“Remember the time travelers?” the velociraptor asked.
“I remember,” the other velociraptor said with grinning, dromaeosaurid wistfulness. “They were so crunchy and gooey and helpless.”
“Not so helpless.”
“Yes, helpless, coming out of their machine, setting up shop so close to the house, raising sounds that would’ve made grandmother water the weeds with her breakfast. Rude they were but with that delicate crunch.”
“What was that, that loud machine, they called it a gun? You’d think they would’ve learned to use it. Remember how that screaming time traveler fired the gun every which way? He was tasty.”
“But I still don’t know what it was. It was a gun but what was it?”
“No matter,” said the velociraptor. “I wish more would come, with their serious faces, their serious instruments, and the way they stood amazed to be here, excited like the little ones get when the garden eaters migrate.”
“I can still taste them,” the other velociraptor said. “I wonder if we could be time travelers, too. Their machine is still here, unused, wasting away.”
“That’s true,” said the velociraptor. “I remember the sequence of numbers. We can appear in time wherever we wish and then leap back. We’ll snatch some of the time travelers, bring them here, and breed more of them. We’ll never lack for that delicate crunch and those tasty heads.”
“Let’s go then. Let’s go to that place they called the desert,” said the other velociraptor. “It’s feast time.”
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