it, daddy?”

Mr. Donner looked bewildered, “Listen, kid, ya ever heard about original sin?”

“No,” replied his son.

"Well, this is kinda like that… what do ya kids know these days? I bet you got no notion of sin to even worry about. Eh, am I right? Yer better off without it Werner.  Ye’ll understand one day when ya get older, kid. Now go fetch your father’s medicine.” Werner darted towards the bottle and dutifully obeyed. 

Merle rinsed his mouth with a swig of whiskey after he finished lecturing his son on theology. Werner gazed in awe at this colossus of a role model and managed to put aside the frustration he had toward his father for having cooked all the blood out of the meat. 

Mr. Donner then stormed his armory of a kitchen in search of the right instruments necessary for what was now to become a dinner autopsy. The pork lay flaccid, discolored, and unappealing… it exceeded in wretch its foul handler only in the stink. Merle wore an oversized faded-out Harley Davison long-sleeved shirt tucked into a pair of dirty black leather trousers.

He peeled off his garment adroitly as he shuffled a cigar from hand to hand all the while marinating the tenderloin which he intentionally garnished with bits of tobacco crud. The tobacco was a secret feature of this recipe which created a kind of toxic zest that foodies from the neighborhood were always enamored by.

And yet, none understood why it tasted so well and how a fop like Merle was capable of producing something good in the world. To his few associations with the civilized and of course the Yarger world it was as though Merle were a Sphinx of culinary sorts whose plague-inducing recipes were like riddles, none could solve. 

“Toss me an apron slugger, then git outta my way!” exclaimed the slobbering drunk.

Little Werner brought over a pink apron and smirked as he handed it to his father. He watched intently as the galoot assembled knives, pots, bowls, and a bunch of other redundant kitchen utensils that he placed around him in a haphazard fashion, more out of vanity than for any actual purpose.

The drunken Donner yodeled as he diced up the meat in a hoarse and phlegm-filled rasp, all the while fancying himself the pupil of Pasquale, (who was the only celebrity chef he knew aside from Boyardee). Truly, he was the finest Yarger chef.

Werner was acutely aware that his father’s medicine had little effect in small doses, so like a good son he kept the bottle close at hand and encouraged his father to nip a swig every time he began to sense stiffness or tension arising in his dad’s limbs.

The young boy was trained to detect the signs of what Merle bitterly referred to as “sobriety” and suspected that was the ailment his father refused to talk about. Werner couldn’t help but admire his dad’s commitment to fending off this sickness and hoped it wasn’t hereditary.

The swine slab was finally prepared. Merle awkwardly maneuvered around his son, stumbling and belching as he fondled his knife, all the while swaying his girth in the direction of the cutting board. Haphazardly, Merle sliced at the meat and accidentally severed off his finger whilst reaching the operatic zenith of his song. The scene was one of Wagnerian tragedy.

Werner’s father stood aghast, clenching his hand only to open it and feel little to no difference from before in that all of his fingers had the same disconnected and phantom-like quality resulting from excessive drink.

The boy was enraptured by the primordial hunger the opportunity offered and so he slithered behind his father’s back, snatching the finger right as it fell into the hot skillet. The aromatic smell, the sensation of curdling blood and tobacco flakes, and the sirens of his father’s wailing evoked in the boy a sense of Bacchic revelry and a desire to gorge on the finger right then and there. 

Merle ran around manically trying to clean up the blood-spattered pools his severed finger had created while also making an effort to plug up the cartilage hole that was now squirting carnage all over the place. The bloody mess made the kitchen look like a scene from the battle of Stalingrad.

Though initially amused by his father’s agonized reaction to the incident, Werner eventually grew tired of watching his father’s terror and pain and so with the severed limb tucked away headed to his room placing the finger behind an old family photo on his dresser.

Sue-Anne Donner was aroused by the commotion and started demanding answers: “What in tarnation is going on in there?!”

Annoyed by Merle’s whimpering, she folded in her flab and heaved herself forward, using the swaying momentum to lift herself for the first time that day. After a few failed efforts she finally made it, all the while exhaling slobbery chokes of half-inhaled air - she blustered incoherently toward the kitchen and found her favorite apron soaked in blood.

Mrs. Donner quickly deduced that her husband had lost a finger. She couldn’t help but recall a similar situation that happened only a few months before when Merle managed to stub his toe off during one of his legendary stupors.

Merle screamed, “Goddamnit not again! My finger! Where the fuck did it go?

Sue-Anne tried to calm her husband down, “Slow down there sparky, I got the doctor on the line so gist hold yer horses!” 

The Yarger chef lambasted his wife, “Get me some ice or something and help me look fer it! God! Yer as useless as tits on a bull!!!” 

Sue-Anne replied in what she considered a helpful manner, “Which finger was it that ya lost honey, hope it’s not yer wedding one?”

Peeved Merle barked at his wife, “WHO CARES! Just help me find the fucking thing!”

They both scampered around the kitchen, figuring that it may have fallen in the trash disposal or possibly down the drain. Merle converted his panic into malice, which was a more agreeable way for him to manage his emotions. 

“Did ya find anything ya stupid heifer?!”

Accustomed to being harangued with this sort of deprecating epithets the mother just dismissed the remark, “Ah shut your gob! Ya want my help or what!? I’m missing Dr. Phil for this bullshit,” she yammered, when suddenly she discovered something in the sink, “Oh wait… Merle darling, I think I found something!”

Mrs. Donner excavated this gangly bacteria-infested chunk out of the drain but realized that the festering morsel could only trace its genesis to what had once been a vegetable. It may have been a carrot but was now far too mutated and shriveled for her to be certain. 

“Is that it!?” Merle desperately whined.

“Nope, sorry… turns out it’s just a carrot. It sort of looks as if it could be though…” 

“Goddammit, Sue! Must you always lose my limbs!?”

