If I Could Break These Bars

If I could break these bars, there wouldn’t be a soul to tell the tale of what happened. Seven days they’ve been pulling me behind these flagellant beasts who aren’t smelling any better as the days pass; wet dirty horses dropping their feces where they see fit, always right in front of my nose. If their stench wasn’t enough, my captors don’t let me out for nothing and my own defecations slosh all over this cage like porridge in a pot. You would think all the rain we’ve encountered would keep the smell down, but it makes it worse and creates new problems. These busted old wheels don’t roll so well through the mud and kick it back up on me. I could use a little of that rain to wash away my own filthy essence.

What I wouldn’t give for a decent meal. A nice big trout would be lovely, but all I get are the scraps from passerby’s thrown at me, if I’m lucky to get that – unfinished sandwiches of tasteless bread or bones with hardly any meat on them. If I could break these bars, I’d eat the flesh from their faces. Maybe I’d lock one of them in here and make them live off the scraps of their friend’s bones. It would serve them right. The man with that cursed whip, I’d go for him first. Even after seven days I still feel those wounds on my back – the slicing and the cutting, forcing me up the ramp into this little cage where I can’t even stand up. At least they give me water. Or at least they sneak in a pale while I’m sleeping, but most of it spills when we are moving and I’m thirsty most of the time. It’s hot and humid now that the rain has stopped.

I must have fallen asleep earlier. There’s a metal collar around my neck and a chain connected to it. I see a city in the distance. That must be where they are taking me. I don’t know why they brought me all this way when they could have just ended me in the forest where they caught me seven days ago. I hate cities. The last time I willingly went into a city I ended up getting chased out, even took a bullet to the rear that causes me to limp. We passed through a dingy little town on the way here; that was bad enough. Every little kid in town thought it was good fun to poke at me with sticks. All I could do was swat them away, but it just encouraged them and their laughter more.

Of course, now in the city, I’m poked and prodded as we rolled down the street. My captors have found a place where they can pitch their tents. They never used these tents on the road, probably because some of them are so big. They left me with the wagons, in the heat, starving and thirsty, basking in the small of my own excrement as they work.

I must have fallen asleep again. The sound of a large crowd, tons of voices all mingled together sounding like a raging river has awaken me. Torches are set up everywhere and the smell of food is unrecognizable but overwhelming. Five guys are walking over to my cage. One is the man with the whip. Two of have their faces painted for war. Four of them have long pointy spears. I hear one say, “You sure you want this old bear out there without any training”.

“The boss promised the mayor a performing bear. That’s how he got this gig. So, when he says get the bear, we get the bear.”

The man with the whip stands at the door and strikes me. I retreat to the back of the cage to avoid getting struck again and lick the wound on my arm. Another man opens the door and quickly snatches the chain. I charge the door but there is another crack of the whip. It doesn’t hit me, but I stop dead in my tracks. Then the two guys with the painted faces start poking at me with their spears from both sides, behind me through the cage. I jump forward. This time, no whip. I feel a pull on the collar and more poking from behind, so I slowly move forward until I am out of the cage.

“Good job, guys,” the man with the whip says, just as I take a swipe at his throat, unleashing a fountain of red that covers me and the two guys standing nearby.

I then clamp down on his face and listen to his bones snap. It’s such a pleasing sound. I relish it and the taste of his blood for a moment, then someone decides to poke me with their spear. I wheel around to see one of the painted men. He jabs at me again. I catch his spear in my mouth and bite it in half. He takes off running like the rest of them. I don’t worry about the others and give him chase.

The little man with the painted face runs into the biggest tent. I follow him in, but he gets away. I’m dumbstruck at first by everything that is going on. People are making all sorts of noises like people do, and there are a lot of them. I see women in sparkly outfits standing on horses as they gallop around in a circle. There are people flying through the air like eagles, or maybe more like squirrels bouncing from limb to limb, but still odd. People with painted faces are running around everywhere, and of course there is that overwhelming smell of food. But none of that matters because I see him – the boss. He's a mean one. He poked me quite often and told the man with the whip when to whip me.

I charge to the center of the ring, and everyone screams and scatters. He tries to run from me, but he’s not fast enough. I pounce on his back and rake it good and deep with my claws. He cries out in agony, just as I did a million times since he came into my life. I clamp down on his arm and thrash until I hear something pop, then I throw him aside and charge him again. This time I go straight for the throat. I can hear the panicked cries of people as they shove and trample each other to get away. I can smell the fear of the horses as they run in circles not knowing where to go. But I’m fixated on the taste of blood and the feeling of his heartbeat slowing against my claws in his chest as I thrash him around like a ragdoll.

Now that the boss is dead, it is time to follow my nose. It leads me to a little stand outside with the warm, fresh scent of boiling meat. Carefully I slap a pot off the stove and what spills out are these delicious pieces of meat that look like human fingers. As I sit here and eat them all, I wonder which tastes better, the meat, or revenge.