Head
by
Ron Capshaw
Those who weren’t
there cheered when he came back to camp with the head.
Those who had, kept
their distance, as if he were somehow contagious.
The hunter didn’t
spoil the moment with the truth.
As he watched the
client robotically go into his tent, dropping the head on the way, the hunter
thought, What did he expect?
His other clients
had gotten over their shock that the movies had gotten it wrong and did what
they came to do.
This time the hunter
had to.
He found the client
vomiting behind a tree and dropped—not handed—the head at the client’s feet.
At least he has the courage to pick it up, the hunter
thought.
Back at camp, the
client’s wife, whose bar bill would have fed a family of ten shivering in a
Hooverville, must have learned some gypsy lingo, and practically raced into
their tent.
The hunter knew what
the poor bastard was in for. She had
been at him since arriving at camp, belittling his looks, his virility, and now
it would be his courage.
What she said to him
in the tent would later be shared.
Her mission,
probably begun shortly after the sap slipped the ring on her finger and she had
him tied in financial knots, was to keep him from ever getting his balls back.
Later, after the
hunter turned her down, she tried the abuse act on him, and he smacked her.
Rather than launch
herself at him, she took the hand he hit her with and kissed it.
American women, he thought and pushed her out of his tent.
Thank
God the safari was almost over.
Night came quickly,
and it was apparent from the circles under his eyes that the client hadn’t
gotten any sleep during the day.
Meanwhile the wife
looked well-rested, even radiant.
The husband looked
into the fire for a long time.
“I suppose it has
relocated.”
The hunter nodded.
“They do that when
discovered.”
“They wouldn’t
bother if it was just you, dearest,” the wife said.
Enough, the hunter thought.
“There’s another,
near here. We can go at daybreak.”
“No,” the husband
said, looking at the pitch-black sky. “Let’s go now.”
Before the hunter
could protest, the husband said, “You know where they feed?”
“Yes, but—”
The husband looked
at the hunter with tears in his eyes, “Please.”
The hunter nodded.
“Oh, I must go on
this one,” the wife said.
“It would be better
if you stayed behind,” the hunter said.
She moved her face
almost nose to nose with her husband’s downcast face.
“Oh, no. I missed his performance. I need to see a repeat.”
******
Some galloped, some
took to the air, all in search of a meal.
The hunting party
had brought guns this time.
The hunter pointed
at an area where a pack was feeding.
The wife clutched at
her throat.
The husband very
carefully sighted his rifle on them.
The hunter crouched
beside him.
“Go for the head,
not the heart.”
The husband reduced
the pack’s heads to spray before they had time to even snarl.
The husband smiled
at the hunter in a way the hunter knew he hadn’t in years.
The wife caught the
look.
“Big deal,” she
said. “You shot them from a safe–”
Just then, one of them
burst through the darkness, claws extended, jaw impossibly wide.
The hunter was
caught off guard and wouldn’t have time to bring his gun up.
The wife screamed.
The husband, quite
calmly, blew its brains out.
The husband looked
at his wife.
“The sound you are
hearing, dearest, are my balls being reattached.”
