The Hunger

© 2012 David Jasmin-Green

Through the bland crowd I prowl unhurriedly,
watching, listening, waiting for my moment.
I take my sweet time, although I hunger terribly.
Don't ask why.

I sniff the mixed ordure of the self-styled posh, serfs in denial
and the subtly flavoured in-betweens.
In this never-ending miasma of nobodies
I am searching for a special someone, and not just anyone will do.
Sometimes it takes weeks or months to make a single wise selection,
but today, it seems, is my lucky day.
After tracking you for a long time eventually I pick you out.
You are the one. I know. Don't ask why.

An ill disciplined crew of hoodies shuffles by,
late teens, early twenties, I guess,
arses hanging out of those ridiculous jeans they wear.

The closest one deliberately barges into me.
The insult almost causes me to lose sight of you,
which to a lone predator is the worst discourtesy of all.
'Wrong time, wrong place, my boy,' I silently declare.
'Unfortunately I have to make you pay.'

Challenges like this rarely befall me.
Louts of all positions in the hierarchy
almost invariably steer well clear of me,
though I'm obviously past my prime.
I guess I smell off gleeful fisticuffs,
of bottomless gameness tempered by my father's blows,
of violence unbridled and too many bloody triumphs.
Don't ask why.

I turn, and the gang turns as one, aching for sport.
The Alpha male, the one who found the audacity
to touch me in mid-hunt,
treats me to a broad, broken toothed grin.
The underdogs look on indifferently, it seems,
but I sense they will be on me like a pack of wolves
if I make the slightest mistake.

Steadily I advance towards my solitary foe,
one eye on you at all times.
Alpha believes that his cronies are with him to the last man,
but from bitter experience I know otherwise.
Don't ask why.

Indifferent to my fracas, you almost escape into the crowd,
but you stop to chat with a pretty enough thing
a fraction of your value, so all is well. For now.
One step. Two steps. Three. Is that too close for comfort, sonny?

Of course I say nothing, I have learned not to.
I just stand proudly and stare into the dead eyes of an opponent
a good six inches taller than me.
I am overflowing with courage, glistening with animosity,
my chest thrusts out like a ridiculous peacock
and my determined gaze dares the top dog to make his move.
Alpha tries to match my bull terrier glare, but as I expected
he cannot. No man can.
He looks away, straight at your loveliness, as it happens,
which considering the circumstances
is almost enough of an added insult
for me to slay him where he stands.

In the nick of time to save his worthless hide
Alpha looks away, and then, as is always the case
he wanders off into the crowd with his mongrel band in tow,
tails between their legs where they belong.
“Pussyhole!” he cries from a safe distance,
but I allow him that insignificant affront.
He deserves it, I think. Don't ask why.