A pulse ran through the assembled mob of mindless clamoring jaws, as they witnessed the first of their number fall to the ground, between them. Their attitude notwithstanding, every individual continued their assault; and every hop was met with a decisive thrust of the pitchfork downward through the eye socket, jugular, or chest.
Within seconds, their numbers had been reduced to singular digits; and a pool of foul-smelling red fluids were intermingling with the pungent hemolymph of their supposed feast.
It didn't take long for the nippers to realize that they were going to be next on the executioner's pike. They stopped jumping, and paced around, instead; looking for any undiscovered angle that might bring their target down.
