I make no apologies for who and what I am. Why should I? I am what I was made to be.
A killer is what I am, and a killer is what I will always be. It is simply part of me. What else could I be for? This hunger within me drives me and I know why I exist. I understand my strength, my determination. The speed of my body, the abilities I have, even the subtle differences between me and this herd animal before me, all of it adds up that I am the ultimate predator.
There is a pathetic mewling cry and I look down in pity at the body before me. Things have changed so drastically. Where once they came to us prepared, if not willing then resigned, now we must steal them in the night. There is a joy to the hunting, a fierce aliveness to stalking and capturing a living being, to proving myself smarter, faster, more cunning. Better equipped to survive. But then there is this moment, the one where the blood and bones before me looks up in terror and sees its own death. I don't mind that. I revel in it. The problem is that they all seem to blubber and make such pathetic noises.
It helps if I cut out their tongues. They are quieter then. Not silent, but as long as they are not screeching or begging for mercy or praying to some illusionary god then I am content.
So long it seems since the last one looked at me and worshipped as death came to it. So long since I heard praise on the lips of the dying, heard myself proclaimed the god to which it would willingly sacrifice itself, or at least to which it knew it was being sacrificed. There is almost always that last moment of unwillingness, the last kick of the survival instinct.
I enjoy that moment too.
Things have changed, though. Changed since the days when we walked the earth as gods, deigning to reveal ourselves and offer our control to those who would be less than useless without us. Sheep have no sense of how to rule a kingdom, how to continue their existence. They are, in truth, little more than sheep. Look at them today, playing at their silly battles, so concerned with posturing and trying to get the upper hand. Look at how they live. What other creature so thoroughly attempts to destroy those who are not even true rivals? Half a world away and they are still bickering. They take no care of those for whom they are supposedly responsible. Their food is given more consideration than many that share their DNA characteristics.
I feel no pity for them, only disgust. We should never have engaged in this experiment. We should have known that allowing our livestock to retain the illusion of freedom was going to be nothing but detrimental. It will take quite a bit of work to bring them back in hand. Rid them of the chemicals they ingest that poison them. Retrain them to understand that they must acknowledge their masters. Show them just what we can do.
Staring down at the one before me I offer a beneficent smile. Yes, the meat will learn to thank us when their world is once again full of order. What is the sacrifice of those we need to feed in light of that? They are killing far more than that number themselves. My fingertips trace along it's jaw before I tighten my grip, turning its hair to the side. I lean down, inhaling. This one, at least, has fewer toxins. Thankfully. Then my mouth is on its neck, my teeth breaking its skin.
It should be grateful. This is hardly a world worth missing. We will fix it, though, return order where chaos reigns. They have proven they cannot control themselves, and so it is time that we return to our place of power instead of hiding along the fringes, culling the herd every so often.
Perhaps we should start again. It might take generations, but we would feast well from the slaughter. We would not need that many to begin anew.
I would have no regrets.