Once upon a time, on the sun-kissed southern shores of Tenerife, in a place where tourists sipped overpriced cocktails and debated whether volcano hikes were worth the blisters, lived a crocodile named Greg. Greg wasn’t just any crocodile—he was the absolute disgrace of crocodilehood. If nature had an undo button, Greg would have been the first to be recalled.

Unlike his ferocious cousins, who dominated rivers and devoured their prey with terrifying efficiency, Greg had the bite strength of a retired hamster and the hunting skills of a concussed pigeon. For reasons beyond anyone’s comprehension, he had ended up in Tenerife’s wildlife reserve, far from his natural habitat, where he spent his days basking in the sun and getting laughed at by seagulls.

One fateful afternoon, Greg was feeling particularly ambitious. A group of zebras had been relocated to the reserve for „ecological balance”—which, in Greg’s mind, translated to „free buffet.” His tiny, underachieving brain calculated the odds of success, which were just as terrible as they always were, but for once, he ignored the voices in his head that said, “You suck, Greg.”

He lunged. Or at least, he attempted to. His stubby legs scrambled in the sand, and he flopped forward with all the grace of a potato rolling off a countertop. A zebra named Lorenzo, who was minding his own business chewing on some particularly dry grass, turned his head just in time to witness the saddest predatory attempt in the history of animal kingdom.

For a moment, there was silence. The other zebras stopped chewing. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Lorenzo narrowed his eyes. Zebras, traditionally, are prey animals. They don’t attack—they flee. But something about Greg’s very existence offended him on a molecular level. It was as if nature had finally gone too far. His ancestors had spent generations fearing crocodiles, and now? Now, this embarrassment had the audacity to try and hunt? No. Not today.

With the righteousness of a warrior and the enthusiasm of an animal who had nothing to lose, Lorenzo did what no zebra had done before. He charged.

Greg barely had time to process what was happening before he felt a hoof collide with his face, sending him rolling backward like an overly ambitious beach ball. Before he could recompose himself, Lorenzo pounced—yes, pounced—onto Greg’s back, clamping his powerful zebra jaws around his scaly throat.

Now, it’s important to note that zebras are not natural predators, nor do they possess the kind of teeth necessary for a proper death grip. But Lorenzo did not care for biological accuracy. With the sheer force of pure indignation, he dragged Greg across the sand, kicking up dust as bewildered tourists and zookeepers looked on in stunned horror.

“Should we stop this?” a park ranger whispered.

“No,” the head zookeeper replied, shaking his head in awe. “This is history.”

Greg, meanwhile, was having the worst day of his life. Not only had he failed as a predator, but he was now officially the first crocodile to be bullied by a zebra. He flailed helplessly, but Lorenzo had tapped into some kind of primal rage—perhaps the ancestral memory of generations of zebras who had lost family members to competent crocodiles.

After what felt like an eternity, Lorenzo reached the edge of the water, where he unceremoniously dumped Greg onto the sand, snorted in disgust, and trotted off, his status as a legend forever cemented.

Greg lay there, motionless, staring at the sky, contemplating his existence. Around him, seagulls gathered, eager to mock him as usual.

„That,” one of them finally said, „was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Greg sighed. Maybe it was time to consider vegetarianism.