The Misanthrope
There was a man. He approached and began to speak.

As he spoke, I found myself listening, and, in doing so, my brain was receiving electrical impulses from my ears, impulses which were generated by sound waves stimulating my ear drums.

The arbitrarily ascribed units of meaning transcribed into assimilable sounds had me transfixed.

My brain translated and the meaning became clear.

He wanted me to accompany him to the woods and hunt for a misanthrope. I suggested that he might be wrong, but the man was insistent.

A misanthrope, he told me, was like an antelope, but extremely bad tempered and prone to wind.

Why did he want one? I asked. The response was quick, calculated and chilling in the extreme.

Because he wanted to explore the nature of misanthropy. He wanted to see its fetid, maggoty heart and learn what unbridled fear and hatred could do to a man's soul.

I gave him my last pound, pointed him toward Spar and told him to buy a Daily Mail.

He went on his way and I never saw him again. I made my own way sadly home and thought about what had taken place that day.
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Sat 24 Oct 2009, 0:10, Reply)