Clarice almost got back to the kitchen when she saw it. A big fat duck, just like the ones she and the other gators used to lie in wait for, just eyes and nostrils (in her case, one eye and one nostril) above the surface. Something primal and simple got to gearing in the back of her head as she saw it, a feeling that both lesser and greater races felt once in a little while. She needed to eat that bird. Jollering like someone who never learned the reasoning behind hiding that hungry grin and bloodthirsty eyes of a predator when approaching a potential victim. But the duck seemed either too stupid or too suicidal to consider running away. She picked it up carefully as if she had found the Holy Grail and carried it into the kitchen with the reveration that would have befitted the pope. Finding a corner free from lizard blood and guts, she placed it there and fetched a cleaver.<br/><br/>"Ain't gonna take long, little Ducky... y'ain't gonna feel a thing."<br/><br/>Raising the cleaver high above her, Clarice was filled with a primitive satisfaction, not unlike that which her adoptive ancestors had felt for thousands, nay, millions of years so far. Tonight she would dine on duck...