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Authors: Bobby D. Lux
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house.
“Nothing,” Simon said, lifting his mask and sounding like the child terror he was. He haphazardly kicked a few of the smaller shards of Christmas cheer out of the way under the washer and dryer. “Just playing with Missy.”
“Be careful in the garage, okay?”
“Jeez, I’m fine,” Simon said, as he lowered the mask and whispered to his prey. “Look what you made me do. Don’t make The Destroyer angry, you space monster.”
The hunt continued as Simon poked through the garage. He picked up a basketball and threw it up against the wall, echoing a plastic tiiiing . Now he was giving me a headache. He got down on his belly and crawled across the floor trying to get a better line of sight, his chest plate scratching on the concrete. Frustrated by the lack of a living target in range, Simon jumped to his feet and fired his rifle at will while spinning in a circle. And it sounded real. Automatic weapon real. Not space age laser fake. This was rat-a-tat-tat-tat rapid fire. If I hadn’t been watching with my own eyes, I would’ve thought we needed backup from the SWAT team.
“Simon!” Mrs. Hart said.
“What?”
“What did I tell you about that thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did I say about shooting that indoors?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What did I say?”
“I’m not indoors, mom.”
“You’re in the garage.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“What did I say?”
“Don’t,” Simon said, having tasted defeat in this game of generational wits.
“And what are you doing?”
“ I was just playing.”
“Playing’s over. Come inside.”
“I thought I was already inside,” Simon said, zinging his mom.
“Don’t get smart with me! Come inside and take off Destroyer, and clean your room.”
Simon was defeated worse than anything the nastiest space monster could do to him. He dropped his gun and slouched out of the garage as the rifle dragged behind him on the cord, ricocheting off the ground with each step.
What kind of game wa s this anyway? Hunting? The whole point was to get something to eat, so if you weren’t born with the tools required to catch something, maybe you’re being told you’re not supposed to catch it and that it’s not on your menu. Look at me; I can eat anything I catch. Chicken? Easy. A cat? In my sleep. A pig? Give me a break. Don’t take this the wrong way, but there’s not a human out there that, if I really wanted to, well, you can see where I’m taking this, so let’s move on.
The point is you’ll never see me take on a bear and nor would I want to; the required abilities to do so were distributed to other animals, not dogs. While I’m thinking about hunting and eating, you people do realize that cooking is a luxury, right? I’ve had cooked steak. I’ll admit that it’s a slab of paradise. But you know what? If I had that, with no seasoning, and had to tear it off the bone on my own, it would still be double delicious. I don’t think the fat guy hovering over the barbeque could make the same claim.
My third year on the force I was brought along on a weekend hunting trip in the woods with some other officers. Initially, I thought it was a sting operation where I was going to lead the charge through the bush. Nope. They put a ridiculous shiny bright tarp over me that made me stick out like a guilty perp in a lineup with a nervous twitch in his leg; the more you try and stop it, the more you can’t control it.
When the first deer went down in one shot, I realized that the trip to the woods had nothing to do with the job. The guys told me to go check the buck, and I did. I wish I hadn’t. His eyes were still open. Probably had no idea what even happened. A quick flash of what’s that smell, and that’s all she wrote.
There was something not right about it. Like Simon, this was done, presumably, in the name of fun. They cheered and scratched me and scooped up the buck and carried him back to camp. These were officers who would lay
“Nothing,” Simon said, lifting his mask and sounding like the child terror he was. He haphazardly kicked a few of the smaller shards of Christmas cheer out of the way under the washer and dryer. “Just playing with Missy.”
“Be careful in the garage, okay?”
“Jeez, I’m fine,” Simon said, as he lowered the mask and whispered to his prey. “Look what you made me do. Don’t make The Destroyer angry, you space monster.”
The hunt continued as Simon poked through the garage. He picked up a basketball and threw it up against the wall, echoing a plastic tiiiing . Now he was giving me a headache. He got down on his belly and crawled across the floor trying to get a better line of sight, his chest plate scratching on the concrete. Frustrated by the lack of a living target in range, Simon jumped to his feet and fired his rifle at will while spinning in a circle. And it sounded real. Automatic weapon real. Not space age laser fake. This was rat-a-tat-tat-tat rapid fire. If I hadn’t been watching with my own eyes, I would’ve thought we needed backup from the SWAT team.
“Simon!” Mrs. Hart said.
“What?”
“What did I tell you about that thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did I say about shooting that indoors?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What did I say?”
“I’m not indoors, mom.”
“You’re in the garage.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“What did I say?”
“Don’t,” Simon said, having tasted defeat in this game of generational wits.
“And what are you doing?”
“ I was just playing.”
“Playing’s over. Come inside.”
“I thought I was already inside,” Simon said, zinging his mom.
“Don’t get smart with me! Come inside and take off Destroyer, and clean your room.”
Simon was defeated worse than anything the nastiest space monster could do to him. He dropped his gun and slouched out of the garage as the rifle dragged behind him on the cord, ricocheting off the ground with each step.
What kind of game wa s this anyway? Hunting? The whole point was to get something to eat, so if you weren’t born with the tools required to catch something, maybe you’re being told you’re not supposed to catch it and that it’s not on your menu. Look at me; I can eat anything I catch. Chicken? Easy. A cat? In my sleep. A pig? Give me a break. Don’t take this the wrong way, but there’s not a human out there that, if I really wanted to, well, you can see where I’m taking this, so let’s move on.
The point is you’ll never see me take on a bear and nor would I want to; the required abilities to do so were distributed to other animals, not dogs. While I’m thinking about hunting and eating, you people do realize that cooking is a luxury, right? I’ve had cooked steak. I’ll admit that it’s a slab of paradise. But you know what? If I had that, with no seasoning, and had to tear it off the bone on my own, it would still be double delicious. I don’t think the fat guy hovering over the barbeque could make the same claim.
My third year on the force I was brought along on a weekend hunting trip in the woods with some other officers. Initially, I thought it was a sting operation where I was going to lead the charge through the bush. Nope. They put a ridiculous shiny bright tarp over me that made me stick out like a guilty perp in a lineup with a nervous twitch in his leg; the more you try and stop it, the more you can’t control it.
When the first deer went down in one shot, I realized that the trip to the woods had nothing to do with the job. The guys told me to go check the buck, and I did. I wish I hadn’t. His eyes were still open. Probably had no idea what even happened. A quick flash of what’s that smell, and that’s all she wrote.
There was something not right about it. Like Simon, this was done, presumably, in the name of fun. They cheered and scratched me and scooped up the buck and carried him back to camp. These were officers who would lay
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