Dream ∆ 011
The President was on a very important shopping trip.
He passed by the various pens, the men of his entourage and secret service following his every measured, deliberate step. He read the identification plates of each specimen as he walked.
The Mongolian Blue-Haired.
The Mozambican Gray.
The Australian Red-Fist.
The Long-Toothed East European.
The South American Jungle Creeper.
All of them were too boring, too docile. The President wrinkled his burly nose in displeasure. None of them suit his needs. Too many were sleeping, too many were content to sit and stare through the bars with a vacant, deadened gaze. Though it seemed the fat man on roller blades, one of the President’s favored friends, was keen to share his wine with any supple young stray brought in from the rain. Still, the President was choosy about his new charges these days. He would pick wisely this time.
“Ah, this one, President Sears - this one will please you for sure!” stammered the Keeper uneasily as he ushered the displeased man into the back room. It opened up into a yard, a large and ominous fenced-in barren habitat. A single empty water dish sat in the corner; the rest of the pen was full of nothing but dirt and sticks.
Nothing, of course, except for the specimen.
The boy was crouched in the open, hunched over something fascinating in the dirt. His ragged blond head was bowed down over his work, his feet dirtied, the creamy pale skin of his arm shining through the midday sun. The strips of cloth around his waist was barely enough to cover him up.
The President didn’t look very impressed until he caught sight of the label.
The Exotic White Liberian Devil. Exceptionally rare.
Hm.
“Test him,” the President commanded of the Keeper. The Keeper gulped.
“Mister President, this specimen is a rather-well, he is quite-“
“Test him.”
He sighed heavily. “Yes, sir…”
A few whispers later, a hatch in the pen flipped open. The boy’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed. He froze.
A growl came from the hatch, the jagged, striped coat of a large male Bengal tiger prowling through the gate and into the light, teeth bared.
The boy tensed.
The tiger never had a prayer.
In seconds it was over. The boy raised his knife, the knife he’d been using to trace a game of tic-tac-toe with himself into the dirt. The tiger, his roar pathetically fizzled into little more than a gurgling, pained whine, lay gutted from throat to bowels on the ground. The boy was drenched in blood, his pale face and hair coated with the thick red stuff, his blue eyes wide with the rush of the kill.
The President laughed heartily. “Tell me, Keeper,” he proclaimed, fixing his single remaining eye on the squeamish shopkeeper, “what does he eat?”
“Uh…” He referred pathetically to the bucket of biscuits near the pen bars. “You see, Mister President, we prefer to administer mild doses of sedative--“
The President silenced the Keeper with a curt wave, slipping a thick brown glove onto his right hand. “I'll handle it, Keeper. He’ll be coming with me today. He'd best get used to my presence.”
The President plucked a biscuit from the bucket and thrust it through the bars, wiggling it in the boy’s direction. “Come here, little mongrel,” he cooed. The boy clung to his knife, withdrawing slightly from the coaxing. The President cocked an eyebrow, his lips pulling back in a bemused smirk.
“Come here, little Ripper.”
The boy took a step forward, tentatively approaching the stranger. His dry, cracked lips were parted, his eyes alight with hunger.
He pursed his lips tersely. “Come and get your daily bread. Army food won't be getting any better than this, boy.”
The blond boy leaned forward, watching the President’s face for approval. His mouth quivered in anticipation. He licked his lips, eying the single biscuit eagerly.
And with a swift chomp he tore the biscuit out of the President’s hand, nearly swiping a finger off with it. The thick brown glove went flying with half the biscuit, its innards full of a grainy, glistening black material, a tangy metallic smell wafting into the air. Gunpowder. The boy choked the bread down and scrabbled to the remaining scraps, ravenous enough to devour even the foul taste of stale, tinny biscuits.
The President beamed.
"He’s feisty!” guffawed President Sears, clapping another one of his companions on the shoulder, a drooling toothy monster of lofty stature.
“I like a boy who’ll try and kill me in my sleep!”
------------------------------------------
*All that's visible through the screen is a pale eye. Narrow, drawn, resigned.
