Froglegs and other peculiar things

When I was about twelve, I learned a valu­able les­son in life. Me and some friends decided to go into busi­ness for our­selves. One of us had read about how city peo­ple were into eat­ing del­i­ca­cies like froglegs and pay­ing a for­tune for them at that. We thought this was a lit­tle odd, that peo­ple would actu­ally eat some part of a frog, but accepted it because we also thought city peo­ple were a lit­tle odd, so we fig­ured we had a sure­fire scheme to earn some much-needed cash. Because if there was one thing a twelve year old, just slightly pre-pubescent lad from the back­woods of small town Ontario knew all about, it was how to kill frogs. Man, we had killed frogs just for the fun of it for years. Mil­lions and mil­lions and zil­lions of frogs. We’d shot them with BB guns, splat­tered them with rocks, exploded them with fire­crack­ers and just plain killed them. Now we find out there’s money in it.

So, we set out one driz­zly, grey morn­ing. For the rail­way tracks on the edge of town. And once there, we killed plenty of frogs in plenty of dif­fer­ent ways. Then, we took the bod­ies back to Josh who was per­form­ing the ampu­ta­tions. It was a gris­ley, grue­some scene, what with the blood splashed about on the rocks, and the guts spilling about every­where. It was so dis­gust­ing it even turned my stom­ach, and I was a hard­ened frog hunter.

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