Monrovia, Liberia 2300 AD

The dead dog lay between us. Its ribs and hip bones cast small shadows in the ghostly, blue light from a Lunar Lamp, making it look thinner and more menacing than if it were alive.

"You're going to do what?" Nalo asked, his voice almost cracking. 

"Eat it," Riabo said, calmly. "Like they used to."

"That's disgusting. And not only that, illegal," I said, my eyes flitting from the dog on the paving of the alleyway to my friend's face. "You're playing a joke on us. You're not really going to eat it."

"Haven't you ever wanted to taste meat? The flesh of a real animal?"

"No," Nalo said, "not ever. Meat is dangerous. That's why it's illegal. And it's just stupid to eat it. You could die. And make other people die, too."

Riabo shook his head. "For thousands of years our ancestors thrived on meat. Hunting was what men did. Real men were hunters, not turnip merchants." He poked his finger accusingly at Nalo. Nalo's father was an interregional turnip merchant.  

"Yes", I agreed, "and they had diseases and suffered from great pains and epidemics. Ebola is real." 

Nalo shivered and I understood why. The old posters and national motto could still be seen on public news screens and Hologram Centres all over modern Monrovia. Ebola Is Real. Plants Are Our Future. Meat = Death, Plants = Life. 

In school, we were shown washed-out footage of the great epidemics of the 21st and 22nd centuries. We learned that when food science advanced enough to make plant-based replacements available and affordable for all, meat was discarded for good. 

We were incredibly lucky to live in the post-meat era. What was Riabo thinking?

The typical five-note melody of a city bus chimed from the end of the alleyway as it neared its stop. The melodies of taxis and private vehicles, electronically rendered pop songs, also played on the warm night air as they passed. I saw the tail end of a soap advert written on the night sky in red.  

We were alone in the alley. 

I gestured at the dead dog. "Where did you find it?" 

"I killed it," Riabo said proudly, "a real man should kill his dinner." 

"You killed someone's pet?" Nalo's eyes were huge circles of disbelief. 

"And how do you know it wasn't sick? Had a disease?" I asked. 

Riabo snorted. "Stories for old women. Meat isn't dangerous. That's all a lie. If it was sick, it would have died already. I am a real man and --!" 

"Ebola is real!" Nalo yelped, then looked around and up at the tall, sleek nanoplast buildings surrounding us as if looking for an escape. I hoped no one was peering out of one of the hundreds of balconies, their Nano-Bands filming the three of us huddled over the corpse and streaming it directly to the next police station. 

I looked at the scrawny dog and then at Riabo. "And how will you eat it? Just hack off a chunk and start chewing?" 

"Do you think I'm stupid? Real meat is cooked over a real fire. I'm going to grill it."

Nalo suddenly jolted to his feet. "You're crazy, Ri, I don't want to know you when you're infected!" He sprinted to the end of the alley, only stopping at the end and calling to me. "Hey! Aren't you coming?"

I looked from one friend to the other.  "No, I'll stay with the crazy boy."

I wanted to see how far he'd really go.

Nalo shook his head twice, and was gone. 

Riabo rummaged in the pocket of his jacket, finally pulling out a stolen LaserLite. He'd already prepared some rags and flammable rubbish in a metal dish hidden in a niche. Lighting the rubbish with the 'burn' setting of the LaserLite, he smiled, looking almost as disturbing in the dancing light as the lifeless dog did. 

I watched as he set the Laserlite to 'cut' and removed the dog's back haunch with a crack and a short jerk. Dark liquid seeped out of the open wound as Riabo stripped the leg of skin, revealing pale muscle and joints underneath.  

I felt my stomach turn. 

Then Riabo held the leg over the fire, setting it on a metal rod. Soon I smelled a strange odour  like none I'd ever smelled before. I can't say it was unpleasant, but the thought of where it was coming from made me cover my mouth and nose with my hand. 

I still didn't believe he would go through with it. I still thought it was a bluff. But he did, taking the leg from the metal bar and biting into the hot flesh, ripping it away from the bone with his large, white teeth, chewing and finally swallowing.

"Mmmm. . . the food of our ancestors. Delicious."  He took another savage bite, eyes closed in concentration, or pleasure. "This is life." 

I watched him eat most of the leg, disgusted and fascinated at turns. Then he looked at me, the underside of his mouth and chin strangely shiny, and offered me a piece. 

Out of curiosity, I leaned forward and pinched off a small bit, looking at it before putting the tiny morsel cautiously into my mouth. 

It tasted awful. Like burnt gloves. I spit it out when Riabo wasn't looking. He consumed the rest of the dog himself.

That was the first -- and last -- time I tasted animal flesh. It was one of the most memorable days of my life, to my great shame. It's the only true secret I have.  

Riabo was caught red-handed consuming a snake he'd killed along the highway a year later and was locked away in a mental facility. We were told he was a danger to both himself and society.

Ebola is Real, and we are so very lucky to live in the post-meat era.