The honey badger sat outside her den, behind her the lion lay wounded and bleeding.  His cubs were close by as were her own two honey badgerly kits.  She watched as the fat baboon approached, with its sloping waddle and bright pink bum displaying a gentle sheen of sweat in the African mid-day sun.

The honey badger didn’t move.  Didn’t speak.  Simply watched.

The baboon hunched low and took a massive poop.  Picked up her poop and slung it at the honey badger.  Laughing, cackling and screaming, the baboon pranced around the patch of veld in front of the honey badger’s home where she sat blocking access to her strange little family.

The next day the baboon returned with another baboon.  The baboon’s mother.  They both scrunched down in the red African sand, took massive poops and slung it at the honey badger.  The honey badger said nothing.  The honey badger did not move.

Days and weeks, months turned into a year and every day the baboon arrived with others, or sometimes alone.  Every day she threw poop at the honey badger.  The honey badger did not move.  The honey badger said nothing.

One morning the lion got up, stretched and walked off to hunt for his own food, taking his cubs with him.  They were now big and strong.  Baboons couldn’t hurt them anymore.  The honey badger sat.  And waited.

The baboon came along, this time with a hoard of her friends.  As they all crouched into the African sand to poop the honey badger jumped up and ripped their heads off their bodies before they could run away.  When the honey badger had finished she wiped her paws on the baboons fur and smiled, running a pink tongue over her bloodsoaked teeth she said, “You should never have taken my silence as weakness.”



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