Friday, June 1, 2012

The First Tale of Chat-Meurtier du Paris

The First Tale of Chat-Meurtier du Paris
Bobby Derie

In l'allĂ©e de Nuit, the ratters at last corner the hapless female. She sprawls in the trash and grime of the gutters, spent. Her flanks heave, blood trickling from their scratches, every hair standing on end as she pants in terror and exhaustion as the mongrels close in on her.  

A shadow flickers from one side of the alley to the other, and the ratters halt, blood dribbling down on their lips from identical crimson slashes just above their nostrils. Deep growls fill the alley, rough grating barks from scarred throats; the rough dogs of Paris fight for their suppers and their lives, and fear no skulking sharp-clawed rat, bearing their teeth. They sniff and pant, but smell nothing but their own blood, see naught but shadows and their prey. So they turn their attention back to her, a bit of drool sagging from their mouths.

Behind their legs, she sees the shadow flicker across the alley again. One of the ratters collapses with a wordless howl of pain, its rear legs giving out as dark blood spills forth. The other makes the mistake at looking back. The wounded mongrel ceases in mid-howl as it sees its compatriot collapse in a gurgling heap, its throat ripped out. The beast voids itself and strives to crawl forward before something dark and furry blocks out the pale moonlight that filters into the alley. It’s last sight is of scrabbling black claws and looming teeth.

Weak but alive, the female slowly recovers herself. She takes in the carnage of her pursuers, the bloody ruin a raw banquet for the feasters of Paris, and her own belly rumbles in hunger at the soft meats before her. Then the shadow moves from behind the half-fleshed skull of one of the ratters, a gooey orb held daintily in his paws. He crosses the alleyway without a skitter or other sound, his coat black on black, his scent almost undetectable until he is almost upon her.

A heady, overpoweringly male aroma washes over her, and her insides melt. Lying back she exposes herself to her savior, offering her body in submission and reward. For a contemplative moment the shadow, Chat-Meurtier, sucks the juices from the eye, then casts the rare viand aside to satisfy a very different kind of hunger.


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