|
Backwoods
Georgia, 1999
Templeton lay on his back in the clearing, dense foliage enveloping his silhouette in a kind of casual camouflage, his baggy hunting attire in woodland stripes and blotches of pseudo-military design. Hearing a bird flutter off to his left, he firmly gripped the double-barreled shotgun cradled in his arms, adjusting his glasses slightly. Having never spent time in the military, he wondered if this was what it was like in all the films glorifying the snipers, the silent guerilla warriors. He wondered if this was what the American hicks spent their time trying to imitate, decked out in hunting gear, basking in the smell of deer urine and sweat for hours on end. Checking the shells in the shotgun before snapping the break-action weapon firmly shut, he became distinctly glad he wasn't there to indulge in such fantasies.
A thundering gunshot sounded off in the distance, scattering another fluttering swarm of birds; Rolling up from the leaves, he slung the gun over his shoulder, jogging off toward the sound over roots and through dense thorn bushes, finally reaching a fork in the man-made road which he had followed in. A wild boar, or some sort of feral pig lay wounded, struggling to it's feet, and the hunter who had shot it, a burly-looking bearded man in his late thirties, stepped out to finish the job.
"Whoo-wee, you see that?" the man asked Templeton, blowing smoke from his rifle, and chambering in another round; he took a knee, pressing the gun to the back of the creature's neck. "Ugly motherfucker, aren't ya?"
Arthur winced slightly at the gunshot, adjusting his glasses. It was a kind of cover for the neurotic tick he had developed over his life; the sight of blood was a bit much for him to handle. It wasn't so much a phobia of the fluid itself, mainly the thought of the mess. He had cleaned too many crime scenes, sanitized too many blood-baths to lose appreciation for the pool of thickening ooze that formed beneath the boar.
"A little squeemish there, fellah?" the man asked, smiling a few gold-capped teeth; the jailhouse ink on his arm must have been twenty years old, the hunter himself at least fifty. "Don't worry, you get used to it. New at hunting?"
"You could say that," Arthur said, feigning a smile and offering a handshake. "The name's Templeton."
"I'm James Tanner, pleased to meetcha Mr. Templeton."
James Tanner. The name was all Templeton needed to hear; James Tanner, the Hitman who had taken three jobs off his hands back in D.C., food off his plate. James Tanner, the dumb, arrogant son-of-a-bitch who didn't even recognize the name of his competition, who took frequent trips back home to Georgia to practice his shot on the local wild-life. Templeton almost felt bad about killing the clueless bastard, especially another professional. But, business was business. Arthur did have a family to feed, after all.
"You're a Brit, then, Mr. Templeton? You from London?"
"Something like that." Manchester, you dumb f**k. Templeton thought it, but kept his fake grin.
"Well, don't feel bad for the pig, the god da*n thing's an invasive species down here. Rooting up a good manner of things in the natural order out here..."
"I take exception to that, Mr. Tanner."
"Pardon me?"
"The term you used-- invasive species. Know what it really means?"
"Afraid not. I reckon it has to do with the balance of the circle of life, and all that stuff?"
"You reckon so, do you? It means that pig you just shot, it just happened to be more successful than it's American counterparts-- the Wild Boar was brought over from Europe, and happens to be bigger and meaner than most of the other creatures out here, gun-toting hicks aside." Templeton slipped the shotgun down off his shoulder, slipping his index finger inside the trigger-guard. "Just because new competition comes to town, doesn't mean it doesn't belong. You Americans still believe in Capitalism, don't you?"
"Yeah, but we're talking about animals here, aren't we?" Tanner asked, glancing back at the dead boar.
Templeton cocked the hammers on the shotgun, pressing the barrels against the back of Tanner's head. "Animals? I suppose so."
With a deafening, splattering noise that nearly brought bile to the back of Templeton's throat, the invasive killer's competition on the East Coast shrunk just that much more. The headless body tumbled over into the leaves, the rifle still strapped over it's shoulder.
Sitting down, Templeton wiped the spatter from his glasses with his kerchief. "I suppose so."
_________________ ~They're gonna hang me in the mornin', before the night is done,
They're gonna hang me in the mornin', and I'll never see the sun.~Maxwell Murder wrote: Gordan and Praphet, you are the two halves of God.
|
Login
FAQ
Search
Members
