WARNING: Nightmares may ensue.
A Letter Written to the Trust Fund Babies of the World,
(Please note this is best read, just before bedtime)
The wolves sat around the campfire as the bright moon howled loudly above their impromptu congregation.
A meeting had been summoned at the last minute.
Their leader stood tall as he padded around the fire. His silver hair flashing fiery red, reflecting the flames that danced and sprang into the cold night air.
The other wolves sat quietly, waiting for their leader to speak. There were 12 in total.
They were all vile creatures, their teeth stained yellow, their hair matted and crusted together in clumps.
None of them trusted each other for they had each felt each other’s teeth at some time in recent history. Their eyes shifted from foe to foe. There was a sense of dread in the air.
The leader had called a meeting and he was the least trustworthy of all.
The richest wolf on the prairie, the most feared, the most prodigious, the one who had sired the majority of the cubs. Oh how they hated him.
He stopped, the red flames danced on the surface of his cold blue eyes. Silence hung in the air, beneath the crackle and spit of the dry wood.
“The people are no longer, afraid,” he howled menacingly.
“Why are they not afraid?”. That was not a question, that was an accusation.
For the job (the sole focus) of the cabal, their single unifying agreement was to keep the people of the prairie frighted and suppressed. To make sure that they never ventured out at night alone.
“Our rule depends on their fear not our power,” snarled a yellow toothed beta monster.
“Yes,” snapped the leader, staring down the beta.
“There are more of them than us,” a voice complained. It came from Junior, the smallest, newest and lowest member of their rank.
The leader roared, ripping through the fire, crossing their camp in a single bound. Seizing Junior by his scruff and throwing him to the ground. Fangs dripping saliva an inch from his compatriot’s throat.
“Our only power is our fear.”
Soon Junior lay still and blood not saliva dripped from their leader’s fangs.
This was not a gathering of friends, or colleagues, or even wolves. This was dog-eat-dog, a vile collection of monsters, gathered together and joined only by their hate of the people and the love of their own self-interest.
It’s a strange metaphor but in our world you might consider it to be more like a billionaires club. A small horde of vile men satiated only by their own pursuit of greed.
Fangs dripped in blood.
Goodnight Children. x
Share this post