Growl smelled the rancid chicken before he saw it. The odor triggered a grumble in his belly setting him in motion toward the treat.
Danger was Growl’s entire life in the bayou. From his time as a hatchling, 6 inches long and dodging cannibalistic gators to now, at thirteen feet seven inches nose to tail, and hunted by man, not a minute passed when Growl was not facing sudden, violent death.
Growl moved silently across the swamp, keeping a low profile in the water, swimming away from the western sun. He could see a man on the shore, back to the water. Man was always up to no good in the bayou. He was the number one predator on the water and rarely offered up any opportunity to catch him unaware.
Growl drifted silently, unnoticed up to water’s edge and suddenly lunged ashore, clamping down with huge jaws, then dragging his prey into the water. One death roll later, dinner was served.
It was a good meal. Man tastes like chicken.
Later, no longer hungry, Growl thought, “Sometimes the good guys win.”