Mrs. Donner scowled, “I didn’t lose shit and it was just a filthy carrot, not yer finger! Ain’t my fault ya keep cutting off pieces of yourself! Ya outta stay off the hooch while yer cooking. Now shut up, I got the doctor on the phone!”

Werner remained hidden in his room while his parents dealt with the ambulance and, for the first time, he satiated his dietary needs by rejoicing in a cannibal mitzvah.

II

As the years went by Werner’s peculiarity became evident to everyone except his immediate family. Werner knew his dyslexic interpretation of ethics was uncommon but more than anything he began to realize the only drawback of having this unusual perspective was that it was inconvenient. He adopted the famous sophistic axiom: “Man is the measure of all things.”

Giving much thought to this issue he concluded that no one has the right to stop you from hurting yourself or not caring when others are hurt. He felt that people should be allowed to hate whatever ideas, expressions, or attitudes there are in the world without having to doublethink it through.

It only stood to reason in the young boy’s mind that by stopping someone from being themselves you’d be the unethical one by hindering and thereby harming their nature which led him to conclude that this whole messy business of morality was nobody’s playbook to claim authorship of. If all you ever wanted from moralizing was to deprive people of their organic vileness then what good did it serve other than to entertain one’s vanity?

The teenager’s idiosyncrasies were chalked up as being symptomatic of an awkward age that, according to the Donners believed was something every kid goes through give or take a bit of cannibalism. To honor the wise words of Orwell, sanity they determined was not statistical. As for Merle, his father never took the time to listen or get to know his son, not because he disliked him but because he didn’t care. 

After that fateful evening, Mr. Donner began a forensic expedition studying and comparing the blood splotches stained into the carpet from his toe incident which he juxtaposed with the more recent finger disaster. The results were alarming. Merle struggled to hide the fact that he knew his son was the culprit and to quell his mind he remembered one of his favorite idioms, “There’s no use closing the pen once the pigs fled the coop.”

Mr. Donner felt he wasn’t in any position to judge one form of behavior over another considering the questionable life choices he made especially as it concerned his Gorgon of a wife with whom he greatly despised. Suspicions were rampant though and the theory that was circulating the neighborhood was that someone or something was picking off their pets. Pickles, the next-door cat was the first to go missing. 

One day Merle’s fellow Yarger companion Bruce came by the Donners to watch the game when he noticed his missing cat’s collar sticking out from underneath the couch. Bruce displayed uncharacteristic prudence and decided against making any rash accusations or better still, informing his wife. And yet, after catching sight of the new evidence Bruce feared his wife's bereavement might disrupt the routine of watching Hockey Night in Canada with Merle, and thus something needed to be said.

Werner was fifteen at the time of Pickles's mysterious “disappearance”. This was also around the same time Werner began exploring his perfectly normal cannibal condition by killing small pets. He chose to skin and eat house pets because of the human-like way they were viewed and valued despite the fact they lacked the lusciousness of human flesh. Werner had become fully Bi-cannibal by this point and he struggled dreadfully to find himself in those disconsolate days. 

Merle noticed his son come in through the half-broken door with a smashed screen and splatters of blood still at the bottom. Sneering at Werner he asked, “Hey boy you seen any cats’ ‘round the way?”

“Nope, can’t say I have.”

“Yarg… see I told ya, Bruce, these critters just wander off sometimes…” 

Bruce gasped as he stared at the collar right beneath his feet after he spoke. He felt guilty but still couldn’t be bothered bringing it up any further. Mostly he didn’t want to think about the sordid fate of poor Pickles. Besides he didn’t even know what he’d be accusing the Donner family of.

Bruce repressed the disturbing revelation and instead slapped Merle across the back to change the subject and said, “Ah don’t worry about the stupid cat.”

He belched and continued, “I used to catch the fur ball licking gasoline from my truck’s tailpipe; he must’ve had too much and croaked someplace. I knew it wasn't good for the cat.”

Bruce then turned to Werner still creeping around the door and asked, “How ya been Werner? Aint seen you around these parts much. Boy yer getting big, how old are ya now?”

“Fifteen.”

Bruce knew his age but asked for no other reason than to test the kid’s testicular fortitude, “Oh that’s a ripe age… boy when I was fifteen all I cared about was chasing skirts and watching Hockey. You ought to try it, kid, come sit down and watch the game with us and if yer lucky I’ll even give ya a lesson on how to pork a dame… ha, ha, ha!!! Hell, if ya stick with me slugger I might even teach ya how to mine the cobalt outta her cooter!” he cackled with boundless mirth.

Bruce went on, “that almost reminds me bud, there was this one time this broad was gonna give me a good time so she says, she says’s ‘hey hunny how ‘bout a blowjob?’ So’s, I tell’z the hussy, listen, whoor, I don’t want no blow job I wanna blow career!”

With a Yarger cackle like no other Bruce guffawed, “GAHAHAHAHAH!!! My eyes nearly popped outta my head there bud, boy’o she could have quaffed a cock like it was a free Big Mac with extra sauce! Harharhar! Hahahahah!”

On and on the laughter ensued until Bruce finally began to contain himself. All the while the justification for Werner’s desire to devour flesh began to make even more sense to him. Despite this private consolation though it really irritated the teen making him quite glad he skinned and ate his cat.

Bruce had lived up to his Yarger species reputation for spewing filth, coarseness and an uncouth tongue. Slapping Merle on the back again he laughed and shouted at Werner, “So come on bud, sit with yer Pop and I, and how about a beer?”

“No thanks Uncle Bruce, I hate sports. Is there any point in sports, other than putting a ball in a hole?

Werner’s sacrilegious remark hurt Merle more than the loss of his finger, “Listen here ya smartass, ya don’t know shit ‘bout the game. It’s ‘bout the team! It’s ‘bout the city and where yer from, ya know! Fuck, it's our goddamned birthright!”

