The One About The Tiger

I'm part of 750words.com, a site where members are encouraged to write 750 words daily. It's a brain-rattling exercise intended to get users in the habit of writing fluidly and freely. I've been doing it for a week or so now, and this one is my favourite. Please be advised that this was written in one sustained burst with absolutely minimal editing and a slight temperature.

Welcome Carl. Let's bring in the Supplicants. Supplicants, say hi to Carl. Carl here is going to tell us his sins and take part in the Rite of Initiation, and in return we're going to do a little dance. Think you can handle that, Carl?

Good. Now first, here's a copy of Waiting For Godot. We'd like you to open to page 42 and read along as we perform. Didn't we tell you that we perform portions of Waiting for Godot every fortnight? Last time we were interrupted by the tiger, so we didn't get as far as we anticipated. Supplicant #5 was going to read Lucky's monologue. "The stone! In Connemara! The stone!" Supplicant #5 can't do it now, though. We're on a strict rotating schedule, and anyway, the tiger ate him. No, we don't know how the tiger got here. Yes, we're aware that this is northern Scotland. Not generally part of a tiger's natural habitat. Maybe habitat loss has shifted the tiger's natural hunting grounds? No, probably not all the way up to Scotland.

I'm aware of how that sounds. But I swear it was a tiger. It roared and ran around and it had all the necessary stripes. Some might say it was a paragon of tigerness, but me, I'm just Supplicant #2, what I know about tigers you could fit inside a tiger's stomach. Like Supplicant #5! Most of him, anyway. Parts didn't seem to fit, or maybe the tiger has a discerning palate. We hosed the place down and gave #5 a proper burial. One day we'll get the tiger and then we can finish the funeral for him. Or her, we don't know. These cloaks and hoods cover quite a lot, but I have to say I enjoyed the sex with #5 more than with the other Supplicants. Probably that vagina thing, hey? I expect it's a vagina thing.

One day we'll find the tiger, kill it and bury it, and that will be the end of #5's rites. We were just up to page 42 of the rites, which is also Waiting for Godot, when the tiger came back and interrupted us again. So now we never start before page 42. I think this play's jinxed. But it's the only book we have, and seriously, it's a play and not that long. Starting off at page 42 makes for an abbreviated read. Can you pass me a light? I need to light the torches, and then we need to spray the whole place with blood. Warm, spicy human blood. Why? You know, I never thought to ask. It's part of the Rite of Initiation, and I think it's in the stage directions for Godot. And if it isn't, I wouldn't know, because we refuse to open the book to any page before 42. Yes, because of the tiger.

Well now, you make a good point, but I don't feel like taking chances. You want to take chances with a tiger? Tigers don't play cards, my friend. Bet your life with a tiger in the mix and it's a good chance the tiger will be going home with the goods. And by goods I mean your dead body. And by home I mean a lair of some kind, possibly a cave or a tree. I know leopards like trees, why wouldn't tigers? They're all cats, after all. Just like we're all human beings. And more specifically, we're Supplicants. I'm in charge here. That's right, me, Supplicant #2. Who is #1? You are #6, ha ha. But actually you are, or will be, after the initiation of Beckett and Blood and Tiger Attack.

Yes, we put the tiger in the ceremony anyway because there's just no knowing, is there? You can't tell. "No man may know the day or hour" when the tiger comes, swinging his pocket watch and asking for a cigarette. Pocket watch, yes. That's how we know it's the tiger. He comes by with the watch and has a smoke, and then he attacks. He's a wily one. A little portly. He also delivers the mail, which is nice, especially in a rural location such as this.

Hold on, Supplicant #24 has just informed me that I'm talking about the postman, not the tiger. The tiger doesn't deliver mail, he swings his heavy paw at our exposed necks and stomachs. There's a difference, let me tell you! "Oh the postman's here, just come to drop off some disembowelment!" That would be funny, wouldn't it? But no, it wouldn't be very funny at all.

This has been a message from the Church of the Tiger.