Hunting Grounds
By
BaltoLuver63
Drip T. Rat © David Hopkins
Silas Varner (C) Tim Rainesalo

This is bacially a little something that came to me over Spring Break as a result of listening to Hannibal Rising for three days straight. Enjoy. Reviews appreciated, but not necessary. . Only if you really want to.

She is lovely.

He stares hungrily at her from across the dim and smoky barroom, his eyes two glinting red pinpricks in the semi-darkness, absentmindedly sipping at a club soda. The room is dark and filled with the shouts and smells of furs steadily drinking themselves into a stupor, some all the way to oblivion. She's not going anywhere, he knows, at least not quite yet, so he allows himself a brief reprieve from her delectable figure, sampling the others with the faintest twinge of curiosity.

A coon wearing a Milwaukee Bucks t-shirt and an earring that looks suspiciously like the skull and cross bones insignia so proudly worn by the Nazi SS of old serves up pitcher after pitcher of foaming poison from the taps behind the bar, his hands moving with the steady ease of long practice. A bear with a shaggy mop of blonde hair sits slumped in his stool, shoulders humped, cigarette smoke spewing from mouth and nose like a whisper of dragon's breathe as he crushes out his latest butt in the already overflowing ashtray only to light another as he downs another shot. Thunderclouds brew on his brow but they do not interest him - this one is old news, so he lets his eyes wander a little farther on down the line, sizing the patrons up as a man does his cows at slaughtering time. A fat, sullen-looking she-lizard sits near the opposite end, sucking down a bottle of vodka as though it were the river of life – not his type. A few stools down, a ancient crone of a badger leans against the bat, trying to light his pipe. Ugh, no thanks….

There is nothing else to pick from then. She is all he has, for now. He feels a shadow of regret drift over him, there and gone before he has time to register the slight stir in his cold heart. He lets his eyes return to her, drinking in her image, memorizing every curve and detail, pressing the image of her into his mind for later, wanting to remember her attitude at this most precise moment in time. Sparks pinwheel deep in his eyes and the fur along the back of his neck rises slightly, his tongue running out ever so slightly as if to taste her fragrance as he watches her laugh wildly at some witticism made by her light-haired lupine compatriot. He looks without fear – for he has long since passed the point where he needs worry about being noticed unless he wishes her to.

He has watched her for almost a month now, sizing her up, teasing himself with the eventual prospect of snuffing out her life, building up the tension he can now feel screaming through his blood as it thumps at his temples. His own particular tastes are of a more taboo variety than cheap wine and even cheaper sex tapes in the eyes of public opinion, but he has long since learned how to conceal himself until the right moment announces itself and he can no longer stand to wait. Blood, still hot and steaming from the vein, is his only true addiction, but he masters it as a horseman does the reigns of a stallion; tightly and without mercy.

A frown spoils his deceptively handsome face as he watches the two of them laughing and flirting under the dim glow of florescent lights, the light in his eyes shifting as he sees the wolf's hand slide out to clutch at the denim seat of her jeans, squeezing slightly. She brushes him off, her sunshine-yellow cheeks going a slight pink, her mouth stretching in a warning smile. The wolf repeats his advances, a bit more forcefully this time, and she retaliates, pushing him away, her voice suddenly loud, cutting through the din. Brow wrinkling, the wolf takes a step forward, tail twitching.

The time is almost here. He can feel it in the way the blood sings in his veins as a pulse begins to beat steadily at the base of his neck. His tongue runs out over his upper lip now, savoring the delights to come and he feels the urge to succumb the need to satisfy that familiar calling…. His hand twitches and he considers…but no, the timing isn't right just yet.

Wait a while then. See what she does.

He sits in the corner, still sipping at his drink, rough hands tracing the ghosts of long-forgotten rings that mar the table's wooden surface, his eyes never leaving the scene, intrigued as to how the situation will resolve itself. His heart skips a beat as he sees the all-too familiar form of the rat slide between them, black eyes shining as he comes to her aid and sends the wolf away with a few carefully chosen words. Affecting exasperation to atone for the shame of defeat, the wolf moves away to brood in a booth by the far wall while the rat leads his prize back to her stool, his blue fur shining in the light reflected off the bottles stowed behind the bar's lacquered top as he occupies the empty space beside her.

