The Lion King: King of the Jungle

Mangiatori Uomo

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(Amici… ispirazione e disperata solitudine colpito come uno, e così, godono di The Lion King: King of the Jungle.)

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Smoke and flame still consumed some hundreds of pounds of wood despite that the sun had risen. Despite that the sun had risen hours ago. Fire was the only defense against them and it only worked when it was used en masse.

That was why the bonfire had failed. A meager cookfire it was, surrounded by dancing singing clapping bodies. A guitar and worn tin trays were the only instruments they needed when their bellies were full and their minds at ease.

None of them had been prepared when they had come. The first cry was a strangled yelp: a child had been pounced on and was being dragged off into the bush.

Thinking the attacker had been alone, the villagers had lifted machetes and clubs and set upon her—and then her compatriots had come, all dozen or so of them, roaring their hunger into the darkness.

It was only by retreating into their homes that the villagers hadn't been wiped out. There there were spears, spears and swords and guns and even a few bullets. There were injuries—many of them—but the blood on the ground wasn't only human. They had hurt their foes badly, and without losing a single one of their number.

It was almost enough to make the more naive among them grin and share furtive smiles with each other. But the chief, a tattooed man with a stern face, had only shaken his head.

A coordinated attack like that? With force of numbers?

The only reason the night hadn't turned into a bloodbath, a feast for the attackers, was because of their fool who had given the game away and went fora target of opportunity without being bidden to. She had compromised the position and ruined the entire ambush. Next time, they wouldn't make the same mistake.

That was why he was there. His hat was leather and his pants and shirt canvas twill, the same off-tan color as the sand. He spoke the language of the locals with a raspy sneered accent, but they understood enough.

Don't worry, my friends. I'll leave soon, and when I return, it will be with the head of the king of the jungle in my hands. Because he isn't the true king of the jungle. I am.

Now he stood at the behest of a dirt path that led into the Savannah. Safety was behind him and danger before, but with his rifle in his hands and his machete at his hip, he feared nothing. He was the king of the jungle.