I looked at the sprawling tiger with its magnificent black stripes and deep orange fur.
"That was a man-eater, wasn't it?" I asked.
He hesitated as if he didn't fully understand the question, then as if waking, he nodded. "Yes."
I stared at the skin of the beast. How purely vicious was his face.
"Was it fun to kill the tiger?" I asked.
He hesitated. Then forced himself to answer. "It was a man-eater. It feasted on children. Yes, I suppose it was fun."
I laughed softly. "Ah well, then we have that in common, me and the tiger."

"H'sh! It is neither bullock nor buck that he hunts to-night," said Mother Wolf; "it is Man." The whine had changed to a sort of humming purr that seemed to roll from every quarter of the compass. It was the noise that bewilders wood-cutters, and gypsies sleeping in the open, and makes them run sometimes into the very mouth of the tiger.

- Rudyard Kipling

His diamond eyes burning the night refusing daylight, in furious denial, to escape the tiger and escape my fire Escape desire - the feel of his sleek muscular body Escape his eyes glimpsed from behind mirrored shades The tiger, the man, knowledge, pursuit And then to softly ask for help. Tripping, the tiger has me. I have the tiger. His claws slice through me, through my disguises, leaving me naked, to myself. - Andrew Swanson