A moistening of eyes prompted by children clothed in camouflage. Cute li’l dumplins, hiding from yourselves, may you be sugary in your long-lostness, may the sugar descend upon my tender buds of taste, best buds, we are—it’s the challenge of hunting the hunter, with his functional blackface and artificial leaves, a net of propriety leading me to the hillbilly mansions where even sheets are made of camo, where everyone is hiding in the open and where all shall witness. Don’t challenge me, just watch me like your favorite show, watch me as I devour your idols with my semi-automatic teeth. Your parents—if you can love these people, you deserve to remember this.