My idea of fast food is a mallard.

Host: The woods were alive with twilight, every leaf trembling under the soft breath of an approaching storm. The air smelled of rain and pine — raw, primal, electric. A faint orange glow flickered between the trees where a campfire fought against the rising wind. Its flames crackled like an argument waiting to happen.

Jack sat beside the fire, his hands wrapped around a tin mug of black coffee, his face cut in half by shadow. The lines around his eyes looked older here — more honest under the open sky. Jeeny crouched a few feet away, plucking at the grass, her long hair pulled back, her boots still muddy from the trail.

A single mallard duck — glossy green and brown — hung cleaned and ready over a makeshift spit above the fire. Smoke curled around it, rich and savory.

Jack’s phone lay on a rock beside him, its screen dark, its connection to the world gone with the last signal an hour ago.

Jeeny looked at the fire, then at the bird, then at Jack.

On a scrap of paper pinned under his cup, in his blocky handwriting, were the words:

“My idea of fast food is a mallard.”
— Ted Nugent.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Only you would quote Ted Nugent while roasting dinner in the woods.”

Jack: grinning without looking up “Well, he’s right. At least this kind of fast food still remembers it was alive.”

Jeeny: raising an eyebrow “You mean it remembers — or you do?”

Jack: “Both. That’s the point. You catch it, you clean it, you cook it — you understand what it means to eat. No drive-thru window can teach you that.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re still romanticizing death.”

Jack: shrugging “No. I’m romanticizing respect. We’ve turned eating into a transaction. Nugent just reminded us that food used to be a relationship.”

Host: The firelight flared, painting their faces in gold and shadow. The smell of roasting meat mingled with the wet scent of the forest, making the air thick and alive. Thunder rolled somewhere far away — low, deliberate, ancient.

Jeeny: “Respect? Killing something you could have admired?”

Jack: “Admiration’s not exclusive to mercy. I admire the deer I shoot more than most people admire the cows they forget.”

Jeeny: “You can’t equate killing with reverence.”

Jack: “Of course I can. Reverence is awareness. The problem with modern life is we’ve sterilized necessity. We eat things wrapped in plastic and pretend the world isn’t bleeding for our comfort.”

Jeeny: shaking her head “There’s awareness — and then there’s glorification. You talk about it like it’s sacred ritual, but it’s still violence. Still taking life.”

Jack: “And you talk about it like it’s sin. But survival isn’t sin, Jeeny — it’s nature. I just choose not to hide from the cost.”

Host: The wind shifted, and the fire hissed, sending sparks spiraling upward into the dark like tiny orange souls escaping gravity. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered in their light — not angry, but full of the deep ache that always came when her compassion collided with Jack’s conviction.

Jeeny: “You think eating something you’ve killed makes you more authentic? That it gives you moral high ground over people who buy chicken nuggets?”

Jack: “No. It just means I know what I’m participating in. You can’t call it compassion to outsource your cruelty.”

Jeeny: biting her lip “Cruelty is the act, Jack. Not who commits it.”

Jack: “Cruelty without conscience is worse. At least out here, when you pull the trigger, you feel it. You remember it. You own it.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re still the one who ends a heartbeat.”

Jack: “And you’re the one who benefits from it without hearing the silence afterward.”

Host: Lightning flashed briefly in the distance — not close enough to threaten, but near enough to paint the trees white for a heartbeat. The air grew heavy, the first raindrops thick and slow, sizzling when they hit the fire.

The smell of roasted mallard filled the clearing — wild, earthy, unapologetic.

Jeeny: after a long pause “You know, maybe the reason people don’t hunt anymore isn’t because they’ve forgotten how to survive. Maybe it’s because they’ve learned to imagine something better — a world that doesn’t require taking.”

Jack: softly, but firm “And maybe they’ve just grown too comfortable to remember that every world requires taking. Energy doesn’t appear out of nowhere, Jeeny. Whether it’s plants, meat, oil, or time — something always pays.”

Jeeny: gently “But we can still choose how much we take. That’s where morality begins.”

Jack: “And morality without reality becomes fantasy.”

Jeeny: “And reality without morality becomes cruelty.”

Host: The storm grew closer now. The trees murmured under the wind, the fire bent low, defiant. Jack reached up and turned the mallard on its spit — careful, practiced, reverent. Jeeny watched him with the kind of sadness reserved for truths that can’t be changed, only shared.

Jack: “You know, people used to celebrate food — the act of getting it. A hunt was survival and gratitude. Now it’s delivery and guilt.”

Jeeny: “Because we evolved. Because we started seeing life as more than resource.”

Jack: smirking “And yet you’re still eating it.”

Jeeny: quietly “Yes. But I can still grieve what sustains me. You think killing something makes you real; I think feeling for what you’ve killed makes you human.”

Jack: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe humanity is the tension between knife and tear.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe civilization is what teaches the knife to tremble.”

Host: A gust of wind blew through, scattering ash into the air. The firelight caught it — tiny flakes of glowing dust, beautiful in their brief rebellion against gravity.

Jeeny stood, pulling her jacket tighter, her voice gentler now.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Nugent really meant? Not that fast food should be wild — but that the pace of life should slow down enough for us to notice what it costs. To cook, to hunt, to eat — all of it’s ritual. But ritual means nothing without gratitude.”

Jack: “Gratitude’s easy when you’re full.”

Jeeny: “Then try feeling it when you’re hungry. That’s the test.”

Jack: quietly, after a long pause “You think I hunt because I’m angry. But I hunt because I remember. The sound of wings. The smell of rain. The stillness before pulling the trigger. It’s not conquest — it’s communion.”

Jeeny: softly “And yet, the bird still dies.”

Jack: meeting her gaze “And yet, I still thank it.”

Host: The rain began in earnest now, drumming softly on the canopy above them. Jack pulled the mallard from the spit, slicing into it with his hunting knife. Steam rose, mingling with rain mist — the smell rich and honest. He cut a piece, handed it to Jeeny.

Jeeny: hesitating, then taking it “You really think this is better than a restaurant?”

Jack: with a small, tired smile “It’s not better. It’s just real.”

Jeeny: taking a bite, chewing thoughtfully “It tastes… wild. Almost metallic.”

Jack: “That’s the iron in the blood. The part that reminds you it was once alive.”

Jeeny: quietly “And that you still are.”

Host: The fire sputtered but didn’t die. The rain softened around them, its rhythm syncing with the crackle of burning wood. The world seemed to shrink — only the two of them, the smell of earth, the taste of truth.

Jack: “You know, for all our arguments, I think we agree on one thing.”

Jeeny: “What’s that?”

Jack: “That eating should mean something.”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. Because the moment it doesn’t, we forget what life is worth.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the two figures by the small fire, surrounded by endless trees, under the slow, forgiving rain.

In the distance, thunder rolled once more, low and eternal, echoing like the pulse of the earth itself.

And as the fire dimmed to embers, Jeeny’s final words lingered in the air, soft but unshakable:

“Maybe fast food isn’t about speed, Jack. Maybe it’s about forgetting the soul of what we consume. And maybe the slowest meal is the one that finally reminds us how alive we both still are.”