Fair enough, you get your fresh air and exercise, communing with nature and all that sort of thing and the sex–the sex is terrific. I could go for hours when the moon’s on me.

Added to which there’s the fury, it’s a wrestling match of blood and bone with the hot slop of juices down your chin and you’ve not lived until you’ve tasted marrow, sucked it from the spine that’s snapping under you, shucked a person open like an oyster and felt their insides rush down your throat, feasted on the whole stinking, slobbering mess.

What you might term the viscera. You can’t move for the viscera.

But try cleaning it out from under your fingernails. I’m getting through a packet of toothpicks a month here.

That’s not the worst of it. You want to know the worst?

I’m a vegetarian.