text: You give the man eighty dollars and he says he'll be right back. It doesn't seem cool, but you're jonesing. 10, 15 minutes go by. You're sure you've been burned, and you're quietly cursing the guy who has your eighty bucks fondling the lining of his pocket. Just as you're about to leave, brushing the alley debris off the seat of your pants as you stand up, he appears. He's been gone too long for everything to have gone smoothly. He's walking at an unnaturally brisk pace, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. As he approaches, you can see that his face is dripping with sweat, and he's bleeding from his left shoulder. He heaves up to you and shoves a plain brown paper bag into your abdomen. He says nothing, and never breaks his stride. Somehow he managed to run straight into you and yet keep walking as if you never existed. You exit the alley and adopt the same brisk pace as the mealer had, eager to return to your car. It's only a couple blocks away. You'll make it. You got this. Relief washes over you as you fall into the drivers seat, and the aroma of the burger fills the cabin with the most forbidden smell of all. Real meat. You drive the hell out of there, following every law you could possibly imagine exists - what would your wife think if you even got a ticket in this part of town? There's an old dirt road nearby, just outside of the city, that you used to ride your bike on when you were a kid. At least if someone finds you out here, you can make something up that might sound reasonable. Nostalgia. You park the car, shut off the lights, and wait. And listen. You can see some cars on other roads - most likley teens necking or partaking of less illegal contraband - methamphetamine, cannabis, every flavor of heroin. Just the usual. You're in the clear. You unwrap the burger. It's not exactly hot any more, but it'll do. You retrieve some bbq sauce from the glove box and give the burger a proper treatment. Shit, you think, this stuff is probable cause for a meat test. Why do you keep it in the car? But you know why. Can't have this sort of thing in the house. She might find it. You've come this far and there's nothing left to do but destroy the evidence. Your guy was good this time. It's the real deal. Even the tomatoes are fresh. Fucking better be for $80. You finish the burger and exit the vehicle with a small gardening spade. You dig a little hole and throw the bag and the wrapper in, and set them alight. It doesn't take long for them to be consumed. You kick sand into the hole, concealing the evidence of your crime. As you drive away you wonder how long you can keep this up. This lie of a life, this charade, this bullshit idea that you're fine with being a vegan like everyone else. Everyone cheats, yeah, you're sure of that. Most people do. You just don't talk about it. The real danger is if you get caught. Because you know. You don't like to think about it, but you know. You know where that meat comes from.