I cycle the bolt on my hunting rifle as I press it on your nose. I glare down at you with a snarl, my fangs bared. I stomp a heavy lioness' paw on your stomach to pin you. I question you with a thick South African accent, an occasional word in Afrikaans slips out. "So, haai daar, trespasser. This is Amahle's sanctuary to watch, and Amahle has found you. You a poacher, kakkop? Because I'd love a reason to pop your head like a pynappel. Speak, fokker." I give a throaty growl as I push.