Only reason this episode's in the can is that it was simple

Yet again, I didn't plan on composing a new chapter for my work-in-progress, the fake novel BRYAN THE TYGER, but the idea was easy enough to complete; so here it is. In today's adventure, all we do is eat ibex.

P.S.

In other news: my Public Private Diary is fully printed; also I made a list of my latest novels that have been printed but not included in any collection.

Chapter Twenty-Six

On the morrow, we arise and go retrieve our fiery chariot from the saucer on Mount Horeb, and we also take out of storage our cart of items that we purchased from the Torrible Zone (we had left all this stuff in the aliens’ laundry room, remember) and bring it home to our castle. Nous and Zephyros are excited to have more things to play with.

By the time we’re finished with this task, it’s only 9:30 a.m.

“What do you feel like doing now?” I ask Myala. “We still have a couple hours until lunchtime.”

Myala perks up, “Why don’t we visit the nuns at that convent that you told me about. You said they granted you a season pass?”

“I’m always welcome there — that’s what I meant by that,” I explain; “the nunnery doesn’t really issue official passes (at least not that I know of). But, sure, we could do that. I’ll introduce you to sisters Maria, Sophia, and Mother Lilith. Maybe they’ll let you lick them.”

So we do that. The sisters extend a warm welcome to Myala the Black Panther. And they can’t even blame us for the death of their latest guard dog — they got a chow chow to take the place of the terrier that I ate — for we don’t even maul him: he just dies of fright, on the spot, the very instant he spies our approach. And we let him lie there; we restrain ourselves, Myala and I; we save our gusto for the nuns.

§

After having a lively time at the nunnery, we return to our castle. It’s now just after noon.

“Are you hungry?” I ask Myala.

Myala gives me a playfully mean look that means “You should know better: Of course I am hungry — I am always hungry.”

So I prepare a luncheon of pickled herring with sour cream, chives, potatoes and egg, for us and our castle-mates.

“Nous! Zephyros! Come and get your din-din!” I yell, and the kitty-cats come running.

We all eat as a family. Then the children go out to play with the sharks.

“Well, that was delicious,” sez Myala; “but I’m still famished. How about yourself — could you go for another few meals?”

I now return to her that same ironically chastising look that she gave me above.

“Alright, here’s my idea,” she sez; “first, I wanna be clear: this thought really did just come to me right now; it’s not something that I’ve been harboring in my Panther-brain for ages, as some sort of ultimate life-goal or item on a bucket list.”

“Proceed; I’m interested,” the blaze of my Tyger-fur crackles louder.

“So I was thinking that we could go on a hunt for ibex,” Myala begins pacing slowly back and forth, like an experienced orator. “We could climb thru all the mountains of the world, or wherever else ibex live, and maul and eat however many ibex we find. Then just keep continuing to hunt, for the bliss of it, until the ibex are extinct.”

I Bryan the Tyger arise on all four legs and smile semi-sanely: “Not only could this yield us an adventure story to tell for decades to come, but we might even secure for ourselves what Oscar Wilde calls the luxury of a regret.”

“So you’re in?” asks Myala.

“I’m all in.” I say. “I love this idea: Eat every ibex? Why didn’t I think of that!”

“How long do you predict that it will take?” asks Myala.

I pause for a moment and dream it out; then announce: “I have no doubt that we can accomplish what we’ve resolved to do before the Ides of March.”

§

Thus, in mid-February, Myala the Black Panther and I Bryan the Tyger travel on paw, by simply running, to southwest Asia; and whenever we meet an ibex, we devour it. We then proceed to roam around the eastern Mediterranean and slay and eat ibex.

After that, we skulk to the European Alps. It’s now February 22 of the Year of our Lord 2021:

“We’re running out of time!” cries Myala.

“Have patience,” I reply; “just breathe deeply and slowly.”

§

We continue to locate multitudes of ibex and maul them. We sink our teeth into the ibex of France, Bulgaria, Austria, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, and Slovenia.

Then we even find these ranches in the United States, Canada, and Argentina where they are farm-raising ibex; so we eat those too. (Their flesh tastes blander than the wild ones, but it’s still quite good — especially the blood.)

§

It’s almost March now, as we proceed to the Middle East and jaw down all their ibex. Then we eat up any ibex that we discover in the Red Sea hills of Sudan as well as the highlands in Egypt.

(By the way, if you assume that Myala and I must be gaining weight because we’re partaking of the world’s entire ibex population, then think again: cuz, in the process of hunting this species to extinction, we must perform so many physical feats — dashing, leaping, and poising in tense anticipation — that, when all is said and done, our acts of murderous consumption cause us inevitably to expend as much life-energy as we absorb. “There is ever a sort of fair play herein, jealousy presiding over all creations,” as Ahab sez in Moby Dick. In other words, our caloric intake is basically a wash. – So I Bryan the Tyger and my Black Panther soul-mate Myala sustain without effort our figures which are simultaneously sleek and muscular.)

Then we go to the Semien Mountains of the Ethiopian Highlands and eat all their ibex.

§

After that, we’re off to the central Asian deserts — it’s now early March — and we annihilate via overconsumption every single one of the ibex that lives thereabouts. Also we devour all the ibex from the Hindu-Kush Mountains in Afghanistan to the Sayan Mountains in Mongolia.

In case any of you viewers at home wanna try emulating our exploit by recreating this genocide as a video-arcade game, I’ll have you know that we found most of our ibex at elevations ranging from 3,000 to 5,000 meters above sea level; altho I also nabbed a fair amount in areas as low as 1,000 meters — most of those kills occurred around the Altai Mountains. (Ibex have a predilection for rugged terrain — they think it will help protect them from predators; which is half-true, in the case of humans and other animals; but we’re presently talking about Myala and myself: a Glowing Black Panther and a Burning Tyger — there is no escaping the wrath of divine jungle beasts who sprang straight out of Hell, especially when this pair of felines is truly in love.)

§

Now on the 73rd day in the Roman calendar, we think that we’ve completely wiped out all the ibex from Earth:

“We’re right on schedule,” I remark to Myala. “We even have one full day to spare.”

But suddenly we spot the remainder of the universe’s ibex trotting up and down the western and eastern Caucasus. So we sprint over and begin to take all their lives and eat their flesh and drink their blood. This takes us an additional twenty-four hours.

Therefore, on exactly the 74th day of the Roman calendar, the final ibex is assassinated. Myala and I split its carcass between the both of us, and we use the U.S. Postal Service to mail its pelt to a company that manufactures coats, gloves, and hats; which is what we did with the rest of the ibex that we slew — for we abhor wastefulness.

“That was exhilarating,” I say.

“It was,” Myala nods while using an eco-friendly cloth napkin to dab the last bit of ibex blood from her maw.

“And we finished just in time,” I remark, “to watch Jupiter’s high priest lead the Ides lamb in procession along the Via Sacra to the Arx, where it shall be sacrificed.”

Myala’s eyes widen, “Do you think they’ll let us consume God’s lambkin too?”

I tilt my vast Tyger-face, “It’s at least worth asking.”

So we enjoy the sacrificial Ides sheep as dessert, after utterly annihilating all ibex.

CODA

Eventually, however, certain Scientists end up successfully cloning the ibex, which threatens to repopulate the planet with its kind. So this marks yet another of the occasions where my soul-mate Myala the Black Panther and I Bryan the Tyger bend our rule about never eating humans. Cuz we need to stop this tedium in its tracks, by mouthing up not only the residual of cloned ibex that they unleashed but also the wrongdoers who instigated this recurrence; plus anyone who expresses the slightest interest in Science.