Above His Station by Darren Craske Page A

twenty-nine minutes to do it in. So pick yourself up and let’s get back in the game, eh?’
     

7
     
    The Big Cat enclosure’s lower level was a seedy affair. I felt as if a layer of filth and debauchery was staining my clothes the moment I set foot down there. I was incredibly exposed, and as I walked into the poorly-lit area, I glanced up at the big cats dancing provocatively upon small rocks that served as podiums. It was like a cross between Born Free and the Paul Raymond Revue! The whole place was full of female jaguars, leopards, lynxes and panthers - weaving in and out of the congregation of male lions, tigers and cheetahs, flirting with them outrageously. One of the leopards reached down and stroked the side of my face, volunteering to perform an act upon my person that shall go unrecorded in this volume, and if that did not appeal to my particular tastes, apparently I was perfectly welcome to perform a variation of it upon her. I had never been so frightened in all my life and declined politely. Being propositioned by a leopard was an unpleasant experience, and not one that I would ever wish to repeat. Not even the gorillas had put that much fear into me. For all my knowledge of leopards, it seems they can change their spots after all…
    ‘Is that a boner I see down there, Gramps?’ teased the rat from my shoulder. ‘Come on, admit it. You were tempted, right?’
    ‘That’s absurd!’ I snapped. ‘How dare you even suggest such a thing?’
    ‘Hey, it’s like my old man used to say…never turn down a bit of pussy – especially one with that many titties.’
    ‘He sounds positively charming,’ I said. ‘I can see where you get it from.’
    ‘Is it even possible to get a boner at your age?’
    ‘I’m not having this conversation,’ I said.
    ‘Forget whether it’s possible; is it even safe to get a boner at your age? All that blood rushing into one place and cutting off the circulation to the rest of your body? Doesn’t that, like, increase the risks of having a stroke or something?’
    I felt this topic was best reserved for a more appropriate time and so I flatly ignored it. Besides, something else has caught my attention. At the far end of the enclosure, a small band of lynxes, cougars and caracals had managed to get hold of some tom-toms, cymbals and a bongo drum from somewhere and were banging out an irregular beat that set my teeth on edge. Along the walls on both sides of me were small booths carved out of the faux-rock fibreglass surroundings, and as the light through the glass-domed roof above was failing, each one of the booths was lit by flickering candlelight. Simultaneously trying to concentrate on my task above the repetitive drumbeat, whilst trying my best not to notice the beastly goings-on within the shadowy booths, I walked towards the King’s throne that was set upon a rocky dais, looking down upon all its subjects.
    There it was in all its glory, a wonderfully majestic-looking lion. Its mane was like spun gold and straw. Its paws were immense and its fur was immaculate and its bright eyes were emeralds. It wore a dark brown beard around its mouth, from which flicked a long tongue across its many sharp teeth. On either side of it was a lithe lioness, draped across its lap and hanging off its arm. A large silver bowl full of grapes was positioned on a plinth within its reach, and every now and then it would extend its razor-sharp claws, spear several of them at once and then feed them to its fawning concubines. They smoothed their paws down its mane, across its chest, caressing the lion as if it was a priceless ornament. I could feel a slight tremor beneath my feet and it was only once I’d got a bit closer that I realised it was coming from the King. His deep voice put me in mind of a young James Coburn (from The Magnificent Seven era).
    ‘Milk,’ growled the King. ‘Bring me some milk.’ And one of the other lionesses waiting patiently for him to pay them some attention