The Deer Hunter Hunter

I was asked if I'd rather go deer hunting or quail hunting by someone, not a friend of mine. Internet flotsam. But I'll be honest here, I'm proud of what I wrote back. I'm going to post the letter here.

Cheers.

I'd much rather stalk deer hunters. To follow one into the wood. Pretend to be his friend, share a cold one with him, then as he turns and walks into the woods ahead of you, you take your pocket knife a ram it ever-so-gently into the area just under the occipital lobe of his skull. Just about where the spine and skull meet in an Achilles' Heel of nerves and arteries just below the surface. A 6 inch knife would do it quickly and painlessly, which is why you're glad you're using a 3 inch knife.

As the big hunter spasmodically gesticulates on the ground, in the process of going paralyzed, he looks like a Parkinson's patient is giving a one man puppet show. There is blood, and spinal fluid, but it's not too messy. A tidy way to bring down of the Earth's largest animals, the human being. But to ease his passing, you consider dropping a boulder on his little head. Then you remember that people who hunt for the fun of it, instead of out of necessity, are douchebags. So you let the bastard thrash around some more. Before the big hunter dies, you cut his eyes out, turn them around, and cram them back in; the optic nerves hanging on each side of the nose. In between laughs of glee, mingled with quiet moments of deep, serious concentration, you cut his nose and lips off, too. He finally dies, chocking on his own nose shoved down his throat.

You'll let him ripen until morning, then you'll blow him up with 30 sticks of dynamite in a raft on that little pond. It will be like he never existed. In a way, he never did. I defy you to find him.