His son cynically replied, “Bullshit, the players don’t even come from the cities they play for so how the hell can you even say ‘Toronto’ wins when the Leafs play?

His father suspiciously inquired, “Are ya sure you haven’t seen Pickles?”

Werner gulped and gasped in panic as the father and son just stared at each other in a sort of semi-conscious showdown centered around the awkward fate of poor Pickles. After an intense minute, Merle finally broke, “Ah just bugger off then if yer gonna shit on everything I love!” 

Bruce exhaled a sigh of relief and joined, “Don’t worry ‘bout it kid!

His father still wounded over the hockey heresy that his son provoked and so before going to his room Merle began, “So when ya taking off? Aren’t ya saving up to split? Ya got a call from some lefty-woke charity group… I think it was like Green Peace or some shit. They got a boat all’z I know’z…”

Caught off guard the son responded, “Did they actually call? What did you say to them? Never mind, I hate you and one day I’ll leave this place. No one understands me!”

Werner then muttered under his breath, “I wish all mankind had one neck so I could choke it!”

“Here he goes again….” Merle sighed.

Bruce intervened, “Where'd ya wanna take off to squirt?

“Papa New Guinea or maybe Fuji,” he sniffled in response as he tried to hold back tears of hate and humiliation.

"Oh, that sounds nice… it’s good to travel in yer own country instead of all them foreign fancy places” Bruce said.

Merle mumbled, “Well ridden! Go already then I’ll have one mouth less to feed.”

Werner wiped his tears away and then smiled devilishly, all the while staring at his father’s hand where his index finger was missing.

III

Nine months later the teenager did follow through with his threat and managed to enlist his progressive services as an indentured servant aboard a rust-infested freight headed for an unknown cannibal island in order to provide aid to the disadvantaged people of that region.

The International Aid for the Formerly Colonized was the organization responsible for delivering said relief. Werner didn’t care about the cause and would have gladly learned about the Japanese whaling trade if it meant getting to an island where cannibalism was still rumored to be legal.

Most disconcerting for Werner was the indoctrination process he was pressured to undergo even though he paid exorbitantly to join the voyage and had no desire to be forced fed progressive social justice ideologies. All he wanted was to eat people but if these woke crusaders could get to a cannibal island why not jump aboard the SS George Flyod and dupe these zealots?

Werner tried to assimilate but couldn’t comprehend how the central doctrine of the post-colonial justice team was that he as a Canadian should be held responsible for the historical atrocities the English inflicted upon these unknown island people hundreds of years before he was born. Befuddled Werner stopped the IAFC leader who looked like a haggard version of Rosie the Riveter to ask a question.

Werner began, “wasn’t Canada a colony too?”

Gaia offended by the slightest whiff of reason viciously rebutted, “not a colony that counts, check your privilege!” 

Gaia was a portly recruiter who was clad in overalls and thick circular framed glasses that looked like they were borrowed from the early 1990s. She wore a beany hat that barely hid the dangling pink strains of hair peeping out that were unwashed and unkempt dreadlocks of unspeakable smelling filth.

Accompanying this beatific ensemble of garage-sale purchased garments Gaia also had little political pins stapled on her thrift-store outfit with seemingly contradictory statements that read: “Kill the White Men!” and “Diversity, Tolerance, and Understanding!” and finally, “Animals are Women too!” Werner couldn’t make heads of her.

Gaia wasn’t the only one that looked like an idiot. Shortly after coming aboard, Werner noticed the whole charity team appeared to be wearing a uniform. Unfortunately, he didn’t get the memo and hoped he wouldn’t be excluded for not wearing one.

The men all shared an unspoken similarity that if acknowledged would expose and thereby collapse their contrived coordination of curled mustaches, sailor tattoos, Herschel rucksacks, flannel shirts, and Hitler Youth haircuts. He was perplexed to later discover that it wasn’t mandatory to look the same as the rest of them and in fact, he learned that the basis of their uniformity was indeed an expression of their individuality.

Werner looked like a younger and less ghoulish version of Nosferatu. He brooded around the ship causing a lot of tension and uneasiness among the crew. His resemblance to the Romanian vampire was not deliberate in that his pale skin, bald head, and bulbous eyes were the consequence of a diet that consisted solely of meat.

He had a sort of acrimoniousness about him that aroused ambivalence and suspicion. Eventually, they felt obliged to tolerate Werner after somebody looked into his medical file and realized that his oddity was the result of a possible mental illness. Following this revelation of there being a new minority status to exploit the team graciously invited his predatory looks, and his cryptic need to skulk around the ship and engulf their scents. They even warmed up to his opinions on the benefits of eating people.

The ship eventually docked after many months at sea. Werner bolted out whizzing past the crew in order to rejoice in his newfound freedom. The island people upon greeting Gaia staunchly rejected her opinion that they were in need of any support and challenged the organization for its uninvited presence.

The leader of the Pacific tribe looked like a regular guy you might catch sitting on a Subway. Seething with rage he seemed to resent the fact that his fellow island members were being portrayed as oppressed, victimized, or marginalized by contact with western civilization and couldn’t convince Gaia that dentistry, irrigation, and medicines were beneficial for him and his community.

The Pacific island people eventually accepted the charity group’s presence despite their misunderstanding and it was agreed that the charity team would donate unlimited funds to remedy all future ills. The funds would be raised off of taxes so why should the International Aid for Formerly Colonized care?

To Gaia’s continual exasperation, she couldn’t understand why the tribe didn’t understand the word colonized. She thought maybe it could not be translated adequately and was mocked by the island people for her efforts.

Even after overcoming the barriers of culture by handing the chief Tiki-Toba a vast sum of money, the chief was still insulted by Gaia’s revisionist effort to redefine his tribe’s history and so he consulted with Professor Boas who was the resident anthropologist and observational participant studying Intersectional-Island Postcolonial Oppression and was the little minion of the corpulent charity team leader Gaia.

