THE HUNT A Cautionary Tale By Daniel Soule
T
he hunt is almost as good as the kill. It’s just my opinion but I love the cat and mouse of it. The “oh no, I don’t want to” but she really does. You have got to come prepared for this kind of thing. Got my hair cut. Got my best shirt on. Pressed my jeans and put my best sneakers on. Cleaned my teeth, flossed too. My best lines are lined up. Got my killer smile and my listening face all practiced. Got my cup slipped into my jocks and a roofie ready to go, if she’s not. If you catch my meaning? Sally, oh Sally, how I have wanted you. Usually, I’ve got to go out of town for an opportunity like this, but now here you are back from your sophomore year at college, all clever and oh so perky. Your dumbass brother couldn’t stop banging on about how well you are doing hanging out with all those four-eyed pricks, who haven’t got a clue about what a woman really wants. “The gang’s back together. Let’s go out to Jessie’s for pitchers,” her brother practically wet himself at the idea. No, the brains in the family certainly didn’t go to poor Jonny. He’s good for a loan though, and too much of a pussy to need to worry about paying him back. Sally got all the looks as well. Sitting there with a tight white t-shirt with some goofy logo on her tits, like butter wouldn’t melt. You big flirt. “What’s the t-shirt?” I ask. You gotta ask, gotta make it look like you’re interested, make them feel at ease. But that face she pulls at me, well, not exactly pulls, but she doesn’t even smile, stuck up little… “Oh, this?” she looks down at her glorious rack. “It’s from a club I joined when I started college.”
“What is it?” You’ve gotta be persistent, break down their defences. They like that. “Is that wrestling or something? You join the girl’s wrestling team?” “Something, like that.” Still no smile. A more persuasive approach might be needed. The pitchers flow. My round has come around. “Hey Jonny, give me a hand, won’t you?” and her stupid bro agrees. He always does. I catch her looking at us as we head to the bar. She’s still a little shrew and we all know what little shrews need. “Hey Jonny, I forgot my wallet. Stupid me. I don’t want to be a prick, but could you shout me a round and I’ll square up with you at work on Monday?” “Sure thing,” he agrees. Of course, he agrees. He always agrees, the little pussy. “It’s great having Sally back, eh? Just like old times. She’s so smart. Pre-law and a full academic scholarship. Did I tell you that?” “You did,” about a million times, dumb ass. God, they are stuck together like glue. How am I going to get Jonny away from Sally? I can’t make any headway with her if he’s clung on. At this rate, they’ll be going home in a cab together to their mom and dad’s place. Then it hits me. I am a clever sonofabitch, even if I do say so myself. Maybe I’m the one who should have gone to college. Time to be the good host. “Let’s fill up again,” I say picking up the jug of beer. I’ve done a variation on this a dozen times or more. It’s real easy and just shows how dumb most people are. The size of the pouch is what matters. I got the idea from a Stephen King book, that one where that demon comes and punks that stupid little town and gets them all killing each other. Anyway, there’s this cop in it who does close-up magic, coin tricks and the like. He had this one with a bunch of paper flowers. You know the one, where they appear from nowhere in the magician’s hand. Well, the book describes it FEB 2017 | ISSUE 005 | 13