The Skinner needs to feed.
When he feeds, he does not hop in the car and head to the nearest grocery store. He does not make the trek to the McDonald’s or Burger King or Subway sandwich shop. He does not forage through the freezer for a Banquet TV dinner or the cabinets for some Kraft Cheese and Macaroni. What Skinner does instead is hunt.
Lifting the lid on the manhole, he pushes it aside and slithers out of the round hole onto the hard earth. The thick, now dead, corn stalks hiding his n***d, hairless body from anything human. But then, in this country, there are never any human eyes, except those of his friends, his little kittens, his posies, his gentle little weightless ashes, Molly and Michael.
But even they are too far away from him to know that he has re-emerged from his home
