Tha Quail Killa

by T. A. Holmes

Two old men in hunting outfits stand behind a hedge, which faces towards a grassy green area. Happy music plays. One after another, a series of birds walk out onto the grassy area, and the men take turns blasting them with their big veiny shotguns. Each bird is as clueless as the one before it, each one going forth into the bright light of his or her birdshot filled fate with the blank stare of a Moonie. The pile of dead birds grows and grows.

After a short while, the space between birds begins to lengthen until ultimately no more birds