The Great Hunt
Whatever you think about hunting, Nightmare loves it and writes really well about it. I'm a vegetarian who grew up in rural Alaska, where everybody hunts--except those of us who are vegetarians--so naturally I got inspired to write my own Wild Animal Kingdom story about holiday subsistence. Here it is, bound in faux bison leather with a cameo of Teddy Roosevelt on the front cover:
I knew I was taking my chances, but this year for Thanksgiving I set my sights on the world-class Unturkey-- and that prime rack of gluten, soy, and vegetable stuffing. Couldn't get a guide for love or money; none would take the risk when they learned where I was headed. So I let them all out of the car and drove on, through the ponderous night, with my lights off. Gave the finger to 3 Samoans in an SUV who almost hit me. Rattled a machete at a damned pedestrian. Slogged through the Heart of Darkness of the co-op market, cursing God and Joseph Conrad. Avoided a stampeding herd of wild hippies buying acidophilus by diving behind an isolated stand of Annie's Rabbit Pasta. Then, I made my mistake. Followed a trail into the organic produce section and got lost to high hell among the lettuces. The mosquitoes. My God, the mosquitoes. And the mud. My God, the mud. The leeches almost drained me-- I found myself out on the asphalt dripping blood and not a decent bag of sea salt in sight. Felt the sickening sweats of malaria, but it was too late to go back for Chinese herbals-- Through my clouded, feverish eyeballs, I caught the silhouette of the Unturkey baying in the moonlight up on Koolau ridge, like a wet dream to be seized, a Grail to be found, a boss at the end of a level of Keith Courage in Alpha Zones.
Crawled--wearing camouflage--in through the gourmet section of Foodland. Fought an almost overwhelming urge to do a Hemingway Big Two-Hearted River maneuver with a fly pole and snag a fine jar of caviar, one of the last remaining in the country. Almost froze my ass off staking out the frozen food section. It was so quiet you could hear a rutabaga scream. Caliber, you ask? Not a 30.06, a .270, an elephant rifle, or still less a shotgun or a bow or a big phallic bastard of a knife. I BAGGED THAT UNTURKEY WITH MY BARE HANDS.
I knew I was taking my chances, but this year for Thanksgiving I set my sights on the world-class Unturkey-- and that prime rack of gluten, soy, and vegetable stuffing. Couldn't get a guide for love or money; none would take the risk when they learned where I was headed. So I let them all out of the car and drove on, through the ponderous night, with my lights off. Gave the finger to 3 Samoans in an SUV who almost hit me. Rattled a machete at a damned pedestrian. Slogged through the Heart of Darkness of the co-op market, cursing God and Joseph Conrad. Avoided a stampeding herd of wild hippies buying acidophilus by diving behind an isolated stand of Annie's Rabbit Pasta. Then, I made my mistake. Followed a trail into the organic produce section and got lost to high hell among the lettuces. The mosquitoes. My God, the mosquitoes. And the mud. My God, the mud. The leeches almost drained me-- I found myself out on the asphalt dripping blood and not a decent bag of sea salt in sight. Felt the sickening sweats of malaria, but it was too late to go back for Chinese herbals-- Through my clouded, feverish eyeballs, I caught the silhouette of the Unturkey baying in the moonlight up on Koolau ridge, like a wet dream to be seized, a Grail to be found, a boss at the end of a level of Keith Courage in Alpha Zones.
Crawled--wearing camouflage--in through the gourmet section of Foodland. Fought an almost overwhelming urge to do a Hemingway Big Two-Hearted River maneuver with a fly pole and snag a fine jar of caviar, one of the last remaining in the country. Almost froze my ass off staking out the frozen food section. It was so quiet you could hear a rutabaga scream. Caliber, you ask? Not a 30.06, a .270, an elephant rifle, or still less a shotgun or a bow or a big phallic bastard of a knife. I BAGGED THAT UNTURKEY WITH MY BARE HANDS.
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