Hunting

I sit...silent...waiting...eyes trained on the entire area around me...watching for the slightest movement. I am patient, my mind is clear...ready for what awaits me. I am calm and glance down at my weapon of choice, satisfied with my selection. I am alone and my solitude comforts me. There have been very few times when I have been in a place this quiet in Bolivia.

Something in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I turn slowly and calmly, readying my weapon. "I aim with my eye, not with my hand...I aim with my eye, not with my hand"...Roland Deschain's montra runs through my head. My victim has stopped moving, perhaps becoming aware of my prescence. I freeze as well. Without warning I attempt to strike BLAM!...but the prey escapes, narrowly missing death.

I return to my state of calm and silence, awaiting my next victim. I do not have to wait long. Apparently these things do not learn from their comrades' mistakes. I once again ready my weapon. This one is closer. I take aim...BLAM! Dead. Crimson blood has escaped from the mosquito's body, splattering on my wall and my weapon (my hand). Another one buzzes past my dresser and lands on my arm. Before he gets a chance to sink his bloodsucking nose into my skin, I strike. Another one bites the dust.

It's 3am, and the buzzing mosquitoes are preventing me from sleeping. So I have gone on a rampage. I sit in the middle of my room, waiting for them to show their stinking faces, destroying them one by one. It has become somewhat of a game. There are tiny blood splatters on my walls telling the story of my success. Like all good hunters and gunslingers, I learned from my father. Joe Ranz is so passionate about his flyswatters he has been known to even turn on small rodents and raccoons. He has a killer flick of the wrist. I'm lacking a flyswatter in Bolivia, so my hand works just fine. Dad, please don't use that as a cue to send me one.

With all the mosquitoes dead, I am going to try to sleep again. Sweet dreams.