I, the vet, am giving my neutered husky stitches.
He, a three-star Michelin chef, is carving radish flowers.
The next second, we traveled to the mass grave at the same time.
He held the carrot knife and I held the scalpel, looking at each other.
"Cooperate, fellow." I handed over a bottle of iodophor, "I treat the living, and you... Are responsible for turning the dead into dishes?"
He was silent for a moment, then took out half a piece of compressed biscuit from his arms: "Actually, I would rather open an ancient food truck."
