Road Kill Pizza

Wilbur needed blood.
His longing burned into the deepest depth of his soul. The urgent craving for the bright red, coppery smelling liquid was over powering. He knew he had to kill again.
It seemed he had felt this desire, for his entire life. Sixteen years, he could hear his depraved soul screaming. The anguished cries called to him, told him. It was long past time to fill the ever increasing demand for the sweet red ambrosia.
Wilbur almost purred in anticipation.
In his mind's eye, that extremely dark recess of his subconscious, he was able to see, to visualize the absolute look of terror on his next victim's face
The graphic image brought forth to the forefront of his mind was so vivid and realistic. He could almost feel the intensely satisfying crunch of bones breaking, being pulverized, under his radial tires.
Wilbur trembled slightly. The anticipation built, consuming him, flowing through him. He felt powerful.
Wilbur slowly pulled out of the garage. He turned east, towards the small mobile home community at the edge of town. Heading for a quiet street, he was confident of finding a victim.
Driving idly, his mind wandered. He thought back to the time when he first realized he had this need.
It was two years ago this very day, a sunny, warm Sunday afternoon. He was out for an afternoon drive, simply enjoying the beauty of the day.
Wilbur cruised through a state park, slowly. Ever mindful and obedient of the law, he traveled at the posted speed limit. It was a typical, almost boring, Sunday drive.
The air was warm. The sun shone brightly high overhead, a huge glowing orb. Children were everywhere. Shouting to one another, noisily running and throwing a ball. All busily playing their stupid games.
Wilbur could hear peals of laughter echoing through out the park. He shuddered, involuntarily.
The drive was so typical. So mundane. So boring.
Just like his everyday life.
He wasn't consciously looking to kill. It just . . . happened.
Something like that, the thought of taking another's life, would never have entered his mind. Not law abiding, shy, nerdy Wilbur.
One minute he was driving, enjoying the sunny afternoon And in the next minute, his life -- as he knew it -- changed.
He felt a tiny thump.
That was all. Just a teeny, tiny thump.
Wilbur quickly braked. He trembled, expecting to hear some irate parent screaming about their poor child's flattened ball. Wilbur hated confrontations.
But no one came. He looked back down the lane he had just traversed and spotted the still warm, flat body of a chipmunk.
A chipmunk!
That was the thump he had felt? Surely not!
Yet, there was nothing else in the lane. Just the poor, dead chipmunk.
Wilbur wondered if the park rangers would come after him. He was in a state park after all. Weren't all of the wild animals in state park's suppose to be protected?
No one came. The sun was still shining. The children continued playing their games. No one pointed accusing fingers at him or screamed "Murderer!"
Wilbur drove slowly away from the scene of his crime. His first kill.
He was still a bit nervous and unsettled. The sight of the poor, flattened chipmunk's body made him feel a bit queasy. Bright red blood was splattered in a small puddle. Its intestines were lying a few inches from the body, like a spilled spoonful of spaghetti.
The slaying got easier after the shock had worn off from his first kill.
Over the next two years, Wilbur found he truly enjoyed the murder's. He became a connoisseur of death, rating each kill as a critic would rate a new best seller.
He made the discovery that raccoons make a very satisfying thump. But -- they lacked the look of knowing terror on their faces that he had come to crave. They scored in his mid-range, 'satisfactory scale.'
Squirrels were okay, rating slightly lower then raccoons. The thump they provided was mediocre at best. But, their tails twitched so becomingly, even after their last breath was spent.
Now, rabbits had a very nice thump. Some would even scream in a remarkably human sounding cry of pain, as their insides poured out of them. Wilbur thought it similar to a dam bursting its flood gates. They scored quite high on his scale.
Cats, on the other hand, were wonderful, scoring as high as dogs. Their eyes would seem to glow with a certain understanding of what was happening, seconds before impact. The thump was almost as nice as a raccoon, and they always howled their terror loudly. He could almost feel the sound vibrating through him.
