Lord Morgan’s Cannon
The anteater, elephant, budgie and pin monkey know of only one way to save their ruined circus.
They must seek out Lord Morgan, and his huge new cannon, which can only be operated by the cleverest animals in all the world.
The old leopard meanwhile, fancies taking a piece of Lord Morgan’s thighs…
A work of science, historical and literary fiction. And a great read. For young adults and adults
EXCERPT
The old leopard knew what to do. He tightened his cheeks, revealed his teeth and made his whiskers bristle. He did it again, this time forcing a guttural roar up and out from his flaccid belly, flaring his nostrils. Then, to unsettle those watching, he raised an arthritic blotched paw, and pulled at the shiny new metal collar around his neck. It snagged on his ear, as it should. So he pushed up from his haunches and made the effort to leap down from the red and white stool.
The chain linking his collar to the stool tugged at his neck, swinging his body in an arc. A whip cracked across his black nose, forcing a sharp wind up his nostrils and across his tongue. He tasted hot leather and wretched. He pawed at the collar again, dislodged the false bolt, and off it came.
He was free.
The old leopard roared with purpose this time, baring a cracked pair of canines that still impressed the good seats in row E. He moved quickly across the sawdust, reaching the ring’s edge, and began to pace, occasionally lifting his head to glimpse seat 28.
Canvass bellowed high above his head. Adrenaline began to course through his veins, a drop of saliva falling from his black gums. He lashed a dark tongue across his lips and imagined Lord Morgan’s thighs. They would be juicy thighs, he knew. Everyone who sat in seat 28 had rich, fat thighs, swollen within thin trousers. He was not too old to remember the taste of living flesh, twitching and bloody. He wanted one final warm meal.
He quickened his pace, practising for the evening. It would be his most difficult challenge: how to stalk a prey that had paid to see his every move. How to move faster than the whip, and how to leap the children that would inevitably sit in his way, waving pink candyflosses, obscuring his view of his target.
If he rehearsed properly, and planned it right, he would make it, and later tonight, Lord Morgan would be his. He would leap from the posters advertising this tawdry circus and on to Lord Morgan’s thighs, landing in people’s dreams, their nightmares. He would make the London papers, and everyone would know his name. It would be his last show, his greatest show, one for the ages. Even the elephant would respect him, once he was done.
The whip cracked again, flicking across his tail. His hips immediately collapsed, an involuntary hiss escaping his jaws. He coiled his creaking back, his tongue licking blood off his rear. The lashing angered him more than the thousand before. This was his final rehearsal, and they weren’t giving him the stage. He hadn’t finished his planning. He wasn’t ready to be put back in his cage.
Suddenly he felt a new pain, as a long wooden fork pinned his neck to the floor. The more he hissed the harder the Ring Master pushed, a strut grating against each jugular. He hated the fork more than the whip. He snarled, breathing dirt as a rusting collar was thrown over his head, and tightened. He tried to kick it off again, but he knew instantly this was his proper collar, with a functioning bolt, the one he’d worn since arriving in a crate all those years ago. He spun on to his back, hissing and spitting, bringing up four legs, absent claws pawing at the air.
“Get the net on him,” the Ring Master bellowed.
The black mesh descended and the circus boys tied him in a writhing ball. The Ring Master sneered as they dragged his old feline bones across the floor of the ring, the sawdust and dirt rubbing out his spots.
He could see the Ring Master no more. But he heard him.
“That old cat is so stupid. I want a panther, a black panther. Something exotic. Get me a panther, I don’t care how much they cost. Something to scare the kids.”
He stopped fighting the net, and relaxed. Leopards are cunning, he reminded himself, and old leopards are very cunning indeed.
He would play nicely for the rest of the day. He’d eat the chicken they gave him on show days, to sate his belly and appetite for spectators. He’d lick his coat and present himself properly. He’d walk his cage, biding his time and when the circus boys checked on him at dusk, he’d hiss and roar and he would look the part.
They couldn’t do tonight’s show without him. He’d get one more chance. They would swap his collar for the one that doesn’t work. He would throw it off as he did every evening, in every performance from Brighton to Bristol. He’d hear the gasps, then watch as the paying spectators tucked back into their sweets, stuffing their faces as the Ring Master pretended the old leopard was on the loose.
But this time he would prowl for real. He would beat the whip. And as he bounded from the ring and over the stalls he would scare the wits out of the parents, and particularly their kids, as his whiskers brushed their little heads.
He would pounce on seat 28, in row E. He would kill this Lord Morgan, and savour his flesh. He would taste warm blood one last time, before the bullet struck between his eyes.
He would ruin the Ring Master, this Big Top and all in it. He would show them he wasn’t a stupid circus animal. He would show them he was a leopard.
© 2016 MJ Walker
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