A spontaneous, no-contact boxing match between me and a man dressed in a lion costume, at a themed restaurant, in an amusement park, goes badly awry

I

To win the

fleeting respect of

these children

- my niece and nephews -

for the rest of the day

I must play ball:

I must accept the challenge

of the park mascot -

this interloper on my territory.

In mock unarmed combat

I must best this man

who has clothed himself

in anthropomorphised

lion costume,

accessorised with maroon

fez and crested blazer,

without actually

kicking his arse

so bad

that he later

tracks me down

to my home

and shoots me

gangland execution style,

holding his

pistol sideways.

II

This synthetic lion:

Apex predator of

'The Jungle Juice Bar

and Lost Mayan Temple

Soft Play Area.'

This rival for

the love of

my brother's children,

refuses to fall to

my mimed haymaker.

He grabs my hair

and pushes my head

under the sneeze-guard

of the salad bar

into an aluminium serving tray

18 inches deep in coleslaw.

A dream of drowning:

Significant moments

from my life

flash before my eyes:

A former girlfriend

dressed as 'Death'

from Neil Gaiman's

Sandman graphic novels,

posing for a photo

alongside Brent Spiner,

at a Star Trek convention

in Basildon.

III

A park ranger

pats me on the back:

"You did okay there.

Always best to fight a lion

if it attacks."

"And always try to make yourself look bigger."

"Eating the coleslaw

was a good idea,"

says his partner

-a young man.

His flushed cheeks 

are dusted with acne.

"The mayonnaise is high in fat."

"They come down

from the mountains

this time of year

to scavenge,"

says the sheriff.

With his baton,

he pokes the body

of the sad man

in the lion costume.

"If we eat the lion

will we gain its strength?"

inquires my nephew,

paraphrasing something

that he read in a book

about Native American cultures.

"You should take a trophy,"

says the sheriff. 

"Not many folk can

say they killed a lion

with their bare hands."

Again with his baton,

he raises the head of

the fallen beast 

a few centimetres

out of the warm tray

of boiled potatoes

where it rests.

The movement briefly

separates the mask

from the man underneath

exposing an area

of pallid stubbled flesh.

"I've got some glue in my truck, should fix that,"

says the head ranger.

"No-one will ever know

it was a man in a lion mask."

A waiter disappears

into the restaurant kitchen

to fetch a meat cleaver.