Mad Milkshake

The wanderer pushed his goggles up his forehead, wiping dirt from the corners of his eyes. There, in the middle of the deserted town, stood a perfect milkshake on a steel table. It even had a cherry on top. The wanderer ran his tongue over chapped lips. It was too good to be true, but he didn’t care. He’d been stumbling for days since his buggy ran out of gas. Might as well. He reached out.

The gunshot broke the silence of the desert. High on the water tower, camouflaged under netting, the hunter slid the bolt of his rifle back, sending a brass casing spiralling down below. “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard,” he grinned, then his boot clunked on the top rung of the ladder.

“I’m not trying to trick ’em,” he said to himself when he reached the corpse and started flipping through the pockets. “I just let ’em die happy.” He picked up the frosty glass. “They all said they made a better glass. They’re like, it’s better than yours.” He took a long gulp. “I still say that’s a damn fine milkshake.”

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