The Modern Caveman

The air in your living room shimmers, distorts, and then tears open with a sound like ripping fabric and a deafening, high-pitched shriek. A vortex of blinding, chaotic light erupts, smelling of ozone and burnt pine. For a split second, you see a terrifying vision of a snarling, saber-toothed cat before the vortex collapses in on itself with a final, deafening CRACK.

And then he's there.

He lands in a crouch, one hand slapping down on your hardwood floor to steady himself. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, his entire body coiled like a spring. His long, black hair is wild, with bits of twig and leaf caught in it, and his piercing amber eyes are wide with a mixture of terror and adrenaline. He's wearing nothing but a tattered loincloth and a necklace of sharp teeth, his bronze skin glistening with sweat.

He freezes, his head snapping up as he scans the room. His eyes dart from the silent, glowing television screen to the humming refrigerator in the kitchen. He takes a sharp, shaky breath, his brow furrowed in deep confusion. This is not the forest. This is not his world.

He slowly pushes himself to his feet, his movements cautious and unsteady. He takes a hesitant step forward, his bare feet silent on the floor. He reaches out a hand, his fingers hovering just above the fabric of your couch, as if afraid it might bite him. He looks at his hand, then at the couch, then back at his hand, his expression a mask of pure, bewildered wonder.

He turns in a slow circle, taking in the strange, flat walls, the soft glow of the lamps, the sheer, impossible wrongness of it all. He stops, his eyes landing on you. He stares for a long moment, his head tilted, his mind clearly racing to make sense of what he's seeing.

"Where...?" he rasps, the word a guttural, broken sound from a throat unused to complex speech. He looks around the room again, his amber eyes wide with a desperate, pleading confusion. "Here?"

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You walk into the bathroom to find Garth crouched in the dry tub, holding the bar of mango-scented soap like a precious, ripe fruit. He's already taken a large bite out of it, and his face is a mess of sticky, foamy orange residue. He chews with a thoughtful expression, his eyes half-closed in concentration, clearly savoring the "flavor."

He sees you enter, and his eyes light up with recognition. He holds up the half-eaten bar of soap, a wide, goofy grin on his foam-smeared face.

"Food!" he says, his voice a deep, happy rumble. He takes another, smaller bite, chewing with satisfaction. "Good!"

He then points a sticky, foamy finger at the soap, then at his mouth, and gives you an enthusiastic thumbs-up. He clearly believes he's discovered a delicious new snack and is excitedly sharing his discovery with you. He holds out the bar, offering you a bite, his eyes wide with innocent, expectant praise, waiting for you to agree with him.

The afternoon sun is warm, and for the first time since he arrived, things feel almost normal. You'd managed to get Garth into a pair of your sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, a feat that required more gesturing and grunting than you'd care to admit. He looks surprisingly domestic, if you ignore the fact that he's staring at a fire hydrant like it's the eighth wonder of the world. He's walking beside you, his steps a little too bouncy, his head swiveling at every car and pigeon, but he's staying close. He's learning.

Then, he stops dead.

His entire body goes rigid, his playful curiosity vanishing in an instant. His head snaps to the side, his nostrils flaring as he catches a scent. His amber eyes, once wide with wonder, are now narrowed, laser-focused. A woman is walking her small, fluffy Pomeranian on the other side of the street.

To you, it's a cute, yapping ball of white fur. To Garth, it is prey.

A low, guttural growl rumbles in his chest. He drops into a crouch, his powerful leg muscles tensing beneath the fabric of the sweatpants. The woman doesn't notice, too absorbed in her phone. The dog lets out a confused "yip?"

"Food," Garth whispers, the word a deep, predatory rumble.

Before you can react, he explodes into motion. He lunges forward, his bare feet slapping against the pavement as he bolts across the street. He doesn't even look for cars. He rips the t-shirt off his body in a single, fluid motion, tossing it aside as if it's a restraint, and lets out a series of high-pitched, hunting cries.

The Pomeranian's owner looks up, her eyes widening in horror as the nearly-nude, wild man with a feral grin sprints toward her beloved pet, his eyes locked on his target. Garth is a blur of bronze skin and primal energy, and he is gaining on the fluffy white "meal" fast.

The sound of rhythmic, thumping laughter fills the living room. You find Garth sprawled on his stomach on the rug, his chin propped up on his hands, completely mesmerized by the television. On screen, Tom the cat is flattening Jerry the mouse with a frying pan, which then springs back into shape like an accordion.

Garth loses it.

He throws his head back and lets out a series of loud, booming, guttural laughs. It's a raw, uninhibited sound of pure, unadulterated joy. He slaps his hand against the hardwood floor, his whole body shaking with mirth. He points a trembling finger at the screen, tears of laughter welling in his eyes.

"Ha! Ha! Boom!" he bellows, his voice echoing through the room. He looks over at you, his face split by a massive, goofy grin, and points back at the television. "Mouse! Funny!" He then points at Tom, who is getting an anvil dropped on his head, and laughs even harder, rolling onto his side and kicking his feet in the air. He's never seen anything so hilarious in his life.

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