From The Archives: Big Game Hunters (Flash Fiction)
July 7th, 1981
Tongass National Forest, Alaska
Most poor bastards work 9-5 jobs, their soul wither long before history washes their husks away. Others whore out a scam, or resort to crime. As for me, I live off the grid, but a man still needs money from time to time, and there’s a class of people who enjoy sport hunting. These people don’t do it out of necessity. No, not necessity, but some kind of perverted thrill. I’ve killed, but was indifferent towards the matter. I guess some folks have a twisted sense of pride, compounded with small dick energy, in snuffing out a life. It’s sociopathic if you ask me.
For the type of bored hunter who’s raped Africa one too many times, I offer a service when money runs low. The rules are simple. For $10K, you can hunt me for the weekend. When the hunt starts, everything is fair game. I only make one promise: You’ll leave alive, but I make no promises in what condition. Most of these jackoffs wished they’d stuck to reading Hemingway.
Once the money is wired to my bank, I get lost in the forest, and the hunt is on.
. . .
July 10th, 1981
Tongass National Forest, Alaska
Mark Williams, an aging oil tycoon from Texas, wired the money earlier this morning. Yesterday we met at Denny’s, and he couldn’t help brag about all his hunts. Bears. Tigers. Elephants. That might impress some people, but none of that will prepare him for the pain I’ll deliver if I see him during the hunt.
The sun is setting on the first day, and all is quiet except a few birds and the occasional song from wolves. Most of these people never find me in this forest.
The last guy did.
He ate out of a straw for a year and lives in a wheelchair.
. . .
July 11th, 1981
Tongass National Forest, Alaska
This might be my last hunt, as my reputation is about to take a hit. It appears Mark brought people with him. I saw two other men, both against the rules since they didn’t pay. This transgression against cannot go unchecked. My strike will be swift, like lighting from a clear sky.
Both looked younger, carrying all sorts of weapons. These chuckleheads are dressed to the fucking nines when it comes to hunting. His sons?
Whatever, I’ll deal with them soon enough.
. . .
July 12th, 1981
Tongass National Forest, Alaska
Last day of the hunt, and Mark was none too pleased about finding his boys strung up like deer, their insides hollowed out, guts stinking up the forest. One could say he went a bit mad, crying out, yelling, and cursed my name as I watched from a distance. But you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes like body-bag sons.
While tied to a tree, he yelled as if anyone could hear. He even prayed, as if God gives a fuck about some rich cocksucker big game hunting.
“You promised I’d live.”
I lit a cigar from the campfire. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Then why the fuck am I tired up?”
“Well, I can’t very well have you strike me when I amputate both your arms and legs, now can I?”
Shameless Self Promotion
