Wolfy Chai

Eyes were shut.

The sound of our stomachs woke us up. We obeyed its commands diligently. 

Searching left and right, we first followed our eyes, searching for something wounded, an animal giving themselves away, some kind of weak creature that could become our prey.

We set up traps, snares, and sharpened spears hoping that they’d be slayed when they came near. 

We loaded the guns with ammunition that would easily tear through their hearts, rupture their brains, or crush their bones—anything that was needed to stop our stomach churns.

But our stomachs continued to rumble, almost gripping at itself in pain internally. So we then used our ears. For we could not see anything that was near. 

We were listening for something in pain, something that had gone astray, something that had made a grave mistake.

A footstep in the brush that had gotten too near, enabling our murderous touch to end them of their luck. An unfortunate animal that we could hear frolicking in a meadow.

But nothing came. So we had to change. 

We resorted to the nose, because nothing seemed close. This time, we smelled something pleasant scruff our nose. We inhaled deeply, allowing us the pleasure of being fully engrossed. We had entered a farm where we saw a barn. The smell of feces and animals, pungently becoming close. Our heart rate bursted. We could see our blood pulsing through our wrists, now that we were came so close to getting what had hid. 

Our tongue began to taste it before we ever could see it. We blindly followed our nose, to the barn on the hills. The doors were locked, threatening our kill. But desperation gave us the strength to kick it open even though there were plenty of potatoes and garbanzos covering the hills. 

We heard something move. We knew we had to act fast and with skill in order to make our first kill. Something we could do as it was a familiar thrill. Adrenaline spiked, our hearts now thumping harder. Our tongues, ever closer to tasting its meal. The tip sweating with the fantasy of licking greasy intestines, chicken feet, or meaty thighs. 

Our eyes zoomed in, narrowing on its target—a young baby lamb with his mama holding his hand. Knowing how much you liked fat, you went straight for the baby and slit its neck, sucking out its blood until it wilted over, dead, having never stood a chance to resist your will. Your pupils dilated, mouth foaming, ears twitching. You felt the remains of its corpse—mutilated by your bite force—slide down your esophagus until it reached your stomach, where it sat and rotted, giving off a noxious gas that could not be forgotten. Letting the stomach acid and enzymes degrade it further. Until soon again, your eyes held a murderous fervor. That was all the mercy that was allotted.

You turned to the mother, who was ready to fight. Try she did, giving it all her might. Squealing loudly at the devastating sight. Her baby, lying lifeless, the remainder of him being torn into by flies. 

She tried to run, but the barn was small, there was no where to go. Little did she know, you then took out a bow. Then, she warned all the animals around, to run while they could, before they were found. Letting out a whaling scream that could be heard across town. She was hit in the heart and landed on the ground, laying at the base of her baby’s small hooves. Until the clan of men bound her legs together and hung her upside down by a stick, and cooked her over a fire they created nearby. Where crows and vultures watched eagerly, hoping to get what was left to pick. 

Watching her get torn limb by limb, her ligaments spread thin her ribs licked to the bone. The men feasted, until their stomachs felt reasonably full. 

Before long, the men were out, sleeping on the ground. That was until, their stomachs began grumbling loud, shortly after the sun had gone down.