Dr. Boas was one of the few westerners in the world who could actually speak Tiki-Toba’s arcane language. This however the anthropologist considered a minor accomplishment and a mere prerequisite to addressing the great challenge of Island equity. 

In the ensuing exchange, Dr. Boas listened as the chief spoke and then translated his wise words back to Gias. Tiki-Toba thus spoke, “great ills befall all men. War is a constant variable that comes in the guise of friendship and suspicion.”

The philosopher continued, “we can only find fault from within ourselves when we give in to the god of strife who takes no sides and makes only losers. Nature plays this game with all of us, light and dark skin are no different. No one is immune to war, death, and the vices that come with all men. We all suffer, kill and die the same. Therefore, we take no fault with your people that differ from ours. Why then do you bring forth this unwanted strife?”

“Ahem, and Trans-women. Not just MEN,” Gaia couldn’t help herself from interjecting.

Offended by the chief’s speech Gaia reamed the anthropologist, “Seriously! I don’t get it Dr. Boas, who the hell are these people? Honestly… This is not cool… just saying. And to tell ya the truth it sounds to me like they’re not even pissed off about having been oppressed!

Her flubbing face was ignited by the furies as she screamed at Dr. Boas in front of the chief and tribe, “Are these even the right cannibals cuz they don’t even look tribal! OMG, one of them is wearing a fucking Scarface T-shirt! And they all have their teeth! I asked you to find us the disenfranchised, not the recently moisturized!”

Dr. Boas embarrassed by his own sloppy research tried to explain, “They’re the real cannibals trust me! The mainlanders I spoke to promised they were. Truth be told however, I’ve only been with this group for a short while and haven't gotten to know them that well… Perhaps I set up base in the wrong location?”

Gaia screamed, “Are they or are they not the savages we want? We need this to go viral!”

In fear of a potential social media reign of terror that might befall the professor’s career if he didn’t make a proper Woke offering of oppression, he replied, “they should be the right ones but if they’re not maybe they can guide us to the real cannibal tribe.”

The chief understood the word savage and blurted, “We may eat people, but we’re not savages!”

Dr. Boas made overtures to cajole the chief in a profusion of apologies. After which he attempted to salvage his mission by assuring Gaia, “They’re cannibals, at least that’s what the chief just admitted. People will still want us to help them even if they look a bit contemporary. Just relax Gaia, we can fix this.”

“Seriously?! No this is not OK! It’s not supposed to be like this!”

Realizing her fit was futile Gaia simmered down and began again, “okay someone should look for Werner I saw him run into the jungle when we landed… and I don’t have to remind you about his tendencies – not that there’s anything wrong with his views on eating people!

I also want you to get Sequoia and Ph

oenix and tell them to set up the cameras deeper in the jungle. I don’t want the water fountain and hospital in the shot it makes their habitat look less foreboding and dismal. Also, do me a favor and get some of them to take off their shirts. That might give us the effect we're looking for, right…?”

The Professor obediently nodded, “I’ll contact the crew. We can fix this, I promise, and don’t worry… it’ll work out fine! These people whether they know it or not need our help. They’ve been colonized to such a degree that they’ve forgotten it. We won’t fail the tribe and give the West cause to dismiss their victimhood just because they’ve been to a dentist.”

Gaia was somewhat placated and continued, “awesome sauce, Dr. Boas! Oh and one more thing… tell Celeste to work on their hair and use a lot of makeup. I want to see some bones and shit, tattoos, whatever! Just fix them up. We need to make them look authentic, right...?”

She continued, “I want those colonial-asshole Westerners back in Canada to understand these people need our help but I know that those bigoted white CIS male transphobic scum won’t feel moved unless we present the tribe in a more ‘organic’ and uninhibited way. 

We want to change people’s hearts and minds which means we need to produce a powerful image that won’t be seen as dishonest, manufactured, and misleading. Because, like, it’s not… just like the climate crisis Tiki-Toba’s plights are real’s.

Plus, the west only understands a language of dominance, misogyny, and racism so let’s give them the image they expect so that we can catch them being hateful and expose them for their racism, privilege, and xenophobia!”

Gaia then plunged her sausage fingers into her fanny pack and snagged her phone with a quote she liked to read from her idol and inspiration Maximilien Robespierre. Opening her phone she read, “Virtue without terror is fatal; terror without virtue is powerless. Terror is nothing other than justice: prompt, severe, and inflexible. It is therefore an emanation of virtue… a consequence of the general principle of democracy applied to our country's most urgent needs.”

At the end of this long exchange, the charity team set up camp while Gaia searched relentlessly for the “real” cannibals that Dr. Boas had promised. Thus far it was to no avail. The team gave up their search and started dressing up the tribe in these humiliating costumes that were made of sticks, beads, and leaves which were locally sourced from someplace that was not very local.

Gaia left Werner alone once she saw how well he adapted to his new environment. She also noticed how the island people took a shine to him especially after he came back one day with a bag of severed heads which were freshly plucked from the victims of a rival tribe. Gaia and Professor Boas convinced the charity crew that they needed to be respectful and not judge the cannibals but still cautioned their crew not to partake in the feasts.

The island people loved Werner's enthusiasm and openness to learning about their culture and felt that there was something within him that resonated with the tribe. They allowed him to accompany them on all their headhunts and even taught him to use their high-powered assault rifles which were regarded as the most sacred possession of the community.

After a few years of cultural enrichment, Werner returned from the wild habitat a changed young man. The enthrallment that came out of this cross-cultural exchange was contagious. He had learned to overcome feelings of shame and doubt and he finally began to accept himself for who he was. Werner knew that he was born a cannibal and was proud to finally identify as such.

