Big Fish, Little Fish

Through the streets you glide.
Cool white teeth gleam as you
prey on lonely pedestrians,
never taking their offered tokens
of Lincoln, Jackson or VISA.
One quick knife click,
razor sharp slash, then
off to find the next.

Each night, on the streets,
you corner in an alleyway,
some grey-haired man
or woman
or maybe someone younger.
It never matters.
Just the pleas, and the sobs
and then the silence,
better than sex.

They never see you coming,
with your sleek,
swift blade that strikes
then vanishes,
leaving behind your trail of blood,
a feeding frenzy for the press
who almost love you,
calling you “the Shark”.
And you feed on this
growing stronger, bolder.

Until that night
you come upon the solitary boy
walking swiftly ahead of you.
He leads you into the alley,
and you move to strike.

The first slash cuts deeply, but
he is quick and tumbles
out of your way and like
a slow motion replay comes back up,
one arm extended,
and you laugh.

In the darkness of the alley
you cannot see the object in his hand
nor hear the click.
But as you circle you hear the blast,
and feel yourself tossed back into a pile
of trash bags,
and in your final breath
you realize what he has told you.

You’re not the big fish anymore.

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