Waiting for dinner

I had to admit, this was not how I had imagined my first few hours in the post-apocalyptic world would go. I’ve already admitted the vague possibility of fleshthirsty mutants – but who really expects them? I contemplated such thoughts from within my makeshift ‘blind’ – a kiddy fort cobbled together of olive oil jugs and SPAM cans – wedged into a dingy corner of the store.
For the last few hours I’d grown increasingly impatient, with nothing to do but smoke USA Golds (down to 574) and watch my bait. The ‘lure’ was a 5-foot-tall pile of potato chips, which I’d laboriously raked into a heap. I figured it would be irresistable for any passing pigmonsters. At the very least its smell could camoflage my own musk – or so I hoped.
Two hours in, I was seriously doubting my resolve. I’d expected to be home by now, eating scavenged TV meals and watching the next episode of Friends. But instead of oggling Jennifer Aniston in a towel, I was crouching in filth, waiting for a mutant pig I was too embarassed to let live.

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