Werner feasted on his fill of human hearts, castrated genitals, and a buffet of entrails while living amongst his adopted family. He learned the cannibal arts and was exalted by the tribe for his willingness to submit to their guidance, diet, and headhunting rituals. Most of all they were inspired by his strength in battle and hearty lust for eating the skin of his victims.

The International Aid for the Formerly Colonized was so proud of him that they decided to feature Werner rather than the island people as their main focus and had his story of growth and discovery circulated all over the internet. The main trending feed on all their social media outlets read Diversity, Tolerance, and Cross-Cultural Enrichment: #FightCannibalphobia.

Alas, a new phobia emerged to weaponize and force the sane civilized world to concede to or be punished by the wrath of the mob. And for the first time in his life, Werner saw the benefits of standing up for a false cause. He learned to manipulate the virtue afforded to him for his lead role as a social media celebrity and he gladly became the new voice for cannibal equity and awareness.

The anthropologist Dr. Boas was so impressed with Werner having been adopted by the tribe and for having learned of their ways that he contacted the University and managed to get the cannibal enrolled as an honorary student regardless of the fact that he had the education of a 10th grader when he had dropped out.

When the IAFC ship finally returned to Toronto Werner was a sparkling beam of hope and all everyone could talk about. He was rightfully hoisted up as the spokesman for the Campus Coalition of Equity for Underprivileged Cannibals. He was on every news channel, podcast, and social media platform with an army of academic, media, and government supporters.

He was even invited to dine with Canada’s great and glorious Woke Prime Minister Justin Trudeau! An honor only extended to autistic child environmentalists, as well as charlatan indigenous groups that lie about genocide atrocities supposedly committed by Catholics hundreds of years ago resulting in the burning of fifty churches more recently.

What a moment to be proud of!

After settling in a bit and living under taxpayer stipends because of his oppressed status as a cannibal, he finally joined Dr. Boas’s newly created Liberal Arts popular program which was dedicated to the protection and advocacy of cannibals and all other disadvantaged groups that were targeted in the same vitriolic way. It was the first intersectional degree program at that University. 

Professor Boas convinced the students and faculty that the negative perception of cannibalism was unfounded and that anyone ignorant enough to claim that cannibals were “dangerous” was either intolerant or bigoted. The Professor encouraged the Dean to enforce punitive measures for those who viewed or labeled cannibalism as something primitive, savage, and barbaric.

The Dean distanced himself from the matter however and granted Dr. Boas relative autonomy in dealing with whatever issues came his way fearing he might slip up by forgetting what was now considered right and wrong. He looked to a plaque on the wall for inspiration which read:

REASON IS PRIVILEGED

DIVERSITY IS OUR STRENGTH

NO TOLERANCE FOR INTOLERANCE

IV

The first semester went by and Werner found it increasingly difficult to keep up with his breadth requirements. He ventured down to accessibilities and student services and surreptitiously convinced one of the social workers that his poor marks were the result of systemic discrimination predicated on a cultural bias towards cannibalism.

The Diversity Tzar listened intently and decided in Werner’s favour to change the grade standards to adjust for cultural and historical disparities which evidently affected his performance even though Werner was born in Toronto and had no reason to be treated like a member of any marginalized group.

Werner rejoiced over this triumph and bellowed a brazen guffaw as he waltzed out of the diversity and accessibilities office convinced that he’d be able to get away with murder, quite literally.

The thriving student was clever and knew how to manipulate con artists like the diversity brigade empowering him. Astutely he regurgitated the mantra of his classmates in public and expressed his enthusiasm in seeing the pendulum swing in a more “open, tolerant, and culturally enriched direction,” all the while hiding his contempt for the faculty’s stupidity if anyone were to ask. 

Dr. Boas found out about Werner’s accessibility success and soiled himself over the prospect of being credited as the first faculty member to introduce this gifted student to the University. Boas thought, why bother researching in the field, interacting with fascinating cultures, and practicing rigorous science when you could foist up a cannibal for oppression points and yammer on about how a murdering freak had his rights taken from him?

The “academic” erupted with irrepressible rapacity at the prospect of having his progressive cannibal agenda introduced into the dialogue of victimhood culture, and he hoped that this new victimhood discourse would now come to dominate in the social justice oppression Olympics. The Professor in a bout of cannibal cuckoldry prayed to Moloch that he’d be showered with grants for years to come as a reward for his virtuous offerings.

And then one fateful day it happened. Werner had gone eight months without eating a single piece of human flesh and couldn’t take it anymore. He knew the day would come when substituting small pets for humans wouldn’t suffice and that his urges couldn’t be repressed any longer.

Anticipating this Dr. Boas intervened and asked the school to import “unidentified meat” from cannibal regions of the world. However, this was thwarted by the government which the Dean was actively suing the province over. Sadly for cannibals like Werner he would have to murder if he wanted to eat.

One fateful Friday morning, the Professor began a postmodernist lecture about cultural diversity, “Today I’d like to discuss the frivolity of a term like objectivity and how it should not exist. There is no way to determine the value of culture through this false measure and so it is our responsibility to be critical about any assertion that defends the false notion that one thing has any greater value than another.”

Werner couldn’t be bothered listening to yet another flawed and ingratiating diatribe intended to assuage him and so he got up and began stalking his classmate prey unbeknownst to the young cherub-like victim seated three seats next to him. He meandered over to a pencil sharpener right behind the unsuspecting girl and then began shaving his pencil tip sculpting it into a miniature spear.

The Professor blathered on, “We must remember that in order to have equality we cannot give way to competition if the end result is cultural displacement and inequality. If the outcome of our struggle to advance our individuality is damaging to even the smallest minority of people who do not feel included then why should we be allowed to pursue these selfish ends?

Sermonizing the pontiff continued, “To survive we need to work as a diverse, and inclusive community and accept that we have a responsibility to include even the most fringe and unusual even at the expense of our privileged society!”

