I used to love stalking minotaurs. There was a certain patch of earth not far from my house where one could test their mettle against that voracious beast. As you lay there on your belly, inching ever closer, you could hear the sound of their hot breath as they guarded their plunder. The steady clomping of their hooves tapping out a warning cadence to any would be harassers. "This way is trouble. Steer clear mortals, if you know what is good for you."
The way the wind played at their thick mane sending the overbearing odor of sweat and blood right to your nostrils. The smell of death heightened your already keen senses. The thrill of the hunt sent your heart beating a thousand beats per minute and there was nothing in your life that could even begin to excite you as much as that did. You leapt out and seized the creature by the horns and fought will all your being until you brought the monster down!
Then one day you woke up and said to yourself, "Are you ready to catch a minotaur today? Are you ready to leap onto the back of that sweaty beast and hold on to his perilous horns and not let go?" Knowing that any failure when mounted on his back means certain death from both his ferocious prongs or giant iron axe.
"So, do you want to go stalking today?!"
"Naw... Not really feeling it. I think I'll just go throw some rocks at fawns."
Fawns. Fawns are nothing like minotaurs. They have no fire, no thrill and they are nothing to be afraid of.
They're so sheepish that they just stand there and pretend like it isn't even happening. Like some beaten down man in line at the grocery store. There he is holding on to his basket of with female sanitary napkins, soy milk and all-bran cereal. He is already humiliated by the selection of his basket and now, he is also abused. He tries to ignore the strangers child that is wildly thrashing and bumping into him. The fawn man just stands there, taking it, hoping the checkout will be over soon. He would never have the fire in his belly for simple confrontation with an irresponsible parent, much less and all out brawl with a rock tosser.
As the rocks fly there is no hunt, no thrill. He barely even raises his head in protest. He just gives you that sheepish look, as if to say, "I'm not sure what I did to deserve this attack. All I wanted was a cup of tea and some all-bran cereal. Why don't you go pick on the centaurs?"
Picking on fawns passes the time and at least you're out in the open air. But then one day you realize that months have gone by without really challenging yourself. Without a hunt, without the possibility of death, your senses have dulled and the clomping sound of hooves is now a terror inducing sound.
Why have you come back to this patch of earth? Do you really think you have what it takes to tackle a foe this large? As you lie in the grass and listen for the sound of hooves you wonder, will his be your last hunt...
