Riki Tiki Tavi, Redux

Metaphor on Kipling's classic

I lie drained on a strange bed, usefullness sticky, pitiful, bested; dead on my belly, a clubbed snake. It leaked milky venom as an afterthought.

Riki Tiki Tavi in a mid-town bar, invited back to tussel in her sack, a pitch dark lair with fake satin sheets that scratched the skin like bristled burlap.

Slinking need proved no match for the sharp, pointed teeth of her hunger, chewed up and spat out in a wad, my clawed ego bled sweat that smelled of fear.

I could see her at the sink in Samurai stance, busily lathering soap between slick thighs, the loud sound of wet suction nauseous within the rough confines of silence.

She looked sharply over her shoulder, smiled at me with glittering rows of bad teeth. The dripping suds made tiny splats on the tile, rabid foam from a mad mongoose.