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A Short Story in which Paul Simon Eats Art Garfunkel Alive

Friday Thinks... With Luke Winkie

By Luke Winkie

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Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel were up late working on music. Paul Simon hadn’t eaten, but Art Garfunkel had.

“I am hungry,” said Paul Simon.

“Yeah?” said Art Garfunkel.

“Yeah,” said Paul Simon.

“You have to eat me,” said Art Garfunkel.

“What?” said Paul Simon.

“You have to eat me Paul Simon, there’s no other way,” said Art Garfunkel.

“Okay,” said Paul Simon.

Paul Simon knew where to start, as he slowly began to nibble at each of Art Garfunkel’s fingers, macheteing his way into the knuckles with his two front teeth. A light shower of blood later, Paul Simon began to feel the knotty cartilage squeak against his teeth. Paul Simon felt Art Garfunkel’s fingernails slowly detach in his mouth, gradually dissolving into a thick, milky liquid through his digestive saliva. It tasted vaguely like eggnog, which Paul Simon savored for a moment before making the final chomp severing the fingers from the rest of Art Garfunkel. Paul Simon kept his sturdy mouth on the fresh stubs, as he absorbed all the liquid in Art Garfunkel’s hands. A few moments later, Art Garfunkel’s forearms were punctuated by a loose flap of skin, some parched veins, and the crunchy skeletal framework of his former hands. But Paul Simon was not going to let anything go to waste, he sucked on the bones much like you and I might suck on a jolly rancher, until the constant erosion left it malleable. He swallowed; Art Garfunkel gave Paul Simon a proud wink.

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Paul Simon knew the appetizers were over, and it was time to hunker down to the main course. Paul Simon ripped open the mottled skin of Art Garfunkel’s upper-arms, revealing a moist, an all-together impressive set of biceps and triceps. Paul Simon couldn’t help but salivate, he knew consuming raw or undercooked meat was detrimental to his health, but this was a special day. Paul Simon took a firm grip of Art Garfunkel’s arm muscles, gave a solid twist, and snapped them right off the bone. Paul Simon could feel the nerves twitching in the muscles as he brought them to his mouth, which only made him hunger more. The triceps squirmed down Paul Simon’s throat like a reluctant, but fatalistic goldfish. They hit his stomach acids in a cold, fidgety splash. As Paul Simon brought the biceps to his mouth, Art Garfunkel chuckled. “Biceps, more like Bye-ceps!” Paul Simon smiled, he would’ve given Art Garfunkel a high-five but Art Garfunkel didn’t have any hands.

Paul Simon had been growing out his thumbnail for quite some time now, and it was just the perfect tool for making a long, narrow incision down Art Garfunkel’s abdomen. Paul Simon peeled back the core of Art Garfunkel’s body to reveal an exotic and undeniably intoxicating banquet. In fact, Paul Simon was so infatuated with his supper that he didn’t even bother to use his knife and fork. Paul Simon sucked the liver out of Art Garfunkel with his eager tongue, added salt, and let the deliciously pungent filtered toxins play with his tastebuds. It turns out red wine tastes better the second time around. Paul Simon removed Art Garfunkel’s small intenstines, and let the pinkish sausage link rope down his throat with outstanding precision. Every once in a while Paul Simon would chomp down on one of the small-intestine sausages, letting an explosive rapture of de-oxygenated blood and semi-digested food coat the walls of his mouth. Paul Simon tongued the aortic valve until the tease was too much to bear, he swallowed Art Garfunkel’s heart whole and savored the surprisingly unique flavor profiles of each of its chambers.

Last but not least was the brain. Paul Simon had read on the internet that eating brain was best paired with milk, so after Paul Simon pried open Art Garfunkel’s skull with a particularly dense bottle-opener, Paul Simon poured a healthy dose of 2-percent to go with the swimming, translucent gray matter. Paul Simon took the biggest spoon he could find and flicked the briny, lukewarm sludge into his mouth. Paul Simon really liked flicking the loose membranes between his cheeks before swallowing. Pretty soon, all was left was the wet, bony interior of Art Garfunkel’s head, which Paul Simon gladly welcomed as a complicated jawbreaker.

Paul Simon looked over Art Garfunkel’s flaky, drained corpse and billowy clothes. Paul Simon thanked his friend for such a great meal, and hanged Garfunkel’s remains in the smokehouse for some kickass Art Garfunkel Jerky in a few months. Paul Simon was full, and finished writing “The Sound of Silence.”

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