“Just look at Werner,” said the Professor looking toward his dearly Frankenstein satan spawn, but could not locate him as he was prowling the classroom. The cannibal having heard his name called out for a moment stood aghast tucking behind him his makeshift spear before the Professor could see what he was plotting.

Boas pontificated, “If we continue to judge certain cultures as threatening and culturally inferior we risk limiting ourselves from appreciating special individuals like Werner who can hopefully show us our errors and help guide us to become more open-minded and tolerant.”

Werner stood perfectly still trying to appear nonchalant while the Professor kept rambling on. He had to wait until Dr. Boas wasn’t looking before he could strike. In the meantime, the cannibal preoccupied himself with memories of his adopted home which now seemed like a fading myth possessing the trimmings of folktale fiction.

The skulking demon regaled his festive days on the cannibal island that he loved so dearly recalling his friend little Igua who acted as the Professor's anthropological informant there. Werner fawned over the memory of their daily adventures and kafuffles, and most especially over how Igua always forgot to wipe the blood off his lips after a successful village raid.

Nosferatu thus mused, “Oh, that little Igua what a rabble-rouser…”

Werner then recalled how his friend always tried to skewer multiple limbs over his spear and how he could never get those pesky arms and legs to stay put after greedily trying to shove them on.

The forlorn student also heartily recalled the time they walked in on Igua’s father pillaging the wrong village where Igua’s father ended up accidentally eating one of his nephews. They were in hysterics all night laughing about Igua’s dad’s foolishness. He remembered Igua saying, “Dad that was your nephew you just ate silly!”

The sorrows of young Werner were agonized further by these romanticist remembrances that once unleashed could not be restrained. He could no longer repress the excitement these cherished thoughts elicited. The cannibal soliloquized, “is all future life just a futile attempt to rekindle one's youthful glory days?”

As well, he asked himself, “must I live out of this hazard-free wasteland of a world as an exile of my former self? Having to learn to cope with this monotonous society of vegetable-eating Leftists?

Am I fated to be condemned to this society of modernity, liberalism, and its dreadful end result, vegetarianism? Will I ever be able to rejoin my tribe and be free to maim, murder, and eat all of those who oppose and seek to challenge me? What of my rights? How about my special diverse needs? Am I not included?”

Finally, recalling an especially poignant passage from Shelly he whispered to himself, “Alas Victor when falsehood can look like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness?”

The pencil entrails by this point were trickling down the neck of Werner’s prey causing the girl to turn and confront the cannibal. “Hey, you wanna stop dropping your pencil shit on me. I’m trying to pay attention. Some of us actually have to work here and not just ride off their diversity and inclusion privileges!”

“Silence you wretch,” Werner blurted. Oddly Dr. Boas did everything he could to direct the class’s attention back to his pulpit trying not to offend his prized victimhood possession.

Jane was a no-nonsense kind of girl who said little in class due to her irregular habit of pursuing honesty and rejecting demons like Werner. Of course, this was seen as discrimination and this made her all the more livid. Nevertheless, she was suspected to have intolerant opinions on the subject of cannibalism and had to hide her perfectly sane and justifiable views.

Further, Jane had a few prior run-ins with Werner where she expressed her repugnance for him. These interactions disgusted Jane but again she had to contain her outrage over their being cannibal allowed in school, especially when sitting next to her so as not to get expelled and maybe even charged.

The beautiful brunette with cute short hair and catching dimples recoiled at this Dracula-like creature slithering behind her. Jane was repulsed by the sharpened nubs he had for teeth and his bulging yellow eyes. Werner’s openness about eating children, raiding villages, and preserving genitals as trophies did not help either. For reasons professors like Dr. Boas could not understand this caused the student great distress.

Jane also resented the fact that she had struggled hard to receive good grades and was treated all the worse for it by her smarmy cohorts who accused her of being privileged and elitist. Werner despite being the most inept and dysfunctional person she ever met managed to pass with ease. All this said Werner had good reason to want to plunge his pencil into Jane’s neck and without fail he did so.

The ghoul repeatedly stabbed Jane catching her off-guard as the class was distracted by the Woke venom sputtering out of Dr. Boas's mouth. Werner seized the opportunity and in between stabs bit into Jane’s arm chewing through a layer of flesh. He then plunged the spear-sharpened pencil into his classmate’s neck repeatedly.

Werner gnashed his jagged teeth into the dying student with ecstasy while Jane squirmed, reeled, and panicked begging for the class to intervene as they stood awestruck saying and doing nothing. Werner was enraptured by the cannibal carnage and continued to feast on what was his first corpse-de-jour since his days on the island of misfit cannibals.

Professor Boas cowered behind his students as they also stood panic-stricken holding up chairs and textbooks in an attempt to fend Werner off in case he turned to attack them. The cannibal continued to devour Jane’s body parts eagerly chomping through her flesh while heaving up mouthfuls that couldn’t be digested due to the fast pace at which he gorged.

V

After a few minutes, the cannibal stopped and looked around like Cerebus the vicious mythic hellhound who guards the gates of Hades in ancient Grecian lore. All the while trying to size up his next victim when suddenly Dr. Boas made an attempt to appease the demon dog as he crunched bones and skin tissue gushing oceans of blood.

Stammering like a child the professor began, “um… Werner, my friend. You know how hard we’ve been working to make you feel welcome… included and accepted for your diversity.”

The eunuch of a professor continued, “I don’t want you to think that any of us are judging you now but I do have to question your actions. You see… um, the University has a safety policy that I am obligated to enforce… um, you understand?”

The imp grunted.

Professor Boas continued, “Now we have been ah…. working on getting you the kind of meat you asked for but legally it’s been very difficult. It’s just that ah… we um, we are having some issues with the government. You see… they won’t allow us to import the kind of meat you like… or rather the meat you need and um…”

Werner snarled, “I WANT MORE HUMAN FLESH!”

