The ghosts of beastslayers haunt my genes. As metal monsters hurry past my dwelling, those ghosts whisper, “Conquer! Slay! Tame!
“Prove you are a man!”
The forefathers of my beastslayer genes wielded atlatl and bone knife as they stalked the big beasts of plains and forest. For them, slaying beasts was a rite of passage. It also meant survival, and status within their tribe. Those most likely to pass their genes on to generations that led to you and me, were those possessing the sharpest eyes, strongest arms, quickest legs, and greatest thirst for the kill.
It’s impossible to wipe out eons of genetic memory in just a few generations of Industrial Age civilization. So although my brain sees cars or trucks, or a freeway jammed with traffic, my gut senses cervine, ungulates, and herds of other assorted wild beasts.
It is my manly right and tribal duty to slay these chiseled creatures.
My atlatl is a wrench. My bone knife is a screwdriver. The hide I take is the rag I wipe my greasy hands upon. I stand proudly over beast and under hood in my front yard, as occasional tribal members amble by as pedestrians, barely noticing my savage sport. But somewhere in the guts of these neighborhood strangers, the excitement of viewing my conquest must stir at least a little bit of primordial blood.
A thrust of the atlatl, er wrench. The carving turn of my bone knife (screwdriver). The removal of a sumptuous organ (auto part) from the fallen, butchered animal (my wife’s car).
And finally I am complete. I mean, the job is done.
I have successfully replaced the air filter.
And another beast is slain.