The Forest of the Night

One week had passed since Mr. Tawky Tawny began his nightly sorties into Gotham. One week of discovery, both of self and his surroundings as the tiger learned what it meant to be a man, and how wicked a man could truly be. Man was different from tiger, as tigers know only instinct and self-preservation, whereas man… man feels desire, lust, jealousy, and hatred - emotions not tied to the preservation of his life, but instead bound by the greed in his heart.

It was a dark place, the heart of man, darker than the steaming depths of any jungle, and its pits more bottomless. Man would kill another man to acquire his things, or out of spite, and occasionally simply for the thrill of watching the life leave a body, oozing out in a spreading stain upon pavement or floor. Tiger killed to eat, or to protect itself or its cubs, yet Mr. Tawky Tawny had no cubs, and he knew of easier ways of acquiring food. Mr. Tawky Tawny was a tiger with the heart of a man, and a head filled with his insufferable knowledge.

There was no greater curse imaginable for any beast, he imagined, than to live with such horrors.

And so he sat with his horrors hidden deep inside, tucked away beneath his massive, muscular frame, and a crisp, white-jacketed tuxedo, with black silk vest, pants and tie, as he sipped slowly at the martini glass held expertly in his paw. It was his first martini, and he was unsure if he cared for it, yet he continued to drink as music itself slowly among the bottles and barstools. Over half of each lay smashed or splintered on the ground, while blood dripped from the walls and bar to join the crimson lake pooling upon the tile floor. Bullet holes ventilated walls and ceiling alike, decorating the bar’s great mirror with a spiderweb mosaic of reflections of himself as the tiger sat to enjoy his drink.

Yes, he liked it. The flavors were both foreign, yet familiar, and he found beauty in the simple, conical shape of his glass, with the curiosity of an olive impaled on a stainless steel pick as garnish within its depths. The drink was beautiful in a way man could never be, and thankfully as silent as those which lay in twisted heaps around him.

“Foolish scum,” the tiger rumbled a chuckle beneath his breath, and picked at dried blood beneath one of his claws.

It had not been his intention to kill them, when first he arrived at the basement bar. His previous week, and its many nocturnal adventures, had led him there in search of someone who had apparently broken a working man’s legs. A mob bar, Mr. Tawny had heard it called, and it took little work to track it down. The doorman refused him entry at first, stating that his tacky green suit didn’t meet the dress code, which Mr. Tawny remedied with an immediate change. Then there was the issue of being a tiger, and such racism Mr. Tawny had no time for. The doorman was seized by the neck and lifted so that he could be carried inside and slammed down over the bar as if he were some mere ragdoll.

“Alanzo Mannetti,” the tiger had snarled at the patrons within, seeking his target. But men are foolish, and armed men more foolish than most. Armed criminals, however, are the dumbest of sorts.

Like a tornado in a trailer park, Mr. Tawky Tawny unleashed his fury upon the patrons of the bar as each drew a weapon. Unsheathing his claws, Mr. Tawny drew his own. In a blur of orange, back and white, he tore through the men, ripping, tearing, shredding and rending through cloth, flesh, organs and bone. The tiger in him took full control, fueled by the hatred and fury which burned with white-hot fire inside his man’s heart, until only he stood, blood and viscera dripping from his jaws and clawed hands. His ears rang, half-deaf from the screams, and thunder of gunfire which had torn through the small bar, as alcohol dripped from the dozens of broken bottles upon shelves behind the bar itself.

Blood cooling, Mr. Tawny calmed himself, retracting his claws once more, and changing out his blood-stained tuxedo for a fresh one. There was a drink standing untouched on the bar, a martini, information in his brain told him, and so he pulled up a barstool for a casual seat among the corpses, and took his first drink.

He felt no remorse as he surveyed his handiwork once more. This was a mob bar, these were mobsters, men who chose to live outside the law and preyed upon the innocent. To remove them was to spare any they might harm in the future. And so, justice had been served. Club soda made short work of the bloodstains upon his white-furred muzzle - yet another bit of information which surfaced when needed, and he had never thought about before that moment - while as wash in the sink had cleaned his paws before sitting down. It was a strange thing, his intelligence, as it contained knowledge gained across countless centuries, yet often came new to him as he needed it.

At the moment, he needed to leave. Even in mob territory, gunfire would be reported to 911, and the police would surely arrive soon, if not one of the city’s supposedly numerous vigilantes. Yet a martini was not meant to be rushed, and so he sat and sipped at his drink as he admired his many reflections in the shattered mirror beyond.

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