A man is seen enjoying a stroll in a thick part of a jungle. His gait is leisurely, and his lips carry a tune. Just a shortcut through the friendly, neighborhood jungle – to home. He seems to be familiar with the path. The twitter of the birds above suggests the apparent invulnerability of the course. The man casually looks up as he walks on.
A subtle rustle of leaves creeps up. The rustle does not sound deliberate. It is as if it were following the natural course of things. The man does not stop whistling, but it is not loud and shrill anymore. There is a second rustle. The footsteps stop, and the lips fall quiet. The man listens for any movement. A dirty, eerie, and slow snarl fills the air. As he cranes his neck back slowly for a look, he finds anticipation and calculation filling a pair of the yellow slits that are the eyes. A putrid smell emanates from the direction of the eyes.
Half of the time, when men get killed during such situations, it is because of their minds. Racing thoughts keep them from focusing on the task at hand. The man in the pickle here, standing just a few feet away from a gruesome death, couldn’t comprehend anything beyond the sheer size, the icy gaze, the giant paws, and the long snout housing a very lethal and capable set of fangs. The feral creature shifts its weight, and its tail tautens. This gesture kicks some sense somewhere. The man is first to take off. It is seamless, as if the reflex occurred in the legs by itself.
Thuds, growls, pants, and the crunching of the jungle floor ensue. You see, when one goes into shock when confronted with life-threatening situations, it serves a purpose. The shock causes your pulse to increase, thus pumping adrenaline into your system. Adrenaline sharpens your reflexes, numbs your pain, and reduces exhaustion.
Our man here unquestionably proves that man is the fastest runner on the planet. His jumps, sprints, and skids seem like a choreographed movie sequence. It is amazing how people behave when their lives are on the line. The prolonged chase between the hunter and the prey aggravates the beast. Its initial snarls had promised fun and play, but now its growls are murderous.
Meanwhile, the prey is running out of energy. The last moment has arrived too soon. The reasoning seems to have caught up with hope. He says his prayers. The beast’s jaws are yawning and snapping at his heels. But wait. There might be hope yet. A tree branch jutting out of a tree trunk and a stone under it. Could that be . . .?
The man mentally pushes all his remaining energy to his legs. His face cringes, fists clench, and teeth grind themselves. It is now or never. He throws himself into an Olympic leap the moment his toes touch the ‘stepping’ stone. Time seems to slow down as if the jungle has paused to witness the climax. Heartbeats pound on his ear drums. The creature’s warm breath hits his back. Its growl sound like a record played at a low tempo with the bass kicked up. Right then, reaching, curling human fingers feel wood under them.
From the point of gripping the branch till the end of landing ahead of a pit with the finesse of a trapeze happens in a flash. Perhaps it was an attempt at balancing the time the forest had lost, gaping at the unfolding action. The splendid acrobatics may have caused you to miss the sound of yelping, lots of leaves, and twigs collapsing in a thunderous crash. It was at the exact spot where the beast should have caught up with the acrobat with fangs sunk deep in the jugular. All that is left is dust billowing out of a pit that had materialized out of nowhere.
A slow grunt can be heard from inside the pit. Spikes are protruding out of a slowly heaving body. The tail has lost its vigor, and the eyes have forsaken their pride. A heavy grinding noise can be heard from the terra firma above. The man - the acrobatic bait - the predator is pushing a gigantic rock towards the pit. Exhausted and full of dislike for all the pushing and puffing, he endeavors to leave a signature for his score.
From the pit below, the yellow slits struggle to remain open. All comprehension seems to have abandoned the owner of those once indomitable eyes. Still, fortunately, the agony does not have to be drawn out. Something big starts to blot out whatever little sunlight is streaming into the pit. Then all of a sudden, a final grunt and a final grind precede the unearthly cacophony of sounds of rock, wood, bones, flesh, blood, and the damp earth beneath.
