They were uncommon in the wild even less so in the city backstreets. The newspapers expounded their unanimous decision — for and on behalf of the people — that they should be expunged. That’s butchered to you and me. At first, the powers that be played the environmentalist card, the It would be wrong, so wrong and God would not wish it so and so on and so forth, but when they expanded out of the backstreets and sewers and into the gardens of the rich and famous their opinions soon changed. The THEY were wolverines, a most unusual plague.
I met my first wolverine or, as my daughter called them, snarly-growl-growls, one mid-winter morning after a foot of snow fell in one night. I’d parked my car, for reasons of personal embarrassment I shall neglect to have its make and model mentioned, further down the street than normal. The wolverines waited.
Unaware of my furry entourage, I pulled up my collar, lowered my head, and charged of into the still falling snow. I did quite well until I left my yard but then fell down a curb I couldn’t see. I felt foolish with a hundred pairs of ebony eyes upon me, less so when I realised whose ebony eyes they were. As you might imagine, I ran.
Running through snow is an acquired skill, and I fared no better than a child in deep sand. However, despite moving at what seemed a snail’s pace the advent of a wolverine attached to my backside encouraged me to move faster. I yelped, kicked out, then ran with a speed I should’ve thought impossible whilst clicking the button to unlock my car doors, as fortune would have it, already gripped in my hand. Kicking two more of the slavering beasts out of my path and swiping another with my briefcase, I flung open the closest door, the passenger side, and leapt within.
“And where would sir be going?” asked a rather gruff voice.
When I looked up to see a wolverine dressed in a rather snazzy suit complete with matching hat, I knew my troubles and societies had just significantly worsened.
To Be Continued: if you, my wonderful readers, wish it.