There is perhaps no sight as pitiable as a man in a jungle confronting a predator. Thousands of years of evolution going down the drain, and all that remains in the two-legged creature is a primate fear. A fear that is so encumbering that he cant run, he cant fight, he cant even submit peacefully to the fate that confronts him. He is truly and surely, as good as dead.
The tiger on the other hand, has been bred and honed for the kill. He knows his prey, by the slightest smell, more than a lover. His mind is clear, and his claws intract, his ears alert for the most minimal movement of the air, his body curled up, ready for a murderous leap, in short his entire existence is wrapped up in the act of the kill.
The man stands still, looking out helplessly, knowing well that a tiger always attacks from the rear, and eye contact is the last thing it likes. The tiger remains curled up, hissing out slow purrs between breaths. Hours, minutes, seconds, moments…
When the tiger finally leaps, the man is no longer in the body, but has become the tiger. He jumpes with the predator and digs it sharp canines in, pucturing the jugular and gets drenched in crimson blood that is alien now to him. The man, the tiger, kills, and without remorse, without thought. The tiger, the man, stands atop the dead, soul-less corpse, which is just a figement as living and as dead, as the stage where the drama is being played out.
What is dead and what is alive, who is the victor and who is the vanquished is a matter of speculation, after all…
The empty vessel 