The Man Who Didn't Fuck Ducks

The man who didn't fuck ducks had a tragic existence. Very early in his childhood, everyone was convinced he was a duck fucker or a future duck fucker. His parents sent him to therapists who specialized in the treatment of duck fuckers and future duck fuckers, but the therapists soon threw their hands up in despair. They said that under hypnosis the truth had outed. While the young man had been staring into an apple-green crystal of apatite, he had confessed all. He wanted terribly to fuck ducks. Now and forever. The man found himself anathema to all humanity, and this particularly rankled during his adolescent years when he began to feel the terrible urge for a mate. But fathers would sooner sacrifice their daughters on the altar of some unclean god than allow them to fall into the clutches of a "duck fucker like that." So the man lived out his life alone, and it should surprise no one that on his tombstone the protestation "I never fucked a duck" was engraved. This was in Latin, to keep up appearances in the cemetery. Children loved leaving duck feathers on his grave as a cruel posthumous joke. By this time, he had entered into local lore as a figure some began to believe was pure mythology. But he was not. The man existed. Nobody truly knows whether he fucked ducks or not. Because dead ducks tell no tales. They say you can still see his ghost walking the periphery of a small lake very close to his grave. Eyeing the ducks. In that supicious way of his.