The Two Vultures
“I didn’t kill it,” said the human.
“It doesn’t matter,” replied the avian. “What matters is, whether or not you want to survive.”
The human slipped deep in thought. The avian hopped closer and looked into the human’s eyes. “What’s wrong?” he enquired.
“I’ve been thinking,” replied the human.
The avian raised a brow. “If you are repelled because it’s carrion, remember that this is all what we will get to eat today, and when we have eaten, there are others who must feed on the remains.”
“No,” said the human, assessing the booty that crawled with maggots.
“No what?” asked the avian, confused.
“We can store the rest. We can use it tomorrow and the day after – why should we let others consume it?”
The avian remained silent. Storing food for tomorrow and the day after wasn’t the way of the vultures.
“But it won’t last forever, then what?” the avian asked.
The human turned to look at the avian and allowed a thin, cruel smile to creep across his lips, “then you, my friend,” he replied.