Harry B. Sanderford
When Vinny was little his grandpa told him stories of how the old timers could panic west bound pilgrims and prospectors into picking up the pace just by circling overhead. Well those days were long gone. The pioneers may have had to keep one eye on their canteen and the other one on Grandpa's grandpa but these days humans didn't go as far as the corner market without a cell phone, a bottle of water and their own personal GPS, so the likelihood of his ever tasting the chewy center of a thirsty cowboy was looking pretty remote.
Vinny spent most days loitering with his pals along the shoulder of US highway 17 between Peirson and Barberville, just waiting for a pokey gopher turtle or near sighted armadillo to wander into traffic; all the while day-dreaming of circling high overhead.
One day a carload of passing surfers hucked half a cheeseburger right to, or maybe it was right at him. Handout or hand grenade, it was an epicurean epiphany for Vincent. He'd never tasted seasoned, or for that matter, even cooked meat. When he thought of all the Uniroyaled roadkill he'd snacked sans any salty benefit, he cringed. But even worse, he'd unknowingly been on the Atkins diet his whole life and this crusty, pickle chip imbedded half burger bun, this castoff cache of culinary carbohydrates, triggered sensations of delight beyond any earthbound buzzard's bearing. And so began Vinny the vulture's vegetarian adventure.
He took flight soaring higher than he'd ever been before following the little blue maverick with the surfboards on top. He flew all the way to New Smyrna Beach where he can now be found circling overhead on the afternoon trade winds with his new girlfriend, a seagull named Sasha who taught him where to look for kid dropped ice cream cones, and his pal Pedro, a pelican pirate from the panhandle who introduced him to sushi and claims to have dined on every bait barge from Pensacola to Jacksonville the long way around.
Now knit something with that yarn!