It blinks.*
He passed by the various pens, the men of his entourage and secret service following his every measured, deliberate step. He read the identification plates of each specimen as he walked.
The Mongolian Blue-Haired.
The Mozambican Gray.
The Australian Red-Fist.
The Long-Toothed East European.
The South American Jungle Creeper.
All of them were too boring, too docile. The President wrinkled his burly nose in displeasure. None of them suit his needs. Too many were sleeping, too many were content to sit and stare through the bars with a vacant, deadened gaze. Though it seemed the fat man on roller blades, one of the President’s favored friends, was keen to share his wine with any supple young stray brought in from the rain. Still, the President was choosy about his new charges these days. He would pick wisely this time.
“Ah, this one, President Sears - this one will please you for sure!” stammered the Keeper uneasily as he ushered the displeased man into the back room. It opened up into a yard, a large and ominous fenced-in barren habitat. A single empty water dish sat in the corner; the rest of the pen was full of nothing but dirt and sticks.
Nothing, of course, except for the specimen.
The boy was crouched in the open, hunched over something fascinating in the dirt. His ragged blond head was bowed down over his work, his feet dirtied, the creamy pale skin of his arm shining through the midday sun. The strips of cloth around his waist was barely enough to cover him up.
The President didn’t look very impressed until he caught sight of the label.
The Exotic White Liberian Devil. Exceptionally rare.
Hm.
“Test him,” the President commanded of the Keeper. The Keeper gulped.
“Mister President, this specimen is a rather-well, he is quite-“
“Test him.”
He sighed heavily. “Yes, sir…”
A few whispers later, a hatch in the pen flipped open. The boy’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed. He froze.
A growl came from the hatch, the jagged, striped coat of a large male Bengal tiger prowling through the gate and into the light, teeth bared.
The boy tensed.
The tiger never had a prayer.
In seconds it was over. The boy raised his knife, the knife he’d been using to trace a game of tic-tac-toe with himself into the dirt. The tiger, his roar pathetically fizzled into little more than a gurgling, pained whine, lay gutted from throat to bowels on the ground. The boy was drenched in blood, his pale face and hair coated with the thick red stuff, his blue eyes wide with the rush of the kill.
The President laughed heartily. “Tell me, Keeper,” he proclaimed, fixing his single remaining eye on the squeamish shopkeeper, “what does he eat?”
“Uh…” He referred pathetically to the bucket of biscuits near the pen bars. “You see, Mister President, we prefer to administer mild doses of sedative--“
The President silenced the Keeper with a curt wave, slipping a thick brown glove onto his right hand. “I'll handle it, Keeper. He’ll be coming with me today. He'd best get used to my presence.”
The President plucked a biscuit from the bucket and thrust it through the bars, wiggling it in the boy’s direction. “Come here, little mongrel,” he cooed. The boy clung to his knife, withdrawing slightly from the coaxing. The President cocked an eyebrow, his lips pulling back in a bemused smirk.
“Come here, little Ripper.”
The boy took a step forward, tentatively approaching the stranger. His dry, cracked lips were parted, his eyes alight with hunger.
He pursed his lips tersely. “Come and get your daily bread. Army food won't be getting any better than this, boy.”
The blond boy leaned forward, watching the President’s face for approval. His mouth quivered in anticipation. He licked his lips, eying the single biscuit eagerly.
And with a swift chomp he tore the biscuit out of the President’s hand, nearly swiping a finger off with it. The thick brown glove went flying with half the biscuit, its innards full of a grainy, glistening black material, a tangy metallic smell wafting into the air. Gunpowder. The boy choked the bread down and scrabbled to the remaining scraps, ravenous enough to devour even the foul taste of stale, tinny biscuits.
The President beamed.
"He’s feisty!” guffawed President Sears, clapping another one of his companions on the shoulder, a drooling toothy monster of lofty stature.
“I like a boy who’ll try and kill me in my sleep!”
------------------------------------------
*All that's visible through the screen is a pale eye. Narrow, drawn, resigned.
It blinks.*