Of course there was also the added bonus that they might be some one's beloved pet. This allowed Wilbur a secondary thrill from knowing the owner must be experiencing some pain, due to loosing something they loved.
Dogs were exceptional, too. They had all of the enjoyable benefit's of a cat, on his rating scale. Plus, because of the various different breeds -- they even came in larger sizes!
Wilbur's thoughts came back to the present as he turned down a quiet, residential boulevard, in the mobile home park. He quivered in anticipation. Slowing almost to a crawl, he scanned the street. He was hoping to find his next prey wandering carelessly into the street.
Wilbur wanted his next casualty to be a dog. And not just any dog, but a big dog. A dog big enough to cause a memorable thump!
After an interminable fifteen-minute wait, Wilbur realized he obviously wasn't going to get his satisfaction here. The stupid boulevard must house animal haters only.
Not a dog -- big or small -- or cat in sight anywhere. Not even a stupid squirrel to tide him over!
He turned off the boulevard at the next intersection, determined to locate a park or playground. Surely some kids would be out playing catch with their dumb dog, on a nice day like today!
By the sixth street, Wilbur felt like he would burst. His frustration was mounting, his desire all consuming. The longing for blood was encompassing his very essence. He began to tremble, the withdrawal forcing his tension to climb higher. He desperately needed that vital fluid of life, blood.
Where were all the damn animals?
Desperately, he headed towards the state park where he had originally discovered his now uncontrollable addiction. The sense of urgency was strong as he watched the sun slowly begin to fall, replaced by the dusk that signals the closing of all parks.
He had to find a victim, especially today -- the day of his second anniversary. But, always law abiding, he observantly maintained the safe, posted speed limit.
Wilbur felt like hours had passed as he turned into the park. In reality, only a period of a few minutes had gone by. Cruising slowly through the park land, anxiously on the look out for his prey and worried by the on coming dusk, he almost missed the dark form creeping slowly across the road.
The dark form walking across the street held itself proudly, unconcerned by the vehicle heading straight towards it. It paused to stare for a moment, then slowly turned its back to the automobile. Wilbur could not believe the animal would dare treat him like that. Didn't it realize he held the power of life and death over it?
He slowly accelerated, determined to teach the animal a lesson.
The animal certainly must have felt the very real threat that Wilbur posed, as moments before it was struck, it reacted in the only way a skunk knows how to counter when threatened.
Wilbur turned to look at the still, once black and white form . . . now colored with bright red. He beamed as he saw the shining, gelatinous mass that once had been its brain.
Then, the odor surrounded him. It was deluging his senses, causing him to cough and choke.
This should not be!
Wilbur felt cheated. Always . . . always, he was able to stare at his victim and allow the coppery scent of death to meld with him.
Gagging from the powerful aroma this death offered him, he drove away disgusted. Such an unsatisfactory kill.
He was so disappointed by this turn of events that he didn't even notice the thump of his radials squashing over a gray squirrel.
Not even the twitching tail could enlighten his sour mood.
Wilbur drove slowly home. He was hoping the fresh air would help diffuse the odor. Driving mindlessly, he began planning his next kill. He knew the insignificant kills of the last two years would no longer satisfy the compulsion that drove him.
Yes, he understood now.
Wilbur knew his next kill had to be notable. Something that would prove to others that he was no longer a simple, inconsequential nerd. It must be something symbolic of the power force he had become.
He was Wilbur . . . a force to be reckoned with . . . one who held the power of life and death.
And he knew exactly how to prove it.
The next morning, he headed to the state park once again. The prey he had in mind was normally found in the early sunrise. Only this regal living thing would satisfy the powerful need he felt.
This particular creature would only deign to arrive prior to the early-morning runners. Joggers . . . those vile persons who descend upon the park in their health conscious, sweaty droves and force all living creatures to hide from their noisy, smelly, disgusting selves.
