Outrageous outbursts of Victorian values imposed on the young cub.
Irreverent ranting relates a sepia shaded childhood that didn’t exist.
“The kids of today don’t know how it was. They don’t want to know!”
He leans forward in his chair and bellows again.
“Bloody hoodies and girl gangs. What’s the world coming to?”
“You didn’t fight in any war old man. What gives you the right to respect?”
The innocence of youth long gone, even at such tender years.
Faces close enough to breathe in the other’s fumes.
Neither prepared to back down.
Past kinship forgotten.
“You’re just old and fat. You’re the one who doesn’t care anymore.”
He sees the boy’s anger welling in his eyes, cheeks reddening.
It only serves to spur him.
How dare he be challenged? This is his place.
“You’re a fine one to talk about caring. Where are you when things need doing?”
His own blood coursing, ready to meet fire with fire.
“Lazy, bone idle, good-for-nothing. What are you ever going to amount to?”
Sullen silence, but only for a short spell.
Venomous bile building in his gut, ready to erupt from deep within.
“And what is it that you are big man? What did you become that was so great?”
Angry tears blurring his thoughts as much as his vision.
The lad heads for retreat, afraid the salty stream might be mistaken for weakness.
He hears the slamming doors and the gates rusty hinges.
The glow of victory as his territory is safe again.
Short-lived satisfaction, tempered by regret and self-inflicted loneliness.
Where did his time go and why does he feel so tired?
He trudges up the stairs, into his cave, for blessed hibernation.