During a performance at a small circus in Texas, trainer Mark was attacked by Simba the lion, the whole audience screamed thinking he was about to be killed.
But just a split second before his claws touched Mark, Simba suddenly changed direction, jumping towards a man in the front row. Unexpectedly, it was …
The August heat of West Texas was scorching, turning the air inside the Dusty Star Circus into a giant stew, thick with the smell of sweat, burnt popcorn, and the acrid scent of wild animals.
Mark tightened the leather belt around his waist, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his frayed shirt. He was a man in his mid-40s, tanned, with scars crisscrossing his arms—the medals of 20 years as a trainer.
“Mark, are you okay? Simba looks strange,” Joe, the old clown and circus manager, whispered as he passed him backstage.
Mark looked into the cage. Simba, his pride and “child,” a 400-pound male African lion, paced nervously. His amber eyes were bloodshot. Instead of lying there half-asleep, resting, he growled in his throat, occasionally clawing at the bars, breathing heavily and laboredly.
“It’s probably just the heat,” Mark reassured Joe, but a vague unease rose in his heart. For the past three months, Simba’s temperament had changed. He was irritable, vomiting, and sometimes looked at Mark with strange eyes. The local vet said he only had a mild digestive disorder, but Mark sensed something more sinister was creeping into his partner’s body.
“It’s showtime! Good luck!”
The majestic music blared. The spotlights swept across. Mark took a deep breath and opened the cage door. Simba stepped out onto the circular stage strewn with sawdust.
The audience was packed with about 500 people. There was thunderous applause. In the first row, the VIP area (which was actually just a few more cleaned plastic chairs), a middle-aged man sat with his legs crossed. He wore an expensive ash-gray suit, standing out in the crowd of shorts and T-shirts of working-class Texas. He didn’t clap, just stared at the lion, a smile on his lips that was hard to understand.
Mark flicked his whip to the floor – just for the sound, he never hit Simba. “Up, Simba!”
Simba hesitated. He shook his shaggy head vigorously, as if trying to shake off a pounding headache. He let out a roar, not his usual mighty roar, but a cry of pain and rage.
“Simba, focus, son,” Mark said softly, his voice firm but gentle, holding out a small piece of meat as bait.
But Simba didn’t look at the meat. His eyes were wild. He looked at Mark, then at the crowd, then back at Mark. Foam began to froth at the mouth of his head.
Suddenly, the beast cowered. The muscles under the golden fur were as tight as a guitar string. Mark knew this pose. This was not a performance pose. This was a hunting pose.
“Mark! Watch out!” Joe shouted from the wings.
Too late.
Simba charged. A huge mass of muscle and claws shot through the air.
“AAAAHHH!” The whole audience screamed in horror. Children covered their faces and cried. Adults jumped up and ran.
Mark stood rooted to the spot. In that moment of life and death, he did not run. He looked straight into Simba’s eyes, accepting his fate. If he died at Simba’s hands, he did not blame him. He only pitied him. He knew he was in pain.
Whoosh.
A blast of hot air and the stench of the wild beast hit Mark in the face. He closed his eyes, waiting for the slap that tore at his flesh.
But nothing happened.
A terrifying BOOM sounded behind him, right at the edge of the circus’s low, rickety safety barrier.
Mark opened his eyes and turned. The sight before him stunned him and the entire circus.
Simba didn’t attack Mark. In the last moment, it used Mark’s shoulder as a springboard, leaping over Mark’s head, crossing the 3 meters and plunging straight into the front row.
Its victim was the man in the gray suit.
“Help! Help me! Shoot him!” The man screamed, his voice hoarse with terror. He fell backwards, the plastic chair shattering.
Simba pressed down on his chest. Its huge front legs pinned the man’s shoulders to the ground. Its sharp teeth were open, close to his face, drool dripping down onto his silk tie.
But strangely, Simba didn’t bite his throat right away. It growled, put its nose in the man’s vest pocket, sniffed, then raised its head and roared with hatred that shook the circus tent.
“Don’t shoot!” Mark shouted when he saw the security guard pull out his tranquilizer gun. He rushed out of the cage and ran towards the stands.
“Simba! Stop!” Mark ordered.
The lion turned its head to look at Mark. In its eyes, the madness had calmed down a bit, giving way to a sense of direction. It turned back to the man, using its razor-sharp claws to tear open his vest pocket.
