The Gang of Seven

It was the same intimidating, blood-curdling sight each and every day since capture. The monstrously large creature would appear from a distance, sinister in appearance, unencumbered in its movement, yet strangely it never entered ... the Domain.

The Gang of Seven ruled with a proverbial iron fist. Their dominance was one of size and number. They called themselves Angels, but that could hardly be further from the truth. Certainly they were striking in appearance, their colors bold, and they moved with grace and power if not outright speed. Their strength, their sheer overwhelming size and larger numbers, gave them control over the Domain, and they reveled in it, controlling the ever-critical food supply. Without true challenge, they moved about without fear, except, perhaps, for one another. There wasn’t a true leader yet. They all vied for power, and fratricide, the killing of one’s sibling, though uncommon, wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Still, their life was one closest to royalty.

There were other factions, of course, lesser gangs in both size and threat capability. The Kuhls were formidable from a stealth point-of-view, often lurking in the shadows of structures or often underground. When they did go out in public they were quite visible, always moving as a moving target is much more difficult to attack, their orange and black making for easy identification. The Gonzaleses ironically were not Mexican, so named for “Speedy” of Looney Tunes. They were fast movers for sure, operating at the top of the domain. You’d rarely find one alone, it seemed they had a pack mentality and that probably helped keep them alive.

Despite the angst, despite the inevitable turf wars, the ongoing scuffles, the infringements and minor incidents, all seem relatively stable until that fateful day when “he” moved into the neighborhood.

“Why the delay?” he asked rhetorically, knowing that there was no answer, only the wait. Twice a day “El Bruté”, as he was dubbed, would drop supplies into the Domain. But the schedule was iffy at best.

While keeping one eye on the lookout for the Gonzaleses and their counterparts, the Rubies, so nicknamed for their red noses, the largest Angel, gang name Yellow Jacket, glared at his sister Little Bee with his other eye, red with unknown fury.

Little Bee was happy that El Bruté chose that moment to arrive, saving her from either fleeing the area or trying to parry and dodge her brother’s rage. She watched as the rest of the Gang of Seven converged on the delivery point, waiting anxiously for the food drop-off, hoping that it was just another routine day.

It was. In rapid fashion, the food parcels were released simultaneously at random entry points and just as quickly, it was over. This only meant one thing: game on!

Despite their ferocity and reputation, the Gang of Seven simply couldn’t horde all of the food. The others were too quick. Like the participants in the Hunger Games, it was a free-for-all, most counting on the Angels to be too busy feeding their faces to bother worrying about scraps of food here and there. And they were right. Bellies were filled, with food being the sustenance of peace, at least until the evening supply run.