Tuesday, December 7, 2010

The Arctic Agent Trophy Hunter

Braving the digital tundra through the representation zone fuzzily sheltered by a white-leopard skin, its upper jaw rests comfortably, firmly, upon my forehead, the fangs descend barely into the line of sight, canining my perspective gone bestial like, the social Darwinist survival instinct rising like Japan's flag. Ahead a nimble and perhaps nubile young quarry picks at the frost, sifting occupationally 49'er style for something that could in fact be green, perhaps more should the creature have Midas' touch in advance and tour negotiation. Suddenly and without apparent warning like the sad sum of a fast car and a nearby puddle on a misty day a flood of additional creatures that have potential churn through the search engine onto the tundra. The cross-hair becomes crowded, the sniper rifle discarded for a shotgun, widely dispersed blasts emitting like a 21 gun salute, patters and fading glances only no death, no targets felled. Additional knowledge on the nature of the beast is necessary so the true targets may be identified, the pattern of its stripes suspected to be intrinsic, as one sniped equals one felled, with having your one being all it takes to start getting down. Snow falls, the decade climbs, and the seasons will change; change we can most certainly believe in. RnR