Meat Grows in the Haystacks

Around one o' clock, the balloons arrived, most gelatinous.
All were colored.  All was equal to five.  All were cultures, actively meating.

Julia placed them in a large refrigerator box.  Julia balanced them on her palm, but mostly they rolled slightly like overturned turtles.

Later, after a communal, convivial dessert of poached pears with many guests from the local sub-committee,
the magicians arrived and promptly made blue oranges.
Like all magic, it was nothing to sniff at until sniffed out.
Enthusiastically, Julia stuck her nose into this business.
Promptly a magician held her down and the other shat on her nose.  "And that's how you get party favors round here," said the tall magician.
Within moments Cohen's Drug Store called, inquiring after a lost green bag with squishy handles.
Promptly the tall magician naked to his socks found, hiding in the pantry, behind some canned cut green beans, the lost green bag with the squishy handles, which were just as described, if not even moreso.
With a whittled turkey-baster he shaved his forehead off moistly into the green bag.
Likely it was posted the next morning to an unsuitable heaven by a great shadow you've understood.

Much is not known, as is commonly known.  What is known is that the balloons almost made it by some form of magic to a young boy many towns and conceptual zones away, but they didn't make it there, that is known.  What difference this makes has yet to be sniffed out.

Into certain walnuts, the boy had projected obscene hilarities.
Out in the street under Mrs. Briggs fig tree, he displayed them like prized marbles to his peers.
One walnut he called "Mamaw."  Dimpled, wrinkly with a canyon down the middle of its humps,
this walnut reminded him of his mother, nude, her back turned to him and her face bent down into the toilet.
He thumbed it long. He spun it, clacking.  The peers watched, peering.

He had grown up next to the unionized slaughteryards.  Later biographers would see a certain fateful sense in this information.

Recently the boy was apprehended functioning bodily in early dawn.  He was found in a Northeast-side slaughterhouse less than a mile from his childhood home urinating and defecating in the freezers.
Inquiries made by those paid to feign curiosity with their inquiries determined that the boy had finished a Salisbury steak and snowpea television-dinner, had watched the news with his Mamaw, kissed her goodnight, and sometime around 10 pm EST snuck out of the shotgun house through window-form egress.  A little after 10 pm EST, Joe Hunter Briggs was awakened by the boy who was becoming a man or whatever at the same pace everyone becomes a man or whatever else hurling walnuts at his window.  Briggs and the boy snuck into the slaughteryard through the southwestern gate, at which point, Briggs asserts the boy-whatever began chanting "Meat grows in the haystacks! Meat grows in the haystacks!"

Uncomfortable but moderately interested, Briggs followed the boy into the northside pigpens near the foot of the greased conveyor.  There the boy-whatever reportedly let out a wild cry and oped the gate.  He awakened a large sow with many suckling still glumly attached.  The boy-thing proceeded to ride her in spite of her several indeterminately mellifluous vocal protestations and wild flesh-bucklings, more loudly chanting, "Meat grows in the haystacks! My body feels literally bad!"  The boy took out an applicator of lush red lipstick (precise shade undetermined) and began drawing broad smiles on the sow whilst forcefeeding her walnuts he had named after internationally known pornographic film stars.  Briggs asserts that at this point he left, went home, and reported the event not to the authorities but in a hyperbolic facebook status update which was seen by the insomniac wife of a slaughteryard foreman, who in his turn notified Sheriff's Deputy Cole Truman Potterling, the officer on duty who subsequently found the bruised boy, over a 120 painted smiling pigs, and close to a ton of spoiled meat, including spiced sausage, bratwurst, and pickling feet.

At what point (if any) the brain can be said to be fully formed and consequently capable of "decisions," has, so far, not been raised as a concern.  Likely it will never be raised, or, at least, not in the span of practical time in such regards as these.

For the boy, he will be tried as an adult or as a juvenile, as if these categories had a meaning beyond the justice we wish to mete.  Presently, the boy or man is snacking or lunching on something. Whether it be sweet or savory, undeniably it is like all snacks or lunches; it must be sweet or savory or some combo thereof, taken at morning, noon, or night, or somewheres in those betweens, and if the hunger is small, perhaps it is a snack,  yet if the hunger is small but the fear of not eating again soon should meet with a large amount of food, perhaps, then, it is a lunch in spite of its own desire; and if the hunger is great but it meet with a small amount of food, perhaps it is a begrudged lunch, a lunch that hunger with its great dignity would begrudge most greatly to call a lunch, much less a snack.  So often it is like this and like so many other variations, the dignity of reason appalls at finding an universal ground for dignity and can almost admire walnuts as primitive Venuses and a painted sow as a most becoming rictus attesting of desirable desires.