Interlude ( or a little something I cooked up for my Writing In Practice class )

words of inspiration: FLOGGING, HONEY, HIGHWAYS, HAND OUT, FELLOW-WARRIORS

    As the final and twelfth chime of the clock faded away into the wee hours of a coming day, fifty odd figures of various shapes and sizes began to assemble themselves on a deserted road, unmindful of the chilly air ruthlessly flogging their collective hides. Youngsters were eagerly sniffing the pungently humid air to get a feel of the bloodbath that was to shortly occur, and the elder ones stared intently at the two figures, the two much admired leaders of the Sorail and the Neri clans, who had vowed to provide their respective clans with food and were, at the moment, circling each other, searching for a moment of weakness to land the first blow.

     Lyazkata, the fearsome leader of the Sorail clan, his lazy demeanor contrasting sharply with the watchfulness of his eyes, put his left leg forward, exaggerating the motion as if to amplify his apparent disinterest in fighting with an opponent he considered to be his inferior.

    Bankadaat, the brave alpha of the Neri clan and not one to back down so easily, caught the slur and growled ferally in response, "You insolent cur, how dare you prey on my turf? Do you have such an ardent wish to die before your time?"  “I daresay that will be decided by the outcome of this battle, Bankadaat!"  Lyazkata waved a hand lazily, “And rest assured that I am fully capable of sending you straight to the bonnie highways of hell with a mere flick of my nails. And believe me, you will do well to count yourself among the extremely fortunate if any of you human's sons is lucky enough survive the ordeal!"

 Bankadaat retorted by landing the first blow on Lyazkata’s flank, the steely appendage slicing through the tawny skin with an almost eerie precision, and droplets of warm blood started oozing out from  his wound. Lyazkata was swift to deliver retribution. And so it went on till both of them were a mangled bloody mess.

 Children, often more sensible than the grown-ups, soon tired of the sheer repetition of the movements and the meaningless bloodbath and were dragged home by their mothers to be put to their beds. The husbands, unwilling to invoke their wives’ wrath, reluctantly followed suit.

 The spectators woke up bright and early in the morning and hastened to the battleground to inspect the outcome of the battle and to decide which clan would be the one to carry their leader’s carcass home and  which one would get to rejoice at their good fortune curtsey of their exalted leader.

 They found a carcass alright, but it belonged to neither Bankadaat nor lyazkata.

 For it was a chicken’s carcass ( honey-glazed no less ) wrapped in a silly little pink hand-out, which was being feasted on by their fearsome leaders with much gusto, both of whom were looking more like fellow-warriors than sworn enemies.

The spectators, indignant to witness the ultimate betrayal of their leaders, started a bark-worthy rendition of Madama Butterfly, flawlessly portraying the anguish of the jilted lover. But a few minutes into the song, the primal instinct to feed one’s hunger won out and they abandoned their musical pursuit to join the feast.