Dawn, and there's an early-bird strutting his stuff outside the window, bellowing his lungs out. Full of himself this little tinpot dictator. Thinks nothing can touch him. Nothing can bring him down. Course, he can't see next door's moggy, tail tip twitching, green eyes fixed in a hunter's baleful glare.

The cat leaps, a flurry of feathers, an undignified squawk, and the dictator is no more. Nothing but a slack corpse between bloodstained lips. Conquered.

Ray's hand grips my shoulder, fingers digging deep into the muscle, his body quivering with tension. "Anything?"

I shrug. Some things are best left unspoken.

-- THE END --

July 2006