A small plastic pill bottle fell out, rolling on the dusty wooden floor. Along with it was a torn foil package, revealing beef jerky balls soaked in strong spices.
Mark paused. He picked up the bottle. “Arsenic” – low concentration, used to kill rats, but if used in small doses for a long time, it will cause nervous breakdown and agitation.
Mark looked at the man trembling under the lion’s claws. This face… Mark squinted. Under the dim stage lights, the lines of fear revealed his true nature.
“Carl?” M
ark exclaimed. “Carl ‘The Butcher’?”
The man paled. He tried to struggle, but Simba roared, baring his fangs, forcing him to lie still.
“You… you’ve got the wrong guy! I’m a lawyer! I’ll sue this damn circus! Your beast is crazy!” he shouted, but cold sweat poured out of him like a shower.
Mark stepped forward, squatted down next to the lion’s head, and placed his hand on its mane to calm it. Simba still growled, but it let Mark touch it.
“Simba isn’t crazy,” Mark said coldly, holding the vial of poison up in front of the crowd and the police who had just arrived. “He’s just demanding justice.”
Mark turned to the sheriff who was pointing his gun at Simba. “Don’t shoot. This lion is guarding the crime scene.”
He pointed at the man. “This is Carl Jenkins. Ten years ago, he ran an illegal wildlife breeding farm on the Nevada border. I was part of the team that rescued Simba from him when he was just a three-month-old lion cub.”
Mark parted the thick fur on Simba’s neck, revealing a faint X-shaped scar. “This is the mark of the electric collar he used to torture cubs that refused to perform. Simba never forgot his scent. The smell of cheap perfume mixed with menthol cigarettes. And more importantly…”
Mark picked up the beef jerky that had fallen to the ground and sniffed it. “The smell of the poison he’d been sneaking into Simba’s cage every night for the past three months.”
Carl was speechless. He looked around, searching for an escape route, but hundreds of spectators were surrounding him, their eyes shifting from fear to anger.
“Why?” Mark growled. “Why did you do that?”
Carl knew there was no denying it. He sneered, a crooked smile. “For money, you fool. Your circus owes money to the bank. This land is zoned for a shopping mall. I represent the real estate company. If this lion kills someone—especially an innocent audience member like me—the circus will be shut down immediately, sued for bankruptcy, and we will buy the land for dirt cheap.”
“You poisoned it… to make it go crazy and kill you?” Mark couldn’t believe his ears.
“I was wearing body armor inside,” Carl spat. “I had it all figured out. It would just scratch me a few times, then the police would shoot it. I would be the victim, the circus would go out of business. Perfect plan.”
“There’s just one thing you didn’t count on,” Mark stood up, patting Simba on the head. “It’s the memory of elephants… and the vengeance of lions.”
Carl was wrong. He thought Simba was just a wild animal driven insane by poison. But he didn’t know that, during the nights of torture in the illegal farm ten years ago, Simba had imprinted the scent of his enemy into his bones.
When Carl threw the last poisoned meatball into Simba’s cage before the show to incite his rage, he accidentally awakened that memory. And when Simba stepped onto the stage, the pain from the torture didn’t make him lose his mind, but made him more focused than ever.
He didn’t see Mark – his foster father. He only saw his enemy. The one who caused this pain. The one sitting in the front row, exuding the scent of death.
And that jump wasn’t a loss of control. It was a jump of exacting punishment.
The police rushed in and handcuffed Carl Jenkins. He was dragged away to the boos and curses of the Texas crowd. The thin Kevlar armor inside his vest saved him from Simba’s claws, but not from a life sentence for animal cruelty and attempted murder (because if Simba had gone truly mad, he could have killed many others).
Mark knelt down on the dusty stage. Simba lay down beside him, breathing heavily, exhausted but at peace. His yellow eyes softened, and he nuzzled Mark’s calloused palm.
“Good job, son,” Mark whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks. “It’s over.”
The circus, after a few moments of terror, suddenly erupted in applause. Not for a circus act, but for a display of natural justice.
In a corner of the stands, a little boy pointed at Simba and said to his mother, “Mommy, that lion isn’t a monster. He’s a hero.”
And in the sweltering Texas heat, the legend of Simba – the lion who knows how to find evil – began to spread, saving the circus “The Dusty Star” from bankruptcy, because everyone wanted to see the “four-legged judge” in the flesh.
