The foxes

The foxes breed eggs which turn to milk. I don’t know why but it happens, and I have tried everything.

I tied up the chili bulbs and baked them into tuna casserole as my grandma instructed when I broke the ox. But the foxes just laughed and threw down dominos.

I called the plumber Mario and he came with a flamethrower. But the foxes got away in their bi-planes, and bombed down the eggs.

I consulted with the oracle at Delphi and, as it was all Greek to me, consulted with the oracle Google typing in: exterminate the foxes which breed the eggs which turn to milk. I was told to seek mental help.

At last I decided to try to reason with the foxes. It was December, so I put on my best snowshoes and walked to their warren. At the entrance I called out:

—Hallo! Foxes?

But none of the foxes were at home.

That’s when I saw the eggs outside the warren beginning to shake on their moss patches. One by one the eggs cracked open with the sound of poolballs knocking, and hot milk spilled out. I watched the milk seep into the moss and the moss began to turn purple.

That’s when I understood.

I have been a moss farmer my entire life. I got down on my knees in the snow and began to pray for the harm I had wished upon the foxes which breed the eggs which turn to milk which nourishes the moss, all of these years.

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