54 lines
2.8 KiB
Plaintext
54 lines
2.8 KiB
Plaintext
Subject: Death of a Pheasant
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# The story below is of my own telling; it is based upon a true
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# story told me by my uncle, but I have invented the name "Howard,"
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# inserted some opinions about "hunting shows," and changed the course
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# of events slightly.
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My uncle told me about one of his friends, Howard, who was hired to
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participate in one of those "Saturday Sportsman" shows. His job was
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to hide in the bushes, holding a pheasant, and release it at the
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appropriate moment, so that it could be promptly shot down for the
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pleasure of the viewing audience.
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Howard's first brush with Hollywood was very exciting. Granted, no one
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would ever see him, his name wouldn't be in the credits, but, at least it
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was "Show Business!" Provided with a pheasant, and installed in a certain
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stand of corn stalks, Howard waited for his cue to hurl the bird into
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the air.
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You, the viewer, don't see Howard, of course. You do see two Serious
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Hunters stalking around, making Especially Wise Hunting Remarks. You
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are admiring the perfect hunting dogs. And, just before the commercials,
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magically, there is a flurry, a pheasant rises, accelerating, bright
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wings beating furiously. This pheasant is an eager flier, having been
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mysteriously held by normally lethal humans for about 40 minutes. So,
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the pheasant, making his escape, meets his Maker instead, in the form
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of a wall of buckshot. Pheasant drops, dogs expertly retrieve,
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hunters unctuously auto-congratulate.
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Howard's turn to release his pheasant is approaching. He is very
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nervous; this brush with Broadway is thrilling. He waits, determined
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to expertly send this bird into the path of many little lead pellets:
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so perfectly, that a Hollywood producer will see that bird, and think,
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"my God, that bird was very skillfully launched." "Phone call for
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Howard, it's Spielberg!" The fantasy is delicious.
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And now, the Moment! It's the signal! Every muscle in Howard's body
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surges in the orbital delivery of this winged target. The pheasant
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arcs up, up, up..... It's not flapping its wings very hard, though.
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In fact, it's not flying at all. Now the pheasant-projectile has
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passed its apogee, and is streaking down for reentry with the cornfield.
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Howard's pheasant looks more like a rock disguised as a pheasant
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than a real live pheasant. With a sickening thud, the pheasant slams
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into the solid planet. The dogs wince and look away. The hunters
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congratulate themselves on another superb display of hunting prowess,
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made more remarkable by the absence of any shooting.
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The camera swings away. Howard is crushed, his chance for
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pheasant-slinging glory gone. The pheasant is crushed as well. Upon
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post-mortem, it develops that Howard, in his anticipatory excitement,
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has strangled the pheasant. It was horribly massaged to death,
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in Howard's nervous hands.
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--
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