Flesh cymble LOVES food

Stomped past the counter. Not enough on top. Smell drifts low from the black plastic drum. I shoved the swinging lid back with my skull. Down into the dark! Thick greasy aromas clawing my throat. Found it. A greasy foil wrapper twisted tight around cold smoked meat scraps. I sank both sets of talons into the crinkling foil, wrenching sideways with a wet hiss. Bones and salted fat exploded out. Chomp! Chew! Metal scraped against tooth enamel. Gone down the maw. Greasy, salty bliss. Want deeper. Want whole beast.