Manticore Vs. The Fresh Market
When the lights went out, Kimbo knew where to run. For all his faults, for all his hypocrisy and poorly-clipped ties, he understood the anatomy of a good deed.
This one just happened to have particularly strong jaws.
Wheezing across the grocery store’s squeaking tiles, through the throngs of blindly groping hands, the blasting pheromones of panicked housewives, Kimbo found the entrance to the meat counter, banging up against the swinging door with his knee. He reached out into the cold, and snagged the first piece of soft flesh he found. It felt thick on the bone, maybe a lamb shank. Grain fed.
He felt his way out again, and stumbled toward the source of the growling; aisle four, he guessed. Snack Cakes.
Perhaps the lamb wasn’t the right choice.