Sleep tight, Max the Hunter. Sleep tight after a long night of dumpster diving. Sleep tight while your safari hat slides back on your head, the knotted strap catching beneath your nose. Sleep tight while your frozen orange juice melts in a tupperware container.
We call him Max the Hunter because he’s best at finding food. He doesn’t hunt like with a gun—though rumor has it he’s broken the necks of a few pigeons in his day—but he goes out during the night and brings back food for the rest of us, his pack. He lets us eat first.
If we had a leader, it’d be Max, though he’d be modest about taking on the role. “Naw,” he’d say. “Naw, I’m just like the rest of you. I don’t wanna be nobody’s master.” Truth is, we let him lead anyway, and he’s aware of how much we rely on him.
Started Battlestar Galactica last night. Just another addictive television series to distract me from doing other things with my life...