Tyra Banks ran through the forest swiftly, barely even stopping to smell the dirt under her bare feet or eat any of the berries off of the bushes that were scratching her bare legs. She was too busy having the madness! There was foam pouring from her mouth. Rabies foam! She was infested with rabies, her whole body. Her eyes were bloodshot and her lips were ringed with the viscera of the animals she had attacked in the night. She let out a savage, animalistic shriek that echoed through the forest. In its wake, you could hear the panicked scampering of the forest creatures. They wanted to get away from her! She was dangerous!
“I HAVE THE RABIES!” Tyra screamed.
Of course, there was a time when Tyra Banks didn’t have rabies. She used to be a beautiful human being. Stupid, yes. Incredibly stupid. Probably a jerk, too. Almost definitely a jerk. But a physically beautiful human being with a talk show and without rabies. But now she had rabies. Before, she would eat in restaurants, and sleep in a human bed. Now she ran through the forest attacking things, and she slept in a swamp. (The swamp is next to the forest, everyone knows that.)
Tyra Banks ate a squirrel raw.
Farmers swarmed the forest with their shotguns. They wanted to put down this wild animal! They also wanted to see a celebrity! There was not a lot to do in the town near the forest. Most of their time was spent drinking and arguing with their wives and then drinking some more with friends and complaining about the arguments. It wasn’t a bad life, but everyone likes a little excitement from time to time.
“Be careful,” one of the farmers said. “Don’t let her bite you.”
“I’d let her bite me if she wanted,” one of the farmers said. The other farmers laughed. The farmer who made the joke thought about the story he could tell if Tyra Banks were to bite him. It was the kind of story that made a man. He could picture himself down at the bar, or at the factory, or at the bowling alley, other guys gathered around him. Many of them would have already heard it, but they’d be eager for him to tell again of the time that Tyra Banks, dripping with rabies, bit him on the arm (or maybe the face!!!). Of course, the story would be harder and harder to tell as the rabies seized control of his faculties and drove him into a violent rage. But maybe, he thought, maybe he could just move into the forest and have rabies with Tyra Banks. They would run through the forest screaming and biting together. Maybe a rabbit would marry them.
Just then, a shot rang out through the forest. Birds flew from the trees, and the blast echoed for what felt like an eternity. And then a silence fell over the forest, and hung there like a shroud. It was only broken by the sandpaper voice of one of the hunters.
“Got her,” he said.
“Well,” the one farmer thought, smiling to himself but actually feeling a little sad in ways that surprised him. “I guess I’m not going to get forest-married to a rabies-infected Tyra Banks by some tiny woodland creature in a perfectly fitted animal tuxedo today.” And then he sighed, tasting the morning’s whiskey on his own breath.