The Womanless Man, Continued, 2

31 Jan


The Womanless Man

L. Stewart Marsden

Continued, 2

Go to previous installment

Go to story beginning . . . 

* * * * *

The blind had obviously been there for years. Brent found it one day on another hunting trip, and took some time to make small repairs. 

“Now you take the fox pee and spread it around the place — sparingly though — it doesn’t take much.” Brent talked in a loud whisper.

Stew obeyed. As he circled the blind, he noticed deer corn strewn about in the woods. 

The two sat with their backs against one of the rickety walls of the blind, their breaths steaming from their noses and mouths. Brent’s fu Manchu had already begun to ice up, as had his eyebrows. His head was well insulated with a wool toboggan and fleece hood, both a bright orange.

Brent showed Stew how to load his rifle and site through the scope. He pointed out a feature than enabled low-light vision.

“God, man, with all this high-powered technology, it’s a wonder there are any deer anywhere.”

“No shit. But if you follow the rules, like hunting in season, and hunting fairly …”

“Which is an oxymoron,” Stew chided.

“… hunting fairly,” Brent repeated, “the deer population is actually on the increase. Hell, I saw one eating my hostas the other day and thought ‘Damn! If I’d only had my gun or my bow!’”

The day passed quietly. Every so often Brent would chuckle to himself, then tell Stew an off-colored joke. Stew wondered if Brent ever had anything on his mind other than boobs and pussy.

“So the guy my first wife left me for, after about a year — we become buddies. And he says to me, he says ‘You never told me she was like this!’ And I say, ‘You never asked!’

Brent wore everything on his sleeve, and especially after a couple of swigs from his silver flask. Stew was more circumspect, but gradually, between the boredom, the cold, and the bourbon, began to open up. He told him about his Starter Wife’s indiscretions.

“Shit, man! I’da got my gun and blown the nuts off those guys.”

“Good for them it was me and not you, then. Plus we wouldn’t be out here in the freezing cold if you had cause you’d be serving three life sentences.”

“Well, once you’ve got your first kill, it begins to run in your veins.”

“You talking about men or deers?”

“Deer, dammit! Get your fucking hearing checked! Anyway, I swear to god, there’s no meat like deer meat, Stubie. Pure lean. Very little fat at all. And … no additives! I brought along some deer chili for supper and you will think you’ve died and gone to heaven!”

“I ate deer once on a camping trip with my Scout troop. Some guy fried up chunks of deer in butter. It was really good!”

“You wait. You fire off a round and get a buck or doe, and all this misery will be worth it, I swear.”

Then, as if on cue, Brent thumped Stew’s chest with his gloved hand and gave a loud “Shhhhh!”, then pointed out to a small clearing they’d been watching. Stew’s heart began to beat rapidly as a large amber-colored deer nosed cautiously through the trees and into the clearing. 

“A buck!” Brent whispered excitedly.

The male stepped with practiced motion, as though choreographed, toward deer corn piled high by Brent earlier. Sniffing the air, looking about nervously, the animal seemed to check off a mental list of precautions before exposing his full body in the clearing. He shivered along his flank against the cold, and dipped his nose toward the corn.

While Stew watched, mesmerized, Brent had carefully picked up a rifle and checked to see it was ready to fire. He nudged Stew out of his daze, and slowly handed him the weapon, nodding toward the buck. Brent’s face was aglow with excitement, his eyes wide, as he kept nodding and grinning at Stew. 

Slowly, Stew lay down on his stomach, and put the rifle stock against his shoulder, his cheek feeling the cold wood. Clicking the safety off, he leaned into the gun and positioned his eye against the scope, then moved the barrel until the crosshairs found the spot on the deer, just behind the front shoulder, that Brent had instructed him to aim at.

The buck dipped to nibble at the corn, bobbing his head back up and rechecking his surroundings. Stew slowly, carefully found the trigger with his right index finger, which he initially stroked up and down along its curve.

He remembered Brent’s instructions: deep breath, hold, and slowly exhale while squeezing the trigger.

In a flash he was a kid with the Daisy air rifle, sighting down a much cruder barrel at a robin in the snow. As if that child, he suddenly aimed higher and fired.

And like that childhood day, he watched the slug erupt from the barrel straight toward the buck, striking it just between the shoulder and the neck.

* * *

Continued . . .



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