Cannibalism at Cumnock Field

Harvard drops a nice little button hook into the back of the endzone. 200 yards away, a thousand crazed child-screams choke on their own phlegm. They’ve got you talking in yards now. Whatever. You haven’t paid attention to this game since the 2nd quarter. You got here in the 2nd quarter. It’s 41-7. You hate football. You hate Harvard.

You were drunk at a tailgate an hour and a half ago. Now you’re sober and sleepy on a bumpy stone bench. You think back on the good old days, an hour and a half ago. Back then there was a guy in dumb glasses and a crimson sweater saying (thick British), “We’re on the bleeding edge [of the mass of people congregated at the tailgate that we are at right now]” Ya. Bleeding sounds about right. Psycho. You like blood?

Your vision is blurry but it could get blurrier. Your right foot is in a kiddy pool full of twisted teas. Reach. Grab. The cold glass presses against your lips but no nectar comes forth. (slurred, stupid) “They put tops on these bottles?” Your head spins around in search of a tool for prying. Your vision is getting blurrier. You quickly decide that you must resort to desperate measures. There is no tool. No one is bringing you a tool. Find a girl. There is a girl. She too is in need of tool — not your penis — that’s not what you’re saying.

You could work together.

You open your mouth because that’s how you talk. She nods because that’s how you agree. She nods because she cannot open her mouth. She too has a lust for nectar. You will find something with which to pry. There are only bottles all around. You pick one up that is empty and plastic. You hold, presenting its cap forth as a wedge. You need not count out loud. You have become engineers. You push your bottle up as hard as you can as she pulls her bottle down. For a moment, the grip of the metal top gives from its glass. But the angle is wrong and the wedge fails. Metal scrapes. Down. Along plastic. Along skin. Dripping red but not crimson. Ruby, probably.

She reaches out and touches your freshly cut finger — not out of care, but out of sick curiosity. She has all the grace of a taxidermist (which is considerable, but fucking weird). You look down and suddenly notice her red shirt — The white ‘H’ emblazoned upon it. Your vision unblurrs and she looks like a witch. A hot shudder runs down your back. Revelation comes quick (horrified, whispered):“The Enemy.”

You look around and there are red shirts everywhere. What are they communists, too? No, communists wouldn’t cut up a pig. Cutting up a pig is decidedly monarchical. That is literally what they are doing. Right there on a white folding table:a half-flayed shoulder, pink sinew, smoky fat. At least you think it’s a pig. There’s a pig head? But that might be a clever trick to throw you off the scent. Because the ‘pig’ scent is overwhelming. There is a jumbled line of red shirts peeling about that are waiting to receive the meat. “Hog!” It is less of a chant and more of a prophecy — the meat is a color you’ve never seen from pork. Hmmm. It is hot. The smell of swampy flesh swirls about your nostrils. Oh god you’ve never seen meat that color.

This is not The Social Network. This is not the Ivy League. This is a den of murderers and thieves. You are deep in the pack and need to get out, back to the bleeding edge.

Everywhere’s too loud, everywhere is screaming. Child-screams. You don’t even know how bad the game will go at this point. The game will be so bad that this will seem awesome. America has a hard-on for this hot bed of cannibals. Harvard will eat you alive.

BY HARMONY AND PUEBES.

Harvard Eats Us Alive

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