Down in a southern swamp, where the humidity is thicker and wetter than a three-piece suit drenched in molasses, there is a gator, hundreds of years old – Or so the legend says. This elusive reptile is rarely seen, but when she is, she is cruising through the muck, her eyes above the water, or in a flash, she’s snapping at some unsuspecting prey, ripping them to shreds and diving back down into her murky deep to sleep off her surprise snack. The aquatic plant life sweats and bears witness to this unapologetic display of nature where many lives have been lost. Drunken moonshiner daredevils on the bad end of a bet, as well as various swamp creatures who live their lives in survivalist fear. This vicious gator is rumored to be a mix of both light and dark, forest green; No one knows, because no one’s seen her fully outside her swamp, if they have, she’s caked in mud to cool her scales from the punishing southern sun. She relishes in the sticky, humid air; breathes it up like its candy, almost as if she knows not everyone can appreciate this refined taste in southern summer conditions.
Days on the swamp are quiet with hum and buzz of insects, the croak of an occasional frog or toad. The big splash can catch you unawares as it is impossible to predict when that gator will come snapping out of the water, or become uncamouflaged from the mud, her massive jaw opening and closing, rows upon rows of triangular teeth, geometric death traps, come smacking and snacking down. Her tongue is large and formidable on it’s own. Swallowing down birds and rodents and anything bigger and meatier she can find. Her reptilian skin is hard, but surprisingly smooth to the touch.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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