Moo
By Henry Goldkamp
Putting on the suit was humiliating. My enormous, pit-stained manager waddles over with the 60-inch spotted pants. “Hold this sign too,” chimes Brian, smiling like a light bulb, teeth full of gaps. He puts Maggie’s head on me—an initiative right to commence my journey.
“Maggie is now joining our souls, Brian. It’s a miracle. I’m without sense of being or self-individualization—a living corporate logo, a new age pusher, saving my generation’s economy. Can you feel it?”
“Yes.” He’s not kidding.
Walking out into the machine gun summer on Olive, I reach my hoof to the sky, flipping off Brian beneath my fuzzy cow mitten.
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The Molotov Cocktail 