Serval and Sheep (Chapter 23)
Desmond has his first official ram fighting match of the season.
Desmond loves his horns more than life itself. While he may curse every aspect of his herbivorous existence, he always thanks the Ethereal Forces That Be for being born a Jacob sheep.
The sheep, for as long as the animal has existed, is fodder. They are common, impressionable, and exploitable. Though they are a caste above the truly unimpressive creatures (like rock doves) in terms of intelligence, athleticism, and charm, the sheep is forever condemned to a life of adequacy, of middle class. A passive, decent existence.
Not just socially, too. The very body of the sheep is dedicated to being taken advantage of. The sheep's curly wool will grow longer and thicker until the sheep eventually overheats, or is crushed by the weight of its own fur, and dies. When shearing season comes, most sheep sell their wool to specific vendors, which is later washed, dyed and made into clothing. A body designed to literally self-destruct if not exploited by others.
And of course, the meat. Though Desmond wouldn't know from experience, the meat of a sheep is said to be exceedingly tasty. Tender, nutritious and delicate in flavor, mutton and lamb are sought-after delicacies in the black market. Along with a handful of other "at risk" animals, such as pigs, cows and chicken, sheep are more likely to be targets of predation due to this.
Yet, amidst the pitiable concoction of fluff and flesh, there is a contradiction. Why is it that a creature born to die is blessed with a pair of horns? Horns are biological weapons. They pierce, smash and crush. While some females have them, the truly impressive ones belong to males. Why is that?
Desmond took it as a sign. A hint from God. Maybe sheep don't need to quietly submit themselves to others. Why are herbivores expected to take the moral high ground, anyways? Just because their bodies are frail, suddenly they have to be sociable and pleasant? Who decided that?
To hell with that. I won't just roll over and die. Horns are meant for violence.
Well. That was what he thought. That thought is what led him to ram fighting as soon as his horns grew in. Four beautiful dark horns. Double the horns any other sheep would get: Two horns jutting out the top of his head, curving slightly to the back in an elegant arch (he thanks his lucky stars they grew neatly and not in a wild lopsided clutter like Enan) and two horns on either side of his head just below the top horns, forming a spiral-like swirl typical of a big horn sheep, though not as thick. His pride and joy. His very own fangs and claws.
With every headbutt and clack of the horns, his conviction grew. He must become stronger, fiercer, more powerful. Because then... then...
Huh.
Then what?
Desmond found himself slightly entranced by this question as he gripped the opposing ram, a Tibetan antelope.
The cheering of the crowd floods back in his ears as he remembers where he is. In his spilt second of hesitation, the antelope grabs his shoulders, pinning him down to the spot, and swiftly ducks his head so that his antennae-like horns position himself under the sheep's arms. In one sudden movement, the antelope heaves the shorter ram up in the air by the armpits using his horns like a stag beetle.
The crowd erupts in amazement. Desmond inwardly curses his carelessness, but quickly, an idea strikes him.
Gripping both of his opponent's horns, he lifts himself up like a gymnast would on on parallel bars. and forcefully pushes his body to and fro, building momentum. The poor antelope can do nothing but keep his head down, unable to buck the sheep off of him. At last, Desmond manages to lift himself with a mighty backwards kick, forming a perfect handstand on his opponent's horns.
"Go, Desmond!"
One voice stands out among the explosive uproar of the audience. Or maybe he just learned to pick up on it. Hafsa. Although he can't see her, he can't help but smile. Her words were simple but sincere, even he could tell. He wonders what her face looks like right now. But there's no time.
Maneuvering his hands, he shifts his weight to come swooping down, landing on his two feet behind the antelope. Wasting no time, he swerves to a 180 turn and jumps on the still-dazed ram, tackling him to the floor in a winning lock.
Game, set, match.
Commotions after a big win is by far Desmond's least favorite thing about competing. He wishes people could just witness a match without feeling the need to pester him about it afterwards.
