The Beer Trap - a tale of radishes and cuckolding
There is a beer trap near the radish seedlings. It smells so good the snail feels drawn to it as it is drawn to a juicy radish. It thinks of the final plunge, the last swallow, the sweetness of malt and the comfort of oblivion. Slowly the snail opens its door, sniffs with that part of it that smells, stretches out, one set of antennae and then the eyes, one and then the next. If the snail had eyelids it would blink. In front of the beer trap is its favourite little white snail kissing the snail's best friend, the one that grew next to him in the nest.
I have been cuckolded, it thinks. The beer has lost its allure, but the radish has not. Its friends are locked in a complicated embrace - one part of one reaches into the soft parts of the other. They sway slightly as if they are listening to a particularly melodious and lyrical song and for a few seconds the first snail is mesmerised as it watches them. I need a radish, it thinks. Its foot pulsates wildly as it glides across the earth. The radishes have done well this year - the snail noticed them yesterday. They are large, long and prickly - a new variety from South America. The snail's slime seems to become more slippery as it anticipates reaches them. In fact its slime soon becomes so slippery that the snail realises that it has stopped moving altogether. Instead it seems to be sinking - rapidly. It had forgotten the beer trap. As the foamy liquid closes above its head it reflects dismally that this is not how it thought it would be. The malt has gone sour and there is no comfort.