DMX eats a pigeon.
The pigeon was a scrawny one, slightly underweight, maybe even sickly looking. DMX didn’t care. It’d had been a hard winter, one of unhappiness and regret and hunger. DMX had been venturing out of the sewers less and less. Partially because of the cold, but mostly because he had felt weak. He’d raided a dumpster for a bushel or two of apples and had managed to live off that for a month, but the apples were getting rotten, and he was wasting away. It was eat or die, and long ago DMX had told himself he was never going to die.
The pigeon cooed. DMX’s eyes narrowed. Fuck that pigeon. He growled slightly, containing himself, for he knew if the grown erupted into a full-on bark he would be spotted, and his prey would fly away.
He shifted in the bushes. His knees hurt from having been crouched for so long, and he felt as if he would not be conscious much longer without food.
Just then, a whistle sounded. He had been seen, and those damn cops were going to call the government and they were going to run some more tests on him—or wait? Were they going to turn him over to the aliens? Or would they finally stuff his body and make him an ornament in Puff Daddy’s garden? DMX knew he wasn’t thinking straight.
He pounced upon the pigeon, barking wildly as he set his teeth into the beast, wringing its neck with all his might. It tasted delicious. It tasted like life.
