He was whimpering when I ripped him out of his cage. I got me a Tom Turkey, a full five foot five! I’d been keeping him in my basement and fattening him up, but it was the day to roast him! I pulled him out and he followed me, crawling on all fours and I laid him on my examination table. There I slowly cut small slits in his skin, stuffing the holes with little balls of salted herbs. He cried, begged for mercy the entire time, but I wouldn’t be showing him a drop. I greased that little fatty up, my Tom Turkey, and then I bound his arms and legs behind him and secured him tightly to the spit. Yeah, I could have spit him and shoved the whole bar through him, but I love to watch them scream as I roast them alive.
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