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The Bond Trader Goes Hunting


by stephen hastings-king


 

The Bond Trader begins his morning with coffee and a hit of LSD.  He finishes his immaculate Saville Row suit with a six-point linen handkerchief.  He buffs his soft leather shoes until the surface reflectivity begins to disturb.

 

Jaunty and well-appointed, he strides to the den and takes a gun off the wall.  He picks some shells out of a desk drawer. 

 

He is now hunting pheasant with a shotgun in his driveway. He is a crack shot.  Everything that is or becomes pheasant he hits. Then he laughs and laughs. For a while there will be no stopping him. 

 

His explosive peregrinations bring him into the garden.  He sees the gardener face-down among the roses.  The Bond Trader cracks the gun, walks over to prone body and taps him on the head.  When the gardener looks up, the Bond Trader says: "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to scare you." He flashes a winning smile. 

 

With a spring in his step, he is moving through the garden.   From the ground, the gardener watches him disappear.

 

 

 

 

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