Where are the Missing Spoons

“Spoon!” the disheveled youth yelled from the top of the parking ramp. It was his call, his warning, to the downtown jungle that he had arrived. Friends had been notified of his presence and his foes had been warned by the holler.

He took the stairs two at a time at first. As his pace quickened he started taking them in threes, then fours, then all at once. Grabbing the railings he could vault himself down a flight of stairs at a time. His black trench coat flapped behind him in his decent like a cape in a super hero comic.

Blood rushed through his veins as he neared the street below. The excitement of the city, the urban jungle, is what drove him. Nothing could stop him as he prowled the city streets, the jungle, his jungle.

Standing tall he made his way down the bustling street. He was on a hunt and everyone could sense it. Like frightened gazelles the throngs of pedestrians parted to let him through. No one wanted to get in his way.

The hunt would have to be put on hold until after he had feasted. A sprint and a chase for some action is no good on an empty stomach.

He strutted into one of the many restaurants along the street. With a nod one of the members of his pack scurried off when the youth walked through the door. The pack mate knew the hierarchy of the jungle and soon returned with a stake cooked rare. A junior always ensures the senior is well taken care of.

The youth ravenously devoured his bloody meat. With a grunt he got up from the feast and entered back into the jungle. Leaving behind his calling card, a single silver spoon with a smile scrawled on in sharpie.