Wilbur drove cautiously, not wanting to spook the herd of deer he was looking for, with the noise of his engine. He had to approach the herd carefully if he was to secure the trophy he sought.
He wanted the buck, their leader.
The stag was magnificent. His body was lean and muscular, his coat a beautiful mahogany red. His legs appeared strong and powerful -- well able to leap and charge at any perceived dangers to his harem. He carried his head proudly, his mighty neck arched just enough to show the majestic twelve point antlers to perfection. He was an exceptional trophy, indeed.
Wilbur wanted him.
The herd of deer was grazing by the creek that ran parallel to the road. The stag, in all his majestic glory, was keeping watch over his does and their fawns. Separated from them, by a few feet.
Wilbur paused, in awe of this magnificence . . . this exemplary opponent . . . this soon-to-be proof, of his own powerful mastery over all creation!
But his proof would have to wait.
The stag was standing guard by the wood side instead of the roadside. He raised his head, gazing intently at Wilbur. He sent his flock to the safety of the woods when he heard the distant barking of a dog.
Wilbur drove slowly away, feeling annoyed by the dog's warning bark and the stag's uncooperating presence on the wrong side of his herd.
Wilbur returned to the park every morning at sunrise for the next five days, without any luck.
He did spot the stag, repeatedly. But he never had the chance to add him to his trophy list. By Sunday, the sixth day of his early morning forays, Wilbur's frustration level was so high he felt ready to explode.
Until he saw him, standing in the center of the road. As if he was waiting for Wilbur. Challenging him.
Wilbur felt a rush of confident expectation course through him, knowing this illustrious trophy would soon be his. He accelerated. He knew he would need the extra speed for the momentum necessary to topple this majestic animal.
The stag turned to face his adversary head on with lowered head, antlers poised and ready. His hoof pawing the ground, ready for the challenge.
The male deer not only accepted this challenge, but carried it through to the next step. He charged Wilbur. His left antler struck the right headlight. Four points from his huge antler broke off from the force of the blow, and he was thrown up into the air, landing on the roof of the small Volkswagen Bug. The buck's weight, combined with the impact of his landing, caused the roof of the vehicle to crumple.
Wilbur knew this was definitely not a thump! It could only be described as a terrific crash, this meeting of alloy and animal. The body of metal that was once a recognizable automobile was now a crumpled mass. The VW's front window was shattered, its headlights bursting forth from their casing.
The stag rolled off the caved in roof of the Bug with nothing more to show for his run in with the car than a broken left antler and a dazed expression. He shook his head bewilderedly, turned, and leapt off to the comparative safety of his woods.
The sound of the impact had been loud enough to alert the park rangers of the crash. They arrived in force, with the foresight to bring a tow truck and ambulance.
The crushed remnant that had once been a Volkswagen Bug, was loaded unceremoniously onto the tow truck like the debris it had become. Its destination, the junk yard.
Wilbur slowly awakened from the stupor he had been in since the crash, unsure of where he was. He felt all broken up inside, like he was in pieces, scattered everywhere. He tentatively attempted to move, but found it impossible. Something was holding him in a vise like grip.
He looked around as well as he could, but was unable to recognize his whereabouts at all. He could hear voices in the distance, and was able to discern that they were approaching him. Maybe they would tell him where he was.
"Yo, Mark! Hook the crane on up to this one, next," the man called out. "The owner said to scrap this VW."
Mark hooked the cable that would lift the vehicle up into the giant press onto Wilbur.
"Geez! It must a been one hell of an accident!" he said.
Wilbur shook with fear. Just what 'press' were they talking about? They surely couldn't mean to level him down into a metal block of scrap, now could they? Could they?
No! Not him! He was invincible!
He was Wilbur, the all powerful . . . being pressed flatter than a pancake. The victim of a junkyard press, a new trophy for the scrap heap. And if you listened very closely, you would swear the screeching metal cried out in pain.