Yellow urine bladdered in the tank of a plastic gun, made all the more putrid by its green material tint, sloshing and bubbling, foaming into a fizz, as the gunman runs, ready to release a deadly stream of piss.
“I will spray you,” he howls, pumping the soaker to make the stream super, wishing his own pisstol could be so easily enlarged, gnashing yellow teeth, the front two gapped and scummy, no wonder spray lisps.
His target, a wise little rabbit trying to keep his thick, brown fur warm and dry, scurries, he knew his fate from the start – the color of the school bus told him so.
The fox cackles, points the orange tip, lets out a steaming stream, pumps again, the stream splashes harmlessly on the street, darker black liquid stains upon dry charcoal grey, a mark of his territory.
A shoe lace flails, betraying, entangling, snaring, rabbit. He falls, saving face with hands, but scraping each pure white palm into a red scramble pocked with gravel.
“Gotcha,” the predator pounces, whipping back his golden mane in glee. The orange tip, drips, hovers inches above widened brown irides, finger mounts trigger.
Will he deliver?
And tomorrow, when the gun is gone, no matter, the fox will still have his bladder.
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