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.