Tasting the sweet taste of sweat and fear, the leader of the pack sniffs the high borne air, looking for the next corner to turn. Guns at the ready, they in the middle of the pack chew hard and fast on their tobacco. Spitting left, right and centre, their path leaves a definable odour.
It's the failure of their technique and the folly of their addiction which gives them away. Enough still for the rest of the hunting group to now know better than to signal flare in mid-walk.
Taking cover is no option in the open plains of a lonely feeling. The race continues despite their trip and without a rule book to guide their endeavours, all on their own save for the gunpowder plugging their nostril hair.
Pulses race faster than the bowels can move as the lead pack. out in front and on the run, spread out and disappear over, thinning their numbers before the chasers can do otherwise.
Written on Wednesday, 5 April 2006