Circumstances Under Which I Will In Fact Bite
1. If forced to in a life or death, kill or be killed scenario, such as you are about to plunge your stiletto into my chest as we hang from the tram lines to Sugarloaf above Rio; or you get me in a headlock as we struggle in the bowels of Air Force One, after I save the President from your nefarious plot. (I’m not exactly a fan of ‘43’, but despite my deep abiding cynicism, I do believe in the Great American Experiment; also, he deserves to live out his life knowing that he was truly our worst president ever. Do you think he even suspects? In his heart of hearts? Of course I couldn’t ask you just then, as I would have a mouthful of your forearm.)
2. If forced to by a cascade of cruelly ironic twists, such as we sit together in coach for twenty-two grueling hours flying to Sydney; we strike up a conversation and become fast friends, with strikingly similar political leanings, but wildly divergent tastes in ‘80s music. Long story short, we crash five-hundred nautical miles from Palau, but manage to scramble into the last life raft, as some fashionista has plunged her stiletto heels through the other (always take those off before you leap from the plane, ladies). Eventually we are forced into the infamous “one must die so that another may live” situation, and you draw the short straw when determining who gets eaten; tough luck that, but hey, rules are rules, you lost fair and square, and I would obviously be really, really fucking hungry by that point. (In a similar but more bizarre twist, we get stuck on an elevator together and have to draw straws. Depending on the piped-in music, I would last a much shorter time before said biting; being forced to listen to abominations such as “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” by Wham would cut my resistance down to about six hours, tops. If you sang the aforementioned song on our life raft, you would forfeit any straw-drawings).
3. If bitten first; say, for example, I draw the short straw on our life raft. Yes, yes, I know I said “rules are rules,” but a man has a right to defend himself, kill or be killed etc., and as we are both fervently pro-gun control, neither of us would have tried to sneak a piece past airport security.
4. If asked to do so by a beautiful woman, preferably while not stuck on a life raft (see above).
5. If stuck in an elevator (without the stiletto I picked up in Rio) with Andrew Ridgeley while “Wake Me Up” is piped in, whereupon he awakes from his decades-long stupor, recognizes the song, turns to me and says, “Bloody hell, that’s me.” (Mr. Ridgeley would also forfeit any straw-drawings.)
Daniel McArdle is a graphic designer/trailing spouse/kept man living in Hong Kong with his wife and two daughters. He presently finds solace in collecting short story rejections.