Human. It's what's for dinner.
Squirrels frolic in a fairly pristine land - only slightly marred by the decrepit, skeletal wooden tent frames spaced every twenty or so feet - that comes equipped with a gently flowing river. One cocks its head, trying to zero in on an unnatural sound. All of a sudden, a group of five SUVs rolls into view. They halt and promptly vomit out twelve teenagers, most of whom immediately start squabbling about where they'll sleep. From its vantage point in a nearby tree, the squirrel hears cries of "We're over here!", "No, we're over here!", and "I got here first!", and climbs higher into its leafy fortress.
Having laid down the boundaries of their respective territories, the youngsters look around for something to destroy. One reveals a large saw, which they all happily put to work. The end product of their labor is a log twice as long as a grown man is high and just as wide, on which they promptly sprinkle kindling and lit matches.
They continue in this behavior for about thirty minutes before one of them realizes that it's not actually *working*, at which point the mob decides to scout around for kindling and tinder, and, while they're at it, small twigs. A shirt is sacrificed for the good of the fire. After much pushing and wheezing, the log is discarded and a flickering yellow flame is coaxed from the smoldering fabric, whereupon the children immediately get out their chairs and, having done everything they can think of to prepare for the oncoming evening, sit down and let their eyes wander, searching for something to destroy. One of them pipes up, saying that perhaps it was a little overkill to create a blazing inferno at noon when they won't start cooking until six hours after, but he is quickly silenced by the rest and never heard from again.
Time passes, during which some actual work is done, surprisingly enough.
The sun pierces through the foliage and drives its way through their corneas. It is almost nightfall. Stomachs growl; the assigned cook hasn't arrived with supplies. The light and rumbling suddenly grow more intense, and a lone child trudges out of the depths of a vehicle that was not there five minutes ago. He is almost overcome by the glares of hatred that are shot at him, but a few are too hungry to be angry and smile at their quartermaster, and - although he swoons and nearly drops the crate that he is carrying - he makes it to the circle of chairs. Someone fetches a bucket the size of a small wading pool, while several others wrestle a few jugs of water over to the fire. The recently arrived box is cracked open by sheer willpower, and a stack of approximately seventy-five small plastic packages is revealed. They are ravenously torn open and their contents are dashed into the nearby bucket. The water is poured in as well, along with the cargo of the smaller plastic packets contained in each of the larger packages. A child fetches some fire tongs and a shovel, both of which are used to stir the gunk in the kettle, and several of the sturdier adolescents grab the thing and place it in the middle of the fire, which has by now burnt down to embers.
They wait. Some grab bowls. Utensils are taboo.
The removal of the pail is attempted. After the burn wounds are nursed, steel bars are slid under the pot and it is lifted up and to the side before the heat travels down to the youths' hands. The bowls are brought forth and steaming hunks of Ramen noodle are forked out of the bucket. Some, after waiting for cooling to occur, simply dart their hands into the mass, snag a few strands of the sludge, and shove it into their mouths. A good time is had by all.
More time passes, during which nearly all of the Ramen is devoured and the campers fashion at least twenty torches. They grab the things - merely long sticks with masses of toilet paper the size of a man's head tied to one end - and, having lit them on fire, one by one throw them solemnly off the edge of the cliff for no readily apparent reason. It is now night and they again hunger. Time for dessert.
Tortillas are brought forth, piles of them, and are ripped into shreds which are then deposited into a nearby Dutch oven. Several sticks of butter are unwrapped and thrown in, along with roughly three quarters of a pound of brown sugar and one quarter pound of cinnamon. The container is placed on the fire and, once the butter has melted, is quickly removed via a handy metal bar that almost seems as if it was made for such a purpose. One can almost hear the sound of arteries clanging shut at the sight of the, for lack of a better word, food. It is all eaten.
One camper goes over to the cliff and attempts, for five minutes, to skip rocks on the river below. Considering that there is a sheer drop of thirty feet to the water and that the child can't skip rocks anyway, he does pretty well. He enjoys the sound of silence, then realizes that he's sitting twenty-five feet away from his brethren - silence cannot be a good thing. He gets up and walks back over to the circle of chairs. The words "It'll take a little while to melt through the plastic" greet his ears. He is about to ask what the speaker is referring to when he hears a small popping sound and a massive ball of flame rushes from the embers, almost as if it were trying to give its target a hug. It stops within several inches of the face of a nearby teenager, who - once the fireball has dissipated - slowly falls over backwards, missing a bit of eyebrow.
It is even later at night. It has been decreed that a monumental fire will be built and lit by torches, which the kids are now skilled at crafting. A special torch is created, made of toilet paper drenched in cooking oil and held together by twine and tree bark. One camper inserts small firecrackers while the rest aren't looking. The youngsters line up in two rows, forming a hall of people, through which the torchbearer walks. He flinches once or twice as the gunpowder in his instrument detonates unexpectedly, but continues on and thrusts the stick into the awaiting bonfire. More eyebrows are lost.
True story.
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