The Beast Waiteth

A short on the predator-prey relationship. (And waiting to pick up.)

Like a jaguar - poised to strike - he sits.

The three crisp notes sit beside him. He will return to them later. He knows where they are.

His back is straight against the leather beneath him. His legs bend at the knee; an arrow pointing skyward.

His hands cross at his sternum, and his eyes seem fixed on the moving pictures at the end of the room.

However. 

His senses are - in fact - tweaked to full frequency; scanning and testing for changes in his immediate environment. His mind is a powerful machine, creating a complex multidimensional map of all he needs to know.

And, like all predators, he waits for what completes him - his prey. 

No ordinary prey, this. The bud of a plant, from the hand of a man. No soul must perish for this bearded predator.

He wears the eye of a dragon - a trophy perhaps - loose on a slim digit. He swivels it around with another.

An broken iron cross hangs around his neck from a cheap, pitted chain. He puts it between his teeth for a second, then drops it again. His antennae search out into the night to confirm that which they have already sensed. A sound, a car, a call.

It is nothing. He rests again. The only noticeable change is a slight relief in his features.

Not yet, not yet.

He is already intoxicated (and fuelled) by that which he seeks. But there is little left in his cave.

He seeketh more.

Ready to pounce, on his feet in a fraction of a second. He will move swiftly, and only we shall see.

The narrative will be cruelly thrown aside as he hunts. Like all of those of his kin, he pounces with all he has. He pounces for his life, and for the future, but - most of all - for the taste of the meat.

He pounces and takes what he needs, because it is the only thing he knows how to do. It is the way of his father before him, and his, and his.

The instinct to attack, to consume, it is the essence of his existence. It is his nature, and that which he has nurtured.

Should he have a little of what he has left, or should he wait for the man?

Being a creature of impulse, he does hate for his store to be empty. He could find himself at need in a dark hour. So he waits.

Nothing interests him now but the meat for his table.

His eyes lose focus, but his will is strong.

Like a wolf who thinks only of the elusive rabbit; like a shark, diving deep.

A fist slams the wood.

And he moves.