Poking the tiger

You settle down in an empty patch of grass – or, uncharitably, soil doing its best – that is close enough so that you can hear, but far away enough that you'll have time to scarper while the front rows are getting eaten. A few feet in front of you, a man with very red cheeks shuffles his steamer chair backwards. "I say, are we sure that it's safe here without any cages?"

The tigers in earshot freeze. A nearby woman gasps, and drops her fan. A growl bubbles by the bandstand, and commutes through the throats of each assembled feline.

Mr Inch clears his throat, glaring at the offending speaker. "Not to worry, good sir. I shall be escorted back into my enclosure in good time, and I solemnly swear not to maim you in the interim. No matter how tempting it may be." An uneasy chuckle passes through the crowd. In a tiger's throat, a chuckle and a growl are not so different – but the predator's stillness leaves their frames.

Of Stripes, and Coils What do they all want? Quickly now, before someone gets eaten.