Wesley Zurovec
A blood-soaked lion tears into a carcass behind the burnt-out gas station. I’d like to think it’s devouring a dead drug dealer, but I know that’s not true. Across the yard, a pack of dogs whine in their cramped cage, awaiting their fate. Augie’s in there, terrified, I’m sure. I hope he can sense help is on the way.
The crack of a bullwhip announces lunchtime is over. The big cat tears off a hind leg and saunters back to its corner. I shove the binoculars back into my utility belt, let loose a couple of high-pitched squirrel-barks, and put on my mask.
It’s go time.
I get about three steps down the hill before a hand grabs my shoulder and forces me into a burlap sack. Ugh. It must be one of those drug-dealing, dog-snatching, lion-loving goons.
He carries the sack down to the gas station and dumps me onto the concrete. The air is smokey yet skunky. Stacks of cash, glass pipes, and green baggies are strewn everywhere.
“Little girl’s been spying on us, boss,” says the goon.
The boss inhales. “What’s with the picnic blanket?”
“You mean cape?” I ask.
He exhales. “Oh. What’s with the cape?”
“I’m Super Squirrel. And I demand you let my poodle go.”
“Or else what?”
“I’ll bury you like a nut.”
“I’m sorry, but… my cat must eat.”
This guy clearly isn’t taking me seriously, so I stomp on a glass pipe, sending shards into his ankle. “My poodle is not a cat snack!” I shout. That gets his attention, alright, and it’s back in the sack for me.
“Fine. Release the poodle… but throw squirrelly girl to the lion.”
The goon carries me outside. I start squirrel-barking like crazy. Eventually, a softball-sized rock falls from a tree and conks the goon on the head. I spill out of the sack onto the gravel where a squirrel is waiting. “Thanks, Brownie,” I say in Squirrelish. I yank the keys from the unconscious oaf, unlock the main gate, and open the canine cage. Dogs pour into the yard and race for the exit. Augie’s about to lick my face, but the familiar crack of a bullwhip ruins the moment.
“Nice try, Super Rat,” says the boss.
“It’s Super Squirrel,” I say.
“Whatever. Time to die.” He slams the gate and rings a tiny dinner bell. Here comes the lion.
The boss smiles.
The lion licks its lips.
Augie wets himself.
I make like a frightened squirrel: kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk!
At my signal, forty-some-odd squirrels fly out of the trees and swarm the boss like he’s a giant corn-on-the-cob, biting and nipping him nearly half to death. Stunned by the horror of it all, the lion bolts back to its corner. I grab the whip, make for the gate, and issue a guttural quaaaaaaaaaaaaaa to send the squirrels back into the trees before they kill the boss.
It only seems right to let the lion gnaw his face off. Like the boss said, the cat must eat.
Wesley Zurovec lives in Austin, Texas, where he devotes time to writing short fiction, playing board games, and coaching youth sports. His stories have appeared in Roi Fainéant Press; ScribesMICRO; Bullet Points; Suddenly, and Without Warning; and other publications. Find him on X @WRZurovec.
Featured photo by Sean P. Twomey (Pexels)
