It creeps, gently gently through the reeds and bull rushes near the water's edge, its foul and necrotic breath visible even in the heat of this summer's afternoon.
It lies, waiting, dissembling, patient - ever patient for the dead and the dying to shuffle near the water's edge, into reach, into sight of its ever unblinking and blood shot eyes.
It waits. It's good at waiting.
The wind rustles gently through the reeds, disturbing the water oh so softly with its gentle caress but It stays still, prepared to wait forever if needs be.
Suddenly, Slash! Stab! A child's right to not become an underage parent lies dead at The Snickety Snackt Coulter's cloven feet, a victim of the Snickety Snackt Coulter's remarkable ability to consider a condom on a cucumber "Graphic".
And again! Slash! Stab! The Smithsonian Museum is crippled before a razor sharp hatred of history and reality, and in one smooth motion The Snickety Snackt Coulter's jaw dislocates to accomadate the prey inside its gullet where a toxic bacterial cocktail of symbiotic parasites will slowly digested and devour the silent defenseless victim.
Not that The Snickety Snackt Coutler's hunger is ever sated, can ever be sated.
For it is a hunger, a pure hunger for someone to pay attention to it, to not run from its hideous appearance and stench of ancient biological decay.
Slash! Stab! And the NEA lies dead at its hooves, a victim of the creature's inability to understand things more complex than the straps holding its pleathery codpiece in place.
Oh the Pleather codpiece of the Snickety Snackt Coulter! Its mind will degrade so much one day that even the codpiece's straps will be too complex for it, and this would worry it if it was still capable. For it is the codpiece that hides its only weakness, the pie of its eternal destruction, its hideously gnarled reasoning process! the twisted and many times bifrucated length of which must never be let free and loose to waft in the breeze and meet and interact with others of its kind.
For if that were to ever happen The Snickety Snackt Coulter would cease to be, as it would realise that it doesn't believe in anything, not even itself.
But until that day it waits patiently in the bullrushes by the water's edge, careful not to make the water ripple, going through the motions of eating just to convince itself that it believes, believes in anything it can.
Though its tiny necrotised brain has long forgotten why.