A friend tells me how he went drinking with a buddy who guards a vacant lot owned by Cebu's Aznar family—it had a lot of trees. It was almost dusk—for pulutan they shot down a fruit bat off the trees. This one had a baby clinging to it. They ripped the baby off the dead mother and it screamed and screamed this high-pitched scream until they too added it to the menu. [It's heartbreaking how phone cams allow one to easily create snuff films]. You're lucky, Stellaluna. Tastes like chicken—a very bony chicken. People often say exotic meats taste like chicken—monitor lizard, python, frogs . . . (so why don't they just get a f@#^ng chicken and have done with it?). And why hunt at all? There's better food at the market. You can always get a burger —predator's prerogative my @##—predators kill out of necessity, not for fun. It's hardly a sport—flushing out and killing unsuspecting animals just for the heck of it is not sporting—give the game a gun and let them skin
It's an anagram of my name. Think of me as Just Another Passerby