Friday, August 16, 2013

LYCANTHRO-SHARK SPEAKS (a werewolf-shark says plenty)... 8/16/13

Sometimes I forget that I can still think verbally. Oh, my mouth cannot articulate true speech, or any other kind for that matter. It can open. It can close. It can chomp things off.... a shark's mouth. But part of me is still human. It thinks. It feels. It knows. And you want to know something?... The lupine part does too. 

I sit in the branches waiting for prey. It's quiet. A pirogue glides by, silent in the night . But I can see the light. I see the lantern held by an old man. He whispers something in Creole French. Perhaps I was once a kinsman, for I seem to know the words. A young one, his son, or maybe a nephew, looks about. There be gators here. Big ones. Fat ones. They say a certain, coarse hided veteran bears buck shot from The War of 1812. And they say right. He calls to me. He talks to me. I comprehend him in a visceral, animal way. How is it I know words like 'visceral?' Perhaps my human part was educated. Perhaps I walked the Rues and byways of Le vieux carre? I do like steak tartare, if you know what I mean. 

The old one smells good...gamy and appetizing. I climb down from my perch and slide into the oily, black water. Do I have gills? No, that useful bit of fishy equipment was not included. But I can troll along, just below the surface, with naught but my nostrils (and of course my dorsal) visible above the water. The young one sees something. He raises his gun, a decades old rifle ordered from Sears. I sink to the bottom, undulating through absolute blackness with my sleek, strong tail. 

The old man chuckles and says - You've lost him.... Then he pees over the side. It's hard to stand and balance in the low-slung water craft, but he does. A swampman through and through, this one. He knows... the salty broth draws creatures.... a big, fat carp-like thing.... some crawfish.... a muskrat... and me. The rich, fleshy scent makes me giddy. The human part of my nature recedes.Thought becomes a frivolous obstacle. But I feel him in my teeth and I want him...

The creature rises toward the stern, reaches out of the water with strong, sinewy, werewolf arms. It grabs hold of the ancient wood and bears down. The tiny boat tips. The old one falls. The young one reaches out to help. But he sees the head. He sees the teeth. He knows the tales and he screams. The old one thrashes about, as the monstrous thing grabs hold of his neck and pulls him down. Four toes go to a snapping turtle. An eye, the right, I believe, gets sucked out by a particularly aggressive, kissy-lipped fish. Two heartbeats later, the creature tucks in, crushing through the clavicle and shoulder, exposing a lung, as it rips off sixteen pounds of meat and bone. But the heart still beats. The brain still lives. And the old one endures, after a fashion, two minutes more... alone in the dark, with the demons.

The young one runs the boat up on the bank, clambers out and races through the dense, boggy, woodlands, frantically waving his arms in an effort to 'see.' Sugar gnats rise up in his wake, stinging his skin and stealing the blood, but he keeps going for maybe twelve heartbeats, til the mate of that first thing springs from the grass, severing most of his groin, a good portion of his bladder, some surrounding lymph nodes and other torn off strips of meat, as he falls whimpering into oblivion.

The two hundred year old gator was safe that night, a beneficiary of LYCANTHRO-SHARK'S cold largesse.

And only the leeches know...
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