The Professor replied, "Yes, um… of course, you do… it's just that we don't have the meat you’re asking for because it’s against the law to eat people or export human bodies for the purpose of consumption… you know how these pesky conservative laws are… haha… but um, if you could refrain from eating us right now we could try to work something out?” 

The cannibal appeared petulant and unmoved.

“Werner we can’t let you eat any more of Jane so can you please put her body down… you understand, don’t you? Look, if it were up to me I’d let you eat whoever you want… I mean, um… whatever you want! But unfortunately, you can't eat any more of my students… okay, Werner… You’re not allowed to eat us…!”

Despite the fact that every student in the class was being held hostage by this insidious cannibal and was forced to witness the grotesque horror of having their classmate eaten alive, they still managed to take issue with the professor’s insensitive, non-inclusive position and interpreted his statement as discriminatory and as an affront to Werner’s human rights.

One of the most offended and odious of students was the first to bravely respond not to Werner but to the professor for trying to protect his students by simply saying, “WOW…”

The freckled face, pasty ginger soy-boy then elucidated his smug and entitled outrage, “What are you fucking trying to say, Professor Boas? Am I hearing this right? Do you or don’t you respect and accept Diversity?”

The whole class then echoed in Borg-like unison, “DIVERSITY IS OUR STRENGTH!” 

The Professor pleaded to the runty redhead who went by Meyer Gramsci, “No, No, No… I do respect his culture, Meyer. It’s just that Jane is being eaten alive and maybe… I don’t know please forgive me for this wrong-think opinion but maybe we should call the police or something and have them stop what Werner will do to us all. It’s not right for us to let him eat our classmates, it seems um, problematic.”

“WOW… are you guys hearing this?” Gramsci shouted to the class in his prepubescent voice that creaked, “eating people is a part of who Werner is and how he identifies and this intolerant cannibalphobic scum is trying to stop him!”

Boas begged, “But I’m not… I’m… just trying to help…”

Gramsci interrupted again, “who the fuck are you to rail against his culture bro as a CIS white male? Just because it doesn’t conform to your patriarchal and privileged perspective!? I get that you’re just a bigoted cannibal-phob blinded by your ideologically authoritarian conventions, but honestly bro, I think you’re causing more harm than whatever Werner is doing to Jane.”

As Meyer Gramsci said this Werner splurged a bile-infused jettisoned cascade of blood mixed with hairy chunks of flesh because he was eating too fast. Pausing for a moment, he stopped then sniffed around a bit, and finally continued his cannibal carnage campaign.

Meyer rebuked the professor further, “your words and actions are proof that you don’t share our values and that makes you just another cannibalphobic imperialist like the rest of them!!! You’re all alike you fascist bigot!”

“Down with cannibal phobia!!!” another student screeched with a nervous crackling voice. Three more students joined and squealed, “Stop him from preaching hate!”

“Hate speech is not free speech!” said another yappy green-haired creature that resembled a rodent that had crawled out of a sewer.

“STOP HIM FROM PREACHING ANYTHING!” yelled a shaved-headed girl with a tattoo of a unicorn riding a veiny penis on her neck.

She continued, “You bigoted douche! Like… let Werner eat whoever the fuck he wants yo! Like… how dare you try and like… make him feel bad about something he can’t change! How would you feel if I told you to change your white skin? Hold your prejudice in check you cannibalphobic fucking prick!”

Gramsci became the de facto mob ruler by displaying the most outrage, he rejoined “Ya! Check your privilege, professor Boas! We’re all different and that’s what makes us special, give others a chance to think and behave in whatever alternative way they want, bro!”

The green vermin yelped, “People have entitled to them the right to hold different views on whatever identity they choose. Trans, Panda Bear, like whatever! You have no right to disagree! It’s not the 1950s! Our ideas shouldn’t have to conform to your intolerant, non-inclusive, and backward western views. Who says cannibalism is wrong, eh? Maybe eating vegetables is worse for the environment! Jerk”

Dr. Boas implored the mob as a suppliant, “if you want me to change I will… I promise whatever it is… I didn’t mean to offend you all. But what’s problematic about the position you’re taking is that you might be in danger too…”

While Werner was still preoccupied eating Jane Boas still had time to address the absurdity to his students and turning to Gramsci the professor asked, “are you not a vegan Meyer? Werner not only eats meat – he eats people! I just can’t understand this… not that there’s anything wrong with cannibalism but don’t you see the contradiction?”

Unnerved and now surrounding the professor in a circle of judgment with his Woke ilk the moral tyrant responded, “the only contradiction I see is a hypocritical professor lecturing about cultural diversity without the courage to practice what he preaches bro!”

Gramsci turned to the blood-drenched cannibal, "Go Werner do what’s natural for ya, dude! We respect your rights! Don’t listen to this privileged and authoritarian thug who’s only pretending to protect you from systemic oppression! We accept you for who you are and you are included!”

“BASH A FASH!” roared the odious bald heroine with the lewd tattoo who was also wearing a T-shirt that read: ‘F*ck White Men.’”

The professor pleaded futilely, “But I was the one who made Werner! I’m the one who invented the cultural enrichment program! I’m progressive, I am tolerant, I am inclusive!”

And like a scene from the Passion the professor burst out, betrayed by his own people, “I don’t get it why are you forsaking me?”

Gramsci blitzkrieged the Professor’s plea and then chanted, “Come on fellas, let’s follow and repeat after me, evil fascist go away… cannibals are welcome and here to stay!”

Werner snarled dastardly like a craven beast still gnawing through parts of Jane's ribcage having ignored their whole dialogue. And after a short moment of respite, he feared that the campus police might be coming – not that they’d arrest him or anything but just that they might encourage him to politely leave. He couldn’t risk it, however, so he turned to the window and devised his plan of escape by tapping the glass to see if he could smash through it.

