Tasmanian devil v. Wolverine

Purloined from the Canadian wilderness by an ill-tempered Aussie with a thick scar running down his left cheek onto his neck, the wolverine was far from home. His owner did not appreciate either memento from Canada. Late one evening he took the wolverine out on Bass Strait in his yacht. He had intended to get to the deepest part of the strait and dump the entire cage and fell creature overboard. As he lifted the cage and set it on the railing, the wolverine hissed and clawed at its bars, unable to reach its captor. The odor from the cage made the Aussie gag, and he almost shoved it just to be rid of the malodorous beast. He paused, though, as a cruel smirk crept onto his corrupted countenance. The Aussie was an avid fisherman. The yacht was fully stocked with every type of angling equipment. Including a pole and line that just might be big enough to hold the weight of a certain ill-tempered weasel.

He brought the equipment to the deck and leaned it up near the cage. He slipped on his handler's gloves, thick enough to resist the furious claws and teeth of the wild creature. He had a hook the size of his petite ex-wife's hand, which, he thought, should nicely hook inside of its mouth. As the blood of the wolverine drained in the water, sharks might be attracted. Even if he did not have the strength to pull up a shark with the equipment he had, it would be well worth all the effort to watch this foul creature which had left its permanent mark on his face devoured by the sea and its denizens.

With hook ready and gloves on, he opened the cage. He reached for the wolverine's head, hoping to get a tight grip around its throat. From there he would squeeze its mouth open and shove the hook through the inside of its cheek. He never, however, was able to get a grip on the animal. It shrank from his bulky gloves, then darted under them. Instead of attacking the intruding object, it darted out of its prison and onto its captor's denim-clad leg. The Tommy jeans were no match for those razors. As a parting gift, the wolverine chomped down on his upper thigh. Using its upper molar which rotates 90 degrees, from vertical to horizontal, it tore a chunk of denim and flesh clean off the leg, leaving bone and blood. In terror, the Aussie kicked and finally grabbed the beast. Instinctively, to eliminate the immediate threat and horror of being eaten alive, he tossed the wolverine with all his might into the dark waters of the strait.

The wolverine hit the water with barely a splash, like an Olympic athlete. It sank quickly. Its legs, however, began kicking, and it managed to overcome the hysteria which flashed over it the second it realized it was in a strange dark substance. It was used to water, of course; but never before had it been submerged and surrounded like this. A moment ago it was in a fury, but somehow this simple weasel rose to the surface, pointed in one direction, and began to paddle.

It swam the rest of the night and most of the next day. Occasionally, it would rest and float, letting the current take it; but it would quickly return to paddling. An energy was concentrated in that small form which was mightier than the energy any larger creature could muster.

It calmly paddled all day until it found itself nearly overcome by the surf. The waves picked it up and toppled it, submerged and nearly drowned it, but always it fought on. Rather than claiming the Tasmanian beach with victory, the wolverine was washed ashore as a dead thing the ocean gave up. The tide deposited it, and it lay motionless except for the slightest sign of breath in the rise and fall of its small body.

Many hours passed before he could move himself out of the tide's reach and onto dry ground. His fur shed the water quickly, but the dampness still hung on his heart. A rustling came from somewhere behind him. He saw, with weary eyes, a mysterious creature which he had no way of knowing was called a wombat, since he had neither been to this hemisphere before nor could speak any language whatsoever. But it was small and meaty. He sprung and had his first taste of Tasmanian cuisine.

Over the next several days, the wolverine recovered his strength. During his convalescence, he ate wombats and even the native flora. On the fourth day, he came across a strange creature that lay in the underbrush. Here, down below, far from home, he came across his first devil. It barely moved, but occasionally whimpered. It searched the wolverine with one eye; the other eye was blinded by a tumor. The wolverine, sensing no threat, feasted on devil that fourth night.

By the fifth day, the kidnapped and then abandoned wolverine had settled into a new life on the island of Tasmania. It felt renewed. Here was a land where food was available. He could make a home here.

He went about the difficult task of building a home and making a routine. On the seventh day, however, he returned home to a disturbance. Something was burrowing in the very spot where he slept. It was smaller and darker. It moved with a ferocious energy. It looked similar to the dying beast he had seen days earlier. The wolverine approached stealthily, but not stealthily enough. The devil turned and faced him. They stared deep into each other's eyes. Then she lay in his bed; he joined her.

Though rarely seeing each other, the next several weeks were peaceful. The wolverine and the devil lived happily with occasional energetic meetings. They scratched and bit each other with claws and fangs that struck fear into every other animal in the woods. For them, though, it was pleasure. They both emitted a smell that would turn the stomach of any human walking by, but which they wrapped each other in like a blanket.

Then one day things changed. The wolverine, in the midst of their play, bit the devil on its hindquarters too aggressively. She lept aside and stood several feet off. She was bleeding. She snarled. The wolverine cowered. She fled.

A day later, as though by habit, she returned. When she saw her companion in his bed, she snarled. This time, the wolverine snarled back. This was his home. It was the last home he had left. He would not be exiled from it. He jumped out of his bed and stood. He had at least fifteen pounds on her. She did not flee, but circled around him, without lifting her eyes. Seen from above, the devil seemed to orbit the wolverine, circling and circling ever closer, as though pulled toward it by gravity.

She had circumambulated his fixed point nearly 270 degrees when the wolverine struck. Like the lightning bolt which has the thunder announce its explosive appearance but is still sudden and unexpected, the wolverine lunged at the devil. He struck her in the shoulder and they rolled together for a last time. Off balance from his own attack, the wolverine staggered back to his feet, while the devil dug her jaws deep into his rear leg. With the powerful bite that only a Tasmanian devil could deliver, it instantly crippled the wolverine. In these close quarters, however, crippling didn't much matter. He turned and caught her tail in his maw. He clenched his jaw and sharply turned his head, ripping the majority of her fat tail clear off. She released her hold on his leg, and jumped a few feet backwards in shock. Her mangled and mutilated tail behind her, she lunged back into the fray. She landed on the wolverine with jaws open, but he used his weight advantage to topple her. From above her, he sank his teeth deep into her throat. His predatory instincts turned his molar horizontal, and with a back and forth thrashing of the head, he ripped the final breath from his defeated foe.

He stood over her body. Blood dripped from his fur as easily as the strait's water. This carcass would not be a meal. This carcass would be a warning: Tasmania has a new devil.