As I lay starving on my cold, hard floor, wracked with hunger-induced hallucinations, the frantic sound of the doorbell jarred me to my senses.

Mustering the last dregs of my strength, I feebly opened the door and dully took in the styrofoam cooler, sent by none other than Prescott Frost, organic beef-seller extraordinaire.

This hormone-free, grass-fed beef was to be my salvation.

I dumped open the meaty contents of said cooler with a weak cry of joy. My eyes slowly focused on the frozen cow flesh (organic ground beef [not to be confused with organic spices] and nitrate free hot dogs, to be precise).

A guttural, animal-like moan escaped my parched lips as my stomach growled in fierce anticipation of the feast-to-be.

After slamming the pasture-raised beef hot diggities directly onto my stove top and allowing them to cook to perfection, I could wait no more. I stuffed the tasty delicacies into my gaping maw, chomping ferociously, with a mad gleam of pleasure sparkling in my eyes.

Although the hot dogs were a tad bit tough, they had a great taste, unmatched in other hot dogs I’ve had the privilege of trying.

My hunger, as yet unsated, avariciously demanded I tear open the package containing the hormone-free ground beef. I paused to behold the ground-up cow in all its glory.

With a victorious whoop, I tossed the pattied-out organic beef onto the ol’ George Foreman, which began emitting a satisfying sizzling. Within minutes, I had pulled this masterpiece of a hamburger from the clutches of the ex-boxer’s grill.

If the taste of this magnificent pasture-raised hamburger was anything to go by, Prescott Frost had raised this cow right.

As gracious tears streaked down my unwashed face, I found myself vowing to let everyone know that if they want some superb, grass-fed, organic beef (without any crazy hormones), then they should turn to Prescott Frost.

Epilogue:
Also in the cooler was some dry ice that I chucked into a pan of water to create an awesome smoke effect. Very mondo.