Death to Smoochy

The long shadow crept along silently, watching and waiting for something yet to be seen. His yellow eyes darted back and forth, and the wild animal appeared paranoid—bothered. His one ear twitched several times a minute, flicking as if a flea or fly was agitating him; the rest of him moved like a fluid, black river of power and savagery. Dark fur rippled in the moonlight, mimicking the rolling motions of his muscles as he loped steadily forward and moved quickly in a manner that suggested he had a destination. More than anything else, Haunter looked incredibly dangerous.

The pitch monolith froze as a twig shifted in the midnight undergrowth. His gaze leered for the source of the noise, spine moving in tense waves as he prepared for the show of an enemy. A foraging badger snuffled through and the wolf moved on again, knowing better than to tangle with the smaller omnivore... Then again, Haunter's blood was boiling; his testosterone was roaring and the male in him was itching for a fight.

He hadn't gotten ten steps away before whirling around and viciously attacking the nocturnal creature. The battle was bloody, short-lived, and Haunter emerged with little else than a few scratches on his face that were bleeding now, but would become invisible again in the coming days. He carried his prize by the back of its limp neck with a strictly possessive quality, as he continued to stalk the Creek's borders with murderous intent.