Him again.

A slight crease folds his furry brow and his eyes narrow slightly, their fiery red cores flashing as he feels a spike of jealousy spliced with irritation. He should've seen this coming, he knows it, but the knowing does not make the weight of the silenced .45 stowed in his right hand pocket any less enticing. His name is Drip, he knows, and while the two of them have never shared more than a few words between them, each has become and remained aware of the other's presence through grizzly newspaper and evening news television reports. They are creatures of a rare breed, one far different from the ones they hunt by moonlight, and until recently, both have acknowledged the unspoken rules and guidelines that govern both their lives…until a few nights ago that is. Drip has become something of a nuisance lately; going after those he knows will appeal to his counterpart out of sheer daring, and he has born this for the last few weeks…but enough is enough. Gripping the glass in his hand hard enough to turn the furry knuckles white, he brings it to his lips once more, draining the contents in one long swallow, wiping his mouth on the back of his coat sleeve, starring fixedly at the rat who continues to finesse the buxom mink, one eyebrow arching slightly as he makes a few suggestive comments and she giggles and drops him a seductive wink in return.

She may not notice him…but those of the ilk he and Drip frequent are acutely aware to things other more 'normal' furs are not. After a few more comments and another giggle or two on the part of the mink, he sees something shift in the rat It's not much more than a twitch of the nose or an idle swish of the tail…but it is enough. Drip turns away, using the pretense of a cough to look in his direction, eyes flashing. He nods toward the rat and inclines his head the barest fraction of an inch, his own eyes flaring slightly. Drip makes some excuse to her and gets to his feet. He watches with a finely honed predatory awareness as the rat turns…and weaves this way and that, slipping through the crowded mass of mingling bodies until he arrives at the table.

For an indeterminate space of seconds, neither of them says a word or moves a muscle, their eyes locked, each daring the other to make the first move. Finally, the rat slides into the seat opposite him, readjusting his violet scarf as he does so. When he speaks, his voice is as flat and cold as polar ice.

"…Silas…"

"…Drip…"

"…What do you want?" he asks, affecting boredom. "Make it quick…I ain't got all night."

He makes no immediate reply, reclining slightly against the soft cushion at his back. "That," he replies, his voice deceptively calm, "depends on just what the fuck you think you're doing?" The question is spoken in a casual enough tone and the fox in the dark brown coat and midnight shirt seems relaxed enough, but his eyes burn like the fires of a crematorium.

Drip's own green eyes bore into his, the black slash over the right one shining in the near darkness of this booth set so far away from the light and noise of the bar. "Since when is what I do any of your business, Fox?" he retorts, spitting out the last word with a certain savage disgust.

Sparks fly behind Silas's eyes and a flicker of unease passes over the rodent's furry face. "Since I saw her first, you pugnacious little rapist."

Drip snorts, an ugly sort of smirk twisting his face. "Funny…I don't see your name carved out on her pretty little ass."

His face remains as slack and avid as that of corpse who has died hungry. "I'm not fucking around my friend. You might think I am but let me assure you…I'm not."

Drip's eyes narrow and he leans forward slightly, propping one arm on the scarred tabletop. The smile has left his face. "…What is it about me that pisses you off, eh? Is it because I don't stalk them for a fucking month before I pounce?" A beat. "Or…is it maybe because I just don't carry off the sweetbreads and fry em' up like pork chops in a microwave for a midnight snack?"

Silas's expression never changes, but the light burning behind his eyes intensifies as he follows his counterpart's example, leaning forward on one arm. "You pollute the kill, Sadist."

A grunt of mild contempt bubbles up from the other's furry throat. "And you dine on it, Cannibal."

He makes no immediate reply, simply stares at the other with his bright, vulpine eyes. "We all have our little…vices, don't we Drip?" A thin smile twists his muzzle. "How long did you keep that skunk alive in the basement before you finally took the hatchet to her, hmm? Two weeks? Three? The papers weren't very specific about the whole affair, and I must admit, I am a little curious about something…" His crimson eyes flash in a brief flicker of amusement. "Tell me…did she scream when you finally cut her up, or had you fucked her into a coma by then?"

