Warning: There is mild use of swearing so if you are uncomfortable with swearing or find it offensive I advise you not to read the following story
The prompt for this story is:
Dense and/or Obtuse
The West-End Wolves
“You’re fuckin’ dense, Pup! If you duck like that, you’ll make it easy for the otha’ guy to feed you a face full o’ knee!”
“Shut up, Gray! I can block it with my arms, like this.”
“Yeah, okay, and if I came down with my elbow like this, then what’ll ya do? I’ll crack you’re skull in! Just don’t do that alright? I don’t want you spending tonight in the ER, ya hear me?”
Gray’s been sparring with Pup all day, on my orders, trying to prepare him for the turf war tonight. Loud rock music had been resonating from our radio. Chatter, laughter and shouting mixed with the music, filling the Wolf Den with noise. I scanned the warehouse from the balcony observing my warriors, clad in their sleeveless leather jackets with a wolf embroidered on the back, in preparation of our battle tonight. They looked cold-blooded, ruthless and like a real gang of predators itching for a hunt. I check the clock saying it was half-past ten, thirty minutes until the rumble. It was time to organize my pack. I lean forward, gripping the cold steel rail. I gather up my breath and release a howl, sustaining it throughout the Den. The music stops and my outfit howls with me, like a bestial choir before a hunt. The collective howl dies down and I pause a moment before my speech.
“Brothers! We all know what’s happening tonight! The Streetwalkers have been a pain in our asses for months, and now they have the audacity to vie for our turf! Our territory! Well, they’re in for a treat, because they’re gonna have to fight us, the most toughest, most merciless, most wild outfit out there. So lets go and show those pavement licking wimps that they’re fuckin’ with the West-End Wolves!”
A roar erupted among the pack, a roar which affirmed my belief, that tonight we were going to rip the Streetwalkers apart and send their asses back to the slimy street they shuffled off. The Wolves began to chant my name, a unison of “Predator! Predator! Predator!”. They were ready to rumble.
“It’s not too late to walk away now, you can still leave without your outfit in the ER, Blondie.” I said
“Fuck you, puppy. Your turf is ours.” Replied the lily haired pansy
“Glad you said so. I would’ve been disappointed if my boys didn’t get anything to eat tonight.”
I looked past Blondie and saw a gang of thirty strong in denim jackets and black jeans, armed with chains, baseball bats, pipes, two-by-fours, wrenches and anything else that looked like it came off the street. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a pack of thirty wolves stronger, armed the same with the exception of flaring fangs and a demeanor drooling for blood. My pack wasn’t walking away losers.
West-End Park was cold, exactly how the Wolves liked it. It made our hair stand up, only helping us believe we were really wolves. We thought, apart from standing on two legs, we are a group of animals. We’re a real pack of predators.
I send out a rising howl as I break into a charge. My Wolves charge and howl with me, the chilling wind drafting across our skin. The Streetwalkers sprint towards us, screaming. A group of thirty wimps are pounced on by thirty wolves. It wasn’t long before blood stained the grass. Grunting and howling clashed in the bedlam. Bones cracked, bodies bruised and blood was spattered. I knew one certainty from the chaos, the West-End Wolves were winning. We weren’t just winning, we we’re tearing the pansies apart. We were sinking our fangs into their soft pink flesh. I lock eyes with Blondie, a bloodthirsty gaze directed towards me. I reply with flared fangs and an eagerness for blood. I weave underneath his swing, and lunge him to the ground. I bury my fists into his teeth, again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again. I look upon my prey and smile upon my hunt. I left it a delicious pulp of red, mangled and unrecognizable. I lick the blood dripping down the ridges of my knuckles. A dizzying taste of red. I observe the hunting ground around me, stained with the weakness of our prey. Bodies of meat littered West-End Park, most were moaning and crawling, some too weak to say the same. Or say anything really.
My Wolves gather around me, a look of ecstasy only the rush of a hunt can produce. The result of a successful hunt. I raise my head to the sky and heave the brisk air. I widen my jaws and cry a blood-rushed howl. My pack joins the outcrying uproar, resonating the stars above the moon.