London. In a shocking discovery made by the BBC, a Hunter-Gatherer was discovered in a partially melted block of ice in a cave just west of North Cornwall. His first words were, "Ice cold! Balls very cold!"
Further investigation found that his name is Leroy, a stereotypical Hunter-Gatherer, ambitious and eager to explore his surroundings. "Not like those Neanderthals, what a bunch of thugs," he later said while having wine and scattered nuts after work. "They won't give you a solid 40-hour week no matter what. A Mastadon could be on their heels. Forget about it."
Surprisingly, it was fairly easy for Leroy to adjust to the 21st Century. He applied for and demonstrated remarkable skills in his new position as an office worker for the Civil Works Department. As would be expected, using the urinal is still a source of difficulty for him, and it should be noted, in a red mark against him, he's been caught several times stealing co-workers' lunches from the refrigerator and rummaging for leftovers in wastepaper baskets.
Cow an Unlikely Hero
In a purely serendipitous turn of events, Leroy was discovered by a farmer who was chasing one of his misplaced cows into a cave. Phil Crebbs, the farmer, commented, "I guess my cow didn't want to be slaughtered . . . Understandable. What gets me is how it knew I was about to ship it off to the slaughterhouse . . . Guess cows are smarter than you think. They must have, what you call, a sixth sense."
As Crebbs was running through the fields and reflecting on his career that culminates in a wickedly cruel end to an otherwise peaceful, pastoral life for all things bovine, he noticed his cow licking the ice block in which the Hunter-Gatherer was currently imprisoned. "I suppose it was thirsty from running away from me," Crebbs admitted. "But then it started to lick the Hunter-Gatherer, sort of revived him. I suppose my cow saved his life. I guess my cow is a hero. At any rate, the Hunter-Gatherer seemed nice enough about it."
The Farmer's Dilemma
When asked about the details of the Hunter-Gatherer--like whether he had a last name--Crebbs sidestepped the reporter, partly because his cow had left a huge, fresh dung pile in his way, and partly because the farmer found himself now in the middle of a moral dilemma.
The point of his profession, his life's work, his source of income, the smell in his clothes--it all was beginning to send little twinges of guilt through his bacon-filled stomach.
"I don't even really like Yorkshire Pie," Crebbs finally choked. "And to think it might come from this beautiful animal, this hero, whose worst offense against humanity is occasionally dropping a steaming dung pile and spreading inordinate amounts of methane into the atmosphere. I mean, we all do it, more or less."
In an awkward moment for reporters, Crebbs began to cry. His cow licked him. He cried even more. She nudged up against him in a kind of bovine hug. She lowed soothingly. A sympathetic tear dripped from her eye onto Crebb's cheek.
When asked for a pithy quote about the Hunter-Gatherer, Crebbs blew his nose and replied, "Can't now. I have to get this cow to the slaughterhouse. It's not going to drive itself."
Which is true. A cow is not going to drive itself to a slaughterhouse.
Now that would be a story . . .