It was the cool morning that first greeted the hunter. The sun was as yellow as it had ever been. It gave off the sort of light that could do nothing except give life. Blood would be spilled under its shine regardless.
The hunter’s pads pressed against the spongy ground as he first began to loosen his tendons. He was a machine. Every strand of sinew and spire of fur served a purpose. All his pieces operated in unison as he set out on his gruesome goal.
There was no room for doubt in the narrow slits of his pupils. Had he the patience or desire to complicate his world, he’d be a strict Darwinist. He needed no book nor lecture to explain the sharpness of his fangs or the powerful springs that extend his claws when the time came. The life leaving his prey’s form would teach him all he needed to know.
The recipient of his carnal wrath was a fatty, slothful creature. it was unfair, the prey showed no acknowledgment of the doom lingering so close. It was over quickly, no debate nor justification. The hunters claws sank deep into its foods; flanks. All that remained was the waiting as the quickened pulse slowed then stopped.
“Dammit Ronald! That’s my foot.”
Look it’s my new kitty!