How To Cook an Eagle

“Uh, eagles are protected by the guvmint,” Craig said with a mouth full of syrup. “You kill one of those, n’ you’ll end up in a federal prison being water-boarded 24-7 until you turn into a fish, or drown.”

“No, man, they don’t put you in prison for killin’ eagles.” Phil help his coffee to his lips as he spoke. ‘They keep you submerged up to your neck in a swamp, like in Rambo, until all of the eagle’s powers are sucked out of you by leeches.”

“So what yer sayin’ is, the only reason it’s illegal to hunt our national bird is cuz the govmint don’t want every crazy bastard in the country getting super powers from drinking eagle blood?” Camren shrugged. “We, that makes sense actually. It sure would be bad if them super powers fell into the wrong hands”.

Craig, Phil and Camren were just about the smartest guys I knew. I came to the Oily Egg Diner damn near every day to listen to them go on about science and philosophy n’ whatnot. Flo didn’t like me taking up a whole booth by myself for 6 hours unless I was constantly eating, which is why I was so fat. It didn’t matter none, cuz I now had a plan that would give me the muscles of Hercules and the brains of Socrates. (Note: I ain’t all that well educated, so I think “Hercules” is pronounced “HER-kewls” and “Socrates” is pronounced “SEW-crates”)

Killing an eagle would be easy. Alls I needed to do was find an eagle nest and slap the little eagle babies around until the mom came back. Then, when she tried to attack me, I’d give the mother eagle a karate (pronounced “kar-EIGHT”) chop in the neck. The blood needed to be at 450 degrees, so I would need to take it home and broil it in the oven before consuming it. The boys seemed to be saying it was only the blood that was magic, but I figured if I ate the whole damn bird -feathers and all- I’d get even more powers.

I knew Eagle Hill was the best place to find a nest this time of year, so that is where I headed. I probably shouldn’t have blabbed my whole plan to the cab driver because by the time we reached the top, the feds were already there. My town is full of pussies looking to make a quick buck, and my cabbie wanted that $300 reward offered by the govmint for assisting in the prevention of an eagle death. It turns out he was misinformed about the reward, because instead of paying the man, the feds beat the guy with a baseball bat and stuffed him into the trunk of his own cab.

I tried to make a run for the woods, but as I already mentioned, I am grossly obese. Not three strides into my dash for the treeline, I was hunched over and panting like a 16-year-old rottweiler with pneumonia. The feds put down their baseball bats when they realized weapons were unnecessary to subdue me.

“Stand up straight, son”, said the officer in charge, “you’ll suffocate if you stay hunched over like that.”

I leaned back against the cab before my knees buckled.

“Better take a second to catch yer breath.” As he waited for me, the officer munched on a granola bar. “Listen, I know we seem all sinister and authoritative n’ whatnot standing here in our dark suits and sunglasses, waving baseball bats, but you have to understand that we’re the good guys here.”

“Tr…tr…trunk…,”I sputtered, still gasping for air.

“Your driver?” The officer brushed crumbs from his lips. “He’s actually an Al Qaeda operative. You’d think he wouldn’t have taken such a ridiculous risk calling the FBI just to claim a $300 reward, but it turns out he’s racked up quite a gambling debt over the years while waiting for his orders. Imagine the irony if some mob hit-man knocked him off before he had a chance to crash his bus full of explosives into a post office or whatever. Anyway, we’re gunna water-board the shit out of ‘im later. It’ll be fun.”

“And what about me?” I asked, finally able to breathe normally. “I ain’t killed no eagle yet. Am I in trouble?”

“Aside from being 3 hot dogs away from a heart attack? No, in fact we’d like to help you. But first, you have to answer me one question.” The officer removed his sunglasses and looked me directly in the eyes. “Do you love America?”

My heart swelled with pride. “I may look like a guy with an uncontrollable appetite, but my ravenous food lust ain’t what brought me to Eagle Hill today. In fact, devouring our national symbol would break my heart with every bite. It’s only because I love this country so much that I’d be willing to stomach it. What would I do with the strength of Her-Kewls? What would I do with the wisdom of Sew-Crates? I’d kick so much ass fer Uncle Sam that nobody’d ever mess with us again.”

The officer smiled. “Good answer, son. Good answer.”

Out of the woods walked another FBI agent. In addition to the dark suit and shades, this one sported a white chef’s hat, and carried a dish with one of them shiny lids fer serving fancy food. He smiled as he lifted the lid.

“Is that for me?” I asked. The officers nodded.

I bit into the charred bird and the blood scalded my tongue. The meat was still 450 degrees, but I barely noticed the pain as I gobbled it up. The transformation happened immediately. I felt my fat melting away. I grew 4 inches taller. My zits vanished. I no longer had all that gross hair on my back. I was invincible!

The officer grabbed my shoulder. “Now, son, go! Make us proud!”

And off I dashed, down the hill, towards destiny. With any luck, I’d be able rid the world of all commies, terrorists and fascists by tomorrow. Maybe they’ll have a parade for me.

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RK Galaga

RK Galaga is the author of "Prehistoric Passion From Mars," "The Erotic Secrets of Shelley Frankenstein," "Lust Finds a Way," and "The Erotic Adventures of Paul Bunyan."
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