The rat snorts. "She still had plenty of air left to scream loud enough to wake the dead." His own sickly demented smile resurfaces. "Speaking of the dead…just how many organs were missing from that bitch's body when they found her buried under that farmer's henhouse last month? Did you just take her kidneys as usual…or did you decide to make a fucking Thanksgiving feast of it?" He glances back towards the mink waiting at the bar, eating her up with his eyes, his tail shifting restlessly. "Man…I'll bet I could cum in under a minute with her. I mean, just look at that perfect ass!" He licks his lips greedily. "That's a prime cut if I ever saw one…"

"I'm warning you…" A growl like a semi going up a hill, eyes like bonfires. "I saw her first." A brief, savory swipe of a pink tongue across the upper lip, the gun heavy in his pocket, the trigger begging for his caress. "Back off."

The rodent's lip curls disdainfully. "I saw an opportunity, I took it. You don't like it, then by all means, feel free to go fuck yourself."

Another growl, this one almost a snarl. "Don't fuck with me, Drip. I'm not a fox you want to fuck with."

Both killers are stalling, and they know it. This is unfamiliar territory for both of them…and each knows one false step by the other could lead to a very unpleasant situation…not just for one, but both of them. They've pushed each other to the edge of whatever tenuous cliff they've held sway over. Now it's just a question of which of them has the guts to take the first step off of it and risk brining the other down with him.

As it turns out…Drip makes the next move.

"And just what are you going to do about it if I decide to take your precious little piece of ass, huh?" The cold blade of the knife presses against his inner thigh, poking through his jeans and threatening to severe his femoral artery with a quick flick of the wrist. "How then, brown hen?"

"Going to kill me, are you?" The question is posed lightly, almost without interest it seems.

A careless shrug, a gleam far down in the inky blackness of the eyes. "Maybe…if you don't stop jerking me off."

"Ah…." He jams the silenced muzzle of the .45 against the fly of the rat's jeans under the table, finger tight against the trigger, sparks flying from his eyes once more as they burn like molten steel. "Go ahead…I'd love to see how you bring down your game with an empty gun."

"Gun-toting pussy." Drip growls, eyes narrowing slightly, his grip tightening, and the point of the knife digging a little harder into the fox's furry leg.

Silas shrugs. "You have your weapons, I have mine…. Or…" The oiled click of the hammer seems very loud in the suddenly heavy air. "…Perhaps you'd like me to fix that for you?"

A few more seconds tick by and finally, the two withdraw their weapons, relaxing only when both gun and blade are sheathed once more. Another moment of silence passes, the two of them merely looking at each other with their dark predators' eyes, before he reluctantly takes the first inevitable step towards a compromise.

"It appears…we've reached at a stalemate."

A grunt. "No shit, Sherlock."

They lapse into silence for a bit more, both of them now starring at the voluptuous femme who is once again trying to fend off another horny (and no doubt inebriated) barfly. "…She's got a roommate, you know." He says conversationally, glancing back at Drip.

The rat's ear twitches and he looks at Silas, a trace of a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. "…You don't say?"

Silas returns the smile. "I certainly do. She's a squirrel, black hair, green eyes."

"Measurements?"

"34D-26-29"

The azure rat nods, pleased, his eyes shining wetly at the thought of such a…'well balanced' beauty writhing under his more than capable 'blade'. "My, my…that is tempting."

A twisted smile stretches across his vulpine face, eyes burning again. "…Care to make it a double, then?"

The rat's eyes light up. "Silas…you really ARE a sick bastard, aren't you?" he asks, chuckling darkly.

"Listen to the pot calling the kettle back." He replies, allowing himself a small smile. "So…how about it, Drip?"

The rapist's brows knit together as he mulls the offer over, sorting through a seemingly endless list of grotesque possibilities before all is said and done. He looks up. "Teaming up with a cannibal," he muses, stroking his chin and looking thoughtfully up at the ceiling. He shrugs and laughs wickedly deep down in his throat. "Why not? So long as I get to stick it in them and make them squeal for a few days first…I'm a happy camper."

He returns the smile and gets to his feet, hand slipping idly into his pocket to finger the gun once more with a mother's caressing hand. "…Try not to butter her up too much…I'll be waiting by the car."

THE END...or is it? .