vituperation

February 12, 2003

One of my customers in Alaska sent me three pictures a couple of days ago, showing the aurora borealis. He took these on the weekend of the 2nd, in his backyard. Let me just say that the aurora borealis is pretty damn cool-looking, even though it does make me think of Stephen King books.

Attention: if you’re ever annoyed by the way I post sections of fiction here and cut them off at cliffhangers, do not read what’s below. If you do read it, I don’t want to hear any bitching; you were warned.

So did that just ensure that everyone would read it, or what?

The Hunt
(c)opyright 2003
Fred And3rson

“Sure Leslie’s hot, but the real question is does she put out?” Randy said, his mouth curving into an infectious grin. He always had a way of getting right to the heart of matters, particularly when women were being discussed.

We were on our way to our deer stand, hoping to bag one last buck - even a spike would’ve been nice, given the slim pickings that year - on the last weekend of hunting season. That January morning was cold and blustery, perfect for the deer to be out, and as we walked along, our breath chuffing out in plumes of white, conversation turned (as conversation among guys often does) to the fairer sex.

“I don’t know if she puts out,” I said, “We’ve only been out twice. Good Lord, give me a few more dates.”

Randy laughed.

“A few more dates? How long is it going to - shit!” Randy’s hunting hat, a bright orange thing resembling a baseball cap with earflaps, had been snatched off his head by a gust of greedy wind. It flew several feet down the path, and might’ve flown the whole five miles back to our ATVs had it not fetched up in a bush. Randy chased it down and picked it up, moving his bow and arrows around to his back so he didn’t get poked when he stooped.

“I guess I need to glue this damn thing to my -”

The top third of Randy’s head vanished, its solidity exploding into a bright spray of blood, bone, and brain. Like Seth from the Bible it was, then it was not. His head just ended right above his eyes. He was dead by the time I heard the crack of gunfire roll across the mountainside a second later, but he didn’t know it.

He blinked once and his mouth worked soundlessly. He lifted his left foot - it’s always the little things we remember, even years later - and tried to take a step toward me before pitching forward onto the ground. Blood poured from the cavernous opening in his skull, a splash of brilliant color among the brown leaves. I realized I could see the backs of his eyes through that hole, twitching and jerking. He still gripped the blaze orange hat, his hand tight even in death.

I’d like to tell you I was heroic then, that I magically resuscitated Randy and carried him back to the ATVs, then on into Nashville and a hospital, but the truth is far more mundane: I stood there for some time staring stupidly at his body, unable to comprehend what my eyes were showing me. Most likely I’d still be there, a thin ribbon of spittle hanging from my chin as I continued to gawp, willing his head to regenerate and him to rise up like the phoenix from the ashes, but I was shaken from my reverie by the sound of someone crashing through the underbrush toward me.

I turned toward the sound but saw nothing; the brush and trees were far too dense. I could hear him grunting out there, struggling to blaze his own trail where there was none. I watched in silence until I caught sight of the man, resplendent in a camouflage jumpsuit, looking down in an effort to keep from tripping over the roots and brambles. Under his right arm, pointed at the ground, was a very large chrome-plated shotgun.

He looked up and our eyes met. His widened with surprise.

“Oh, my -” he said, “You’re a person! Oh, Jesus, are you okay?”

“Randy,” I said. “You shot my friend. He’s dead.” My voice was flat, emotionless because the reality of the situation was still so big my mind hadn’t quite grasped it.

The man in the woods picked up his pace, hopping from spot to spot, his eyes jittering from me to the ground and back.

“Oh God,” he said, his voice shaking like he was about to cry, “I thought it was a deer.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “I was in my stand back there. I saw the movement and took the shot. I thought it was a deer!“

He broke through the underbrush and

At this point I decided I didn’t care for the story so I shitcanned it.