The Skunk and the Lion

I was working on part two of my devil series last night when I took a break to read some of Aesop’s fables. I’ve always loved myths and fables. The best of them come off like the best jokes, weaving absurdity with sneaky truths about reality.

For whatever reason, I decided to try my hand at one. Not sure how it dawned on me (though it might’ve had something to do with my recent thoughts on monstrous felines).

In any case, I hope you enjoy it. But hecklers are welcome, as always.

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One evening, a lion and a skunk met upon a moonlit path. Each being foreign to the other, they struck up a conversation.

The lion did most of the talking, as is the custom of royal beasts. He spoke first of his rough childhood, how his own father exiled him at a tender age. Next, he described his middle years, he and his brothers living like thieves and bandits on the borders of neighboring prides. Finally, he boasted of his many battles, how he murdered a rival and his infant sons, then raped and stole his harem for himself.

When he had finished speaking, the lion asked the skunk to give an account of his own history and exploits. The skunk spoke of a quiet and mostly solitary existence, absent adventures of any kind. He described how he tiptoed through forests in the dead of night, stopping only to nibble on bugs and rats. In the daytime, he mostly just buried himself in a hole in the ground, waiting for the sun to fail. As for wives, he had only two, and did nothing at all to keep them in line.

The skunk’s tale bored the lion half to death, such that he was drifting off to sleep by the end. Yawning, he decided to switch the topic to battle tactics, which were more of less his favorite subject.

The lion demonstrated his arsenal of weapons, describing in gruesome detail how they snapped necks and raked flesh from bone.

When his companion described his own force of arms, the lion was once again disappointed. The skunk seemed more helpless than the calves his harem chased down, when it came time to serve him his dinner. In the midst of what had started as friendly conversation, the lion began looking at the skunk in a different way, and felt a rumble in his belly.

But the lion was wise. He decided that before he was to devour this ridiculous fellow, he would learn as much about his ways as possible. His mind still set on tactics, he asked the skunk his method of confronting danger, when he feared his meager life was in jeopardy. Did he flee with great haste? Climb the nearest tree? Dig himself a tiny grave, as he does to evade the morning’s glare?

The skunk shook his head to all of these notions. In fact, he claimed to have no method at all. He said only this: whenever he was frightened, the beast who frightened him just turned around and quickly went away.

At this, the lion roared with laughter till tears shined in his eyes. At last he grasped the nature of this foreigner, and perhaps of all his kind: the skunk was clearly out of his mind. The rumble in his belly grew stronger, but he silenced it with all his might. He found the skunk’s madness entertaining, and wanted to play with his food a little while longer.

It was the skunk who spoke next, asking the lion for his own response to threats. Once more the lion blustered and bragged. He claimed that he also never fled in the face of danger, but instead rounded on his foes and fought them to the death.

As he spoke, the lion’s countenance and posture grew ever more ferocious. His tawny chest puffed out, and the hairs of shaggy mane stood on end. His mouth began to twist into a snarl, and each word that poured through it seemed like a swordsman’s victim, carved to ribbons by his gleaming fangs. And all the while, the rumbling in his belly grew in volume, until even distant birds could hear its pleas.

Then all of the sudden, the lion fell silent. An awkward moment passed.

Then he turned around and quickly went away.

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