He gazed upon the decimation as would a lion upon a wounded gazelle. Broken forms strewn across the landscape only served to heighten his sense of urgency, his appetite insatiable. Without pity, without mercy, the process had become monotonous, yet he did not bore or tire. As the piles of used shells grew, he was left with only one thought–where his life would turn when his task was completed. But rather than regret the fact that his efficiencies were the cause of his inevitable obsolescence, it gave him more pride in his craft.

With a smirk of triumph did he find the last one, hiding underneath the carcasses of his comrades in a vain and desperate hope of escape. Such tricks would not work. Such tricks only added to the satisfaction of the hunt. In a moment, it was over. The man gently dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin and then left as he came, the carnage displayed proudly on the table for all to see.

I like eating clams because it’s a power trip. Does that make me a bad person?