It’s dusk in the sprawling metroplex known as Tipp (or Tippecanoe, if you’re a purist) as the stereoscopic predator prepares to await his prey. Miles Avenue is by no means reminiscent of the Serengeti, but it can get pretty dusty and Matt Black is poised nonetheless. The hunt will soon be on.

Black is an avid hunter, but laments that lately the roles of predator and prey have been skewed in favor of those armed with compound bows or semi-automatics with flash suppressors or silencers. “An unfair advantage” he declares with a scowl and an eye on the horizon…or maybe just across the street. “This time…it’s personal, and I’ll take the prize with my bare hands.” In the corner of his eye, he detects a blur of activity in the front lawn abutting Miles.

Eschewing the more mainstream role as webmaster/gatherer, Black spends some downtime at the home of his mother (known as “Mother Black”…or just “Mom”) as he considers the conditions within the city limits; he waits…waits for his prey to make “the mistake.”

Suddenly he lifts a hand, causing the matriarch of his “pride” to be very still, as he senses a new quarry. “I’ll take this one, Mom,” but he knows he’s not alone. Someone or something is competing for this urban trophy, but he will turn this situation to his advantage, again, as he aims to use the assets that nature gave him: incredible speed and guile, a higher brain function, and opposable thumbs. “Rest, Mom…dinner is on me.”

Leaping from the front porch, Black bolts after his prey, a ten point buck, he hopes…or maybe a fawn, but that minor detail detracts from the excitement of the tale; it’s a wild animal nonetheless. Black sees his competition: their behavior reminds him of a SAY soccer game; gaggles of giggling adolescents chasing his prey from yard to yard, trying to run down the frightened, disoriented fawn. After all, his quarry has no working knowledge of municipal code or recently adapted fencing regulations that seem incomprehensible. Black knows he has to outsmart the 3rd graders with his superior knowledge and speed.

Distracting the kids by pointing at an ice cream truck (He’s always hated the theme from “the Sting”), he eyeballs the fleeing animal, and starts his run. The fawn has legs, but it can’t outfox “Cheetah” Black, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphors. Hitting speeds of 7 mph, Black realizes the Marlboro in one hand and the Miller High Life in the other represent an unacceptable level of drag and he jettisons them, accelerating…to almost 8 miles an hour! His heart pounds away like a jackhammer as his pace compacts the air in front of him and the sonic punch explodes…or maybe it was just gas. Nonetheless, he’s booking. Suddenly he grinds to a stop in the neighbor’s back yard. His prey is obviously hiding, with nowhere to go as it finds itself “fenced in” by a fence, a faux stockade variety, perfectly acceptable to municipal code, of course.

Cheetah Black knows his speed won’t help him now, but his “sense of stalk” comes into play as he makes his way toward the cowering, but still semi-dangerous animal. Black stops, catching his breath and wiping the sweat from his brow as maneuvers downwind to prepare for “the moment.”

Like a coiled cobra, he leaps (a leaping cobra???) at the fawn, grasping it with his hands and capitalizing on his opposable thumbs, and securing it close to his chest. He awaits the inevitable sting of the animal’s fangs, but much to his consternation, the frightened quadruped kicks the living begeezus out of his torso and arms, causing the King of the Miles Ave food chain to wince. But alas, the animal is caught.

“You’re not bringing that thing into my living room,” howls Mother Black mightily. “I’ve just had the carpets clean from the last time you manhandled a Whopper with extras tomatos.” Cheetah is perplexed as to his next move: dinner, or catch and release. He turns to his daughter (covering her eyes in embarrassment and mumbling “OMG, OMG…”) and asks her to call Obi John Kessler. His old mentor will know what to do.

After he stopped laughing, Kessler sauntered into action. Putting the great besotted hunter into the back of his F250, Kessler drove for miles and miles in circles, knowing that the fawn was pummeling Cheetah Black’s chest and arms as he clutched the near-hysterical animal close to him (now we’re anthropomorphizing; animals can’t be hysterical, but Matt is…). Finally composing himself, Kessler heads out of town and finds a wooded reserve. Bleary-eyed and bruised, Black releases his quarry into the wild as the animal turns one more time toward his beneficent captor. Kessler later commented that he was sure the fawn “mooned” Black. But Matt Black knows he did the right thing.

Resting back at his lair, Kessler asked Cheetah what his greatest fear was during the whole escapade. “Was it the fangs or the possible ambush the fawn was planning as it crouched in the bushes as you approached? Was it the embarrassing publicity you’re about to get?” Black slowly shook his head and took another swig. “No… with the incredible speeds I reached during the chase, my greatest fear was a right angle turn…or maybe blacking out from the high-G stops.” And with that, Cheetah Black finished his Natty Lite, and crushed the can against his forehead. His mouth agape, Kessler could only marvel at what he just experienced. Darwin was wrong…natural selection must have failed somewhere…