The vindictive gaggle of furies repeated, “evil fascists go away… cannibals are welcome and here to stay!”

Meyer Gramsci encouraged the cannibal to flee also sensing impending danger for Werner’s safety, “run Werner, Run! We’ll take this imperialist down to the Deans office and demand that he be fired for his intolerant views! We can’t let this kind of discrimination go unchecked!

Meyer screeched, “go, Werner, run free bro!” Gramsci then turned to the gathering crowd still assembled around him and shouted, “storm the Bastille of an athletic center for baseball bats or whatever weapons of justice you can find, we can’t let this fascist escape or call for others that share his views!”

Werner grew warier of the mob regardless of the fact that their rage was directed towards the professor and not himself, but as with all mobs, no one can predict the next lynching victim.

Werner concluded that it was high time to flee. He considered his options and with Frankenstein on his mind, he grasped his half-eaten bride and jumped through the window using Jane’s limp corpse as a battering ram. The class celebrated the sound of cracking bones smashing through broken glass and then turned their malicious attention toward the professor again.

“GET HIM!!!” 

The bald girl with the profane T-shirt took out a sex collar she had in her bag and straddled the Professor like an obedient mutt smacking his ass while dragging him to the Deans' office. “That’s a good little fascist,” she said to him as the professor was dragged along being pelted with clubs and other gym equipment.

The peaceful protesters paraded the professor like the captured King of Gaul Vercingetorix and touted violent slurs as they spat on him. The professor beseeched them to remember how progressive he was but to no avail. The students finally arrived at the Deans office and demanded an audience. 

At this point, the brood of vipers hissed and shouted their mantra demanding that the Professor be expelled. The Dean noticed his colleague on the leash covered in spit, blood, and toilet paper.

Dr. Boas was permitted to beg on his knees and he did so while casting his head down staring shamefully at the floor as the mob continued to jeer and petition for his expulsion. The whole scene resembled something from a Hieronymus Bosch painting.

The cowardly Dean asked Gramsci, “What crime has professor Boas committed that warrants this kind of violent behavior?”

The thought police then chanted in response, “evil fascist go away… cannibals are welcome and here to stay!” 

Before Gramsci answered he took offense and shouted at the Dean, "put your fucking hands down when you're talking to us! Direct your macroaggression's elsewhere!"

The Dean calmly lowered his hands and then asked submissively, “is this better?”

Gramsci added, “we know you can’t help being the bigot that you are, but just pretend for a moment that you were a cannibal, how would you feel? Let’s forget you’re just like every other white male. Be inclusive to all including those who wish to eat you!”

The Dean groveled sycophantically his eyes groping for an affirmative nod. Gramsci laughed with his Sanhedrin of peaceful protestors and then proceeded to answer the Deans' first question despite the overt rudeness of his violent hand gestures which Meyer handled to the mob’s momentary satisfaction.

Meyer Gramsci then regally announced, “professor Boas has displayed bigotry, intolerance, and discrimination towards those of a non-western and privileged background. He chose to oppress cannibalism and therefore he is a heretic!”

The Dean was so bewildered, “I am sorry… your classmate is it? And he has murdered and eaten a fellow student? And your mad at the professor for trying to put a stop to this madness and save your lives?”

“BASH A FASH!” The horde shouted in unison.

“Duh…” Meyer tried to explain to the feeble-minded Dean, “ Listen, bro, Dr. Boas was critical of Werner’s uncontrollable cannibal tendencies! We need a school that employs educators who won’t judge others for their differences! We ask that our educators conform to our views and who will promise to teach the right message that is both sensitive and ideologically consistent with our worldview!”

The Dean evaluated the situation and in true administrative form realized that his only chance to keep himself out of controversy was to remove his spine and negotiate with the marauding mob by accepting their terms for policy change.

The Dean agreed to try to get human meat imported to the school and said he would challenge the courts if they viewed this act as being either illegal or unethical even if that meant helping the economies of middle eastern countries that don’t follow UN foreign policy.

The Dean thought to himself after reflecting on the issue afterward that for the sake of diversity, all is acceptable. As well, he finally assented to creating a safe space for cannibals so that in the future they would never again have to face the discrimination they did that fateful day.

After agreeing to all of their terms the Dean had to ask, “what has the Professor done to deserve firing and acquittal though? Are you not all on the same ideological page? This is a Canadian University, what more does it take? In fact, to tell you, students, the truth the staff and I used to jokingly call professor Boas the “king of progressives”.

Gramsci contemptuously rebutted, "he does not represent any of our progressive values. He is not our ‘king’!”

“Expel him! We demand social justice!!!” chanted the brood of vipers.

The Dean fatigued over the whole debacle began to whimper as he looked down at the professor still held hostage and attached to his sex leash and with tears exclaimed, “I wash my hands clean of this affair if you say he is guilty so be it…”

The mob erupted with joy, “YAY!”

Epilogue

And so it went after that historical day…

The University was formally charged with human rights violations and compelled to pay a fine that would thereafter bankrupt the school causing it to shut down. Professor Boas was expelled and charged with hate crimes and was several months later found burned alive by a Molotov cocktail thrown by two graduate law students who only received a 6-month sentence for murdering him.

The Dean was forced to resign for not having dealt with the incident with enough sensitivity. The mysterious death of Jane went unreported since the body was gone and no one claimed to have seen anything. The case still remains unsolved.

Werner was never seen again. Some say he returned to his cherished cannibals on a faraway island. Others say he died of food poisoning after having digested too much of Jane’s raw flesh. No one knows for sure and no one really cares… because diversity is our strength.

If you like this wor check out my book The Sanguinaires, Or What I Hate Most About Everything available in stores or online.