The ram fighting club is especially ecstatic over the unusual victory, practically pouncing on him while yelling non-coherent attempts of congratulations. Even his opponent comes up to him in the locker room to exchange parting words.
"My head's still spinning!" He laughs while taking Desmond's hand.
"I hope I didn't damage your horns." Desmond gives an earnest look. "You seriously surprised me with that lift. Always nice to see creative ways of using horns. It's a really nice pair you got there, too. I've never seen somebody pull that off."
"Well, next match, I'll be sure to avoid becoming monkey bars. Congrats again on the win!"
"I look forward to it. Thanks."
Changed, toweled and hydrated, Desmond leaves the locker room accompanied by the stampede of ram fighting club members, who boisterously attempt to recreate the finishing blow of the match, to little effect.
Usually, there is a small crowd of ewes who stick around to catch a glimpse of him after the match, melting into giggly little cotton balls when he offers a gracious nod of the head.
However, two very tall outliers loom above the cotton field of ewes this time. Both felines. The tallest of the two rushes up to him. He can practically feel the buzzing excitement that's gushing from her.
"Congratulations!" Priya hollers (as loud as Priya can holler, which to the average animal is classified as a modest exclamation at most). "That was unbelievable! Incredible! Mind-blowingley awesome! When you did that handstand on his horns, and went around like vwoop and -- oh my gosh!"
"Th-thank you, Priya. I'm glad you enjoyed the match." Desmond says somewhat sheepishly, trying to doge the intense puffs of air the tigress exhales. He's worried she might pass out from hyperventilation, considering her condition. While Desmond tries to calm down the tigress, the other rams are locked in a confused stupor.
"A-and who might your friend be, Captain?" Leslie starts, trying to glean any kind of explanation regarding this unexpected fangirl.
Priya's ears perk in realization, and quickly composes herself. "I-I'm very sorry! My name is Priya, I'm a freshman. I'm a big fan of ram fighting. It's an honor to meet all of you!"
The herd of males collectively take a second to process this. "Well, it's nice to meet you, too." Peter offers after a while.
"You're Sheep Peter, right? I'm very excited to see your match tomorrow!"
The bighorn sheep reddens immediately, nervously stroking his beard. "H-huh? You are? Well, I am too! Excited, I mean. More like nervous. But it'll be fun. Good. Good fun. You should come! Oh, you just said you were going to. So. Good luck! To me. I guess."
Priya's eyes glimmer with enthusiasm. "If everyone doesn't mind, could you all tell me when each of your matches are? I'd like to write it down on my planner so I won't miss any!"
All the rams violently huddle around Priya, bleating out dates simultaneously. The nearby ewes look at each other in bewilderment and skulk off, the moment clearly ruined. Only Desmond and Hafsa remain, amused onlookers to the messy scene that unfolds.
"They seem worked up." Hafsa comments as she settles herself next to Desmond.
"They're not used to fans who aren't bovids. They're flattered. Probably think they're celebrities now." The sheep explains, his tone half annoyed, half tender.
"They look like a fun bunch." The serval gives a toothy grin as she watches Marcel struggle to point a day on Priya's planner on his tippy toes.
Desmond glances at the feline next to him. She's still in her cheerleading uniform, a cute green-white (the school colors) combo of sleeveless crop top and mini skirt, knee high socks and white sneakers. The outfit, besides matching nicely with her pattered fur, also highlights her strong yet slender build. Leave it to Hafsa to somehow make muscles endearing. Desmond secretly mourns the fact he couldn't see her in action during the match, being as focused as he was.
"More importantly," Hafsa chirps. "Congrats on the win! I'll be honest, I've always thought ram fighting was really boring but that was actually really cool. I didn't know you had those moves, little guy!"
Desmond stomps down both his delight towards her praise and his anger towards the "little guy" comment to give a self-satisfied huff. "Don't you cheer during all of my matches?"
