Wikipedia says, “The Wendigo is a demonic half-beast creature appearing in the legends of the Algonquian peoples along the Atlantic Coast and Great Lakes Region of both the United States and Canada. The creature or spirit could either possess characteristics of a human or a monster that had physically transformed from a person. It is particularly associated with cannibalism.”

Reid and Eddie were bros, man. Since childhood, since eating bugs they found in the dirt was a matter of curiosity rather than survival. It was like they shared a single dorky brain. They loved the same dorky bands and the same dorky video games and the same dorky underwear, skid marks and all. So it was separately that they came to the same conclusion as to how this weekend would end: in cannibalism.

The dual webmasters of, one of cryptozoology’s foremost discussion sites, entered the forest cabin of Reid’s uncle Bert. Bert was spending the winter in one of the most common occupations for fifty year-old unmarried Canadian men who live in forest cabins, as a roadie for the Tragically Hip. It was all for Don’t Wendigo There, the pun that became a Kickstarter that became an obligation to deliver an hour and a half documentary investigating the existence of the legendary beast demon that was the wendigo, or forever face ridicule from the only community sad enough to accept them.

The creature was a myth based more on white settlers’ fairly literal interpretation of native lore, that all who tasted human flesh were fated to become the pale, ravenous monster whose appetite would never be sated. Better to face suicide or grim resignation to death than resort to that most delicious of taboos.

Yet here they were, in the wilderness. Their thought patterns had been as similar as ever. When they both asked Stacey Marsters to prom and both were refused with the excuse that she was going with the other, they’d gone as one another’s dates and managed to hit .78th base, which was further than either would’ve gotten with Stacey. They’d only have to eat some flesh, mostly for the sake of the Internet, a platform that demanded nothing else if complete veracity at all times. A toe, perhaps a finger. And they looked forward to the chance to get inside the other’s head and stomach.

The subtle series of power moves and posturings began immediately. Reid drew his friend a hot bath and threw in a few diced onions and a gallon of chicken stock, which did leave Eddie’s skin luminous. Eddie asked which digit Reid would miss the least, and he felt that anything but the middle toe would likely throw off his balance and be an imposition on any possible later in life gymnastics career. They shared a single bed and groped at each other in the night, searching for pockets of marbled fat.

The next day, Reid was stung by a bee. Eddie eagerly applied a paste to the area of the sting on his bosom friend’s face (the term bosom friend being appropriate as they had both suckled on the same nipple at once at a particularly vivacious Ottawa Provincial University mixer). When Reid asked the paste’s formula, Eddie explained that it was meat tenderizer, and that he should probably rub it all over his face if he wanted its full effect. It was the famished look on Eddie’s pasty visage that finally motivated the rusty cogs of Reid’s brain.

“Say,” he said, “are you trying to eat me?”

“It depends, are you trying to eat me?”

Reid explained that he needed a second to think, which was damning regardless. He retired to the windowless cabin’s bedroom and sat upon the crusty mattress, when smoke began to cloud his vision. He grabbed the doorknob to find his exit blocked.

“Sorry about this, buddy!” Eddie yelled, “But on the plus side, this should infuse you with a delicate mesquite flavor! Again, sorry!”

Reid looked about the room and found no possible means of egress or tools to assist with such. The smoke choked at his lungs and he ducked below the growing cloud. He stared down at his foot, rusty cogs moved, and, uttering a silent prayer to the gods and demons of the wood, he resigned himself to the fate he had formulated.

Hours later, Eddie put out the fire that he presumed to have choked his only friend off the mortal coil. He pushed the wardrobe out of the way and opened the door. It stood before him, breathing shallow, quick breaths. Pale, tall, blood seeping from the corners of its mouth. Eddie looked down and saw the creature’s right foot lacked a middle toe. A tear of joy trickled down his cheek.

“Wait until the boys on the Kickstarter hear about this.”

The boys on the Kickstarter never heard about it, and eventually, everyone’s donations were refunded, which is as happy an ending as anyone could hope.


The Higgs Weldon is a humor website with funny stories, articles, cartoons, and one liners. It was started by the Los Angeles stand-up comedy community, but takes submissions from everybody. Please read and enjoy our jokes!


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