"Yeah, but I never paid attention," She sticks her tongue out. "But today I was forced to watch out of friendly obligation towards you. Turns out, you're actually pretty good."
"Gee, I'm honored..." Desmond snarks. "But it's nice to know I have not one, but two feline groupies."
Hafsa suddenly bends over to meet Desmond's earshot. "It's so weird right? How can a cutie like her be into ram fighting? Also, that whole thing yesterday was so weird! With the shed, and the rain, and the fangirling... That whole place smelled bizarre, I couldn't think straight!"
It just occurs to Desmond they never actually discussed the confusing inventory check in the gardening shed yesterday. While he can't really attest to the smell, as his nose was nowhere near as attuned as a carnivore's (it frankly just smelled of petrichor and must to him), he hadn't quite fully digested the conundrum that is Priya.
"I was just as surprised as you were, believe me." Desmond mutters, observing the white tiger's smile. "Also, did you just call her a cutie?"
"What's wrong with calling a cutie a cutie, huh?" Hafsa's ears flatten in joke seriousness. "For real, I'd kill for that fur. Do you think I'd look good if I dyed mine white?"
"You're plenty fine just the way you are." Desmond huffs, trying to remain apathetic, but only managing a shaky scowl. "Why are you so obsessed with Priya anyways? Aren't you already Miss Popular?"
Hafsa gives an exasperated look, as if he just asked what two plus two is. "Have you even seen her, Desmond? She's a white. Tiger. They're as rare as they come. Her parents basically won the genetic lottery twelve times over! She's managed to get a "get out of jail free" card when it comes to carnie discrimination! Heck, any discrimination! She's into ram fighting and weird smelly sheds and I still think she's adorable! She's so cute, people wouldn't even care if she ate someone in broad daylight!"
"That's ridiculous! Even if that's the case, I don't see why you should be jealous of her! You're more beautiful than her, so shouldn't you have a "get out of jail free" card?"
"I'm more beautiful than her?"
Uh.
"I-I-I-I mean..." Desmond bleats. "W-what's wrong with calling something beautiful beautiful, huh?" He shoots her own words back at her, flailing around uselessly. "You're still a sheep-eating brat, so don't get the wrong--"
Hafsa lets out a depressed sigh.
Desmond expected a large range of possible reactions, but misery was not one of them.
"Not that word..." she groans, drooping her head and arms sadly.
"Y-you mean b-beautiful? Is it an insult to servals or something?"
"It might as well be!" Her temper suddenly spikes. "Beautiful is the worst thing you can call a carnie!"
"H-huh?"
"A knife can be beautiful. A spider can be beautiful. Even a hurricane can be beautiful! Beauty just means you look nice while also being dangerous and unapproachable!" She whines. "I don't wanna be beautiful! I wanna be cute! Everyone wants to be friends with the cutie, but nobody wants to talk to the hottie! How am I ever gonna be on the same level of a herbie if I'm beautiful?!"
Desmond's sweating more than during his match. "I-I don't--"
"Everything alright, there?" Elmer suddenly speaks up from the background. "Desmond's not giving you trouble, right Pres?"
From one second to the next, Hafsa's hissing face transforms into a gentle smile. "Of course not! I'm just congratulating him on his win!"
"In fact," she reaches for Desmond's shoulder, gripping it with enough force to squeeze a tear out of the corner of Desmond's eye. "Why don't you and the other rams go celebrate? Priya and I can walk back to our dorm now."
"Good idea, Ms. President!" Priya beams, but clearly wanting to chat more with the rams. "It's been a pleasure meeting all of you!"
"Bye, Priya! ~ " All the boys say in unison, a sickly-sweet singsong in their voice.
Desmond remains glued to where he stands as Hafsa and Priya link arms and stride out of the gymnasium. The rams refocus their attention on him.
"What's up, cap?" Peter nudges him. "Ready for some dinner? On you, of course."
"O-okay."
"Huh, you usually put up more of a fight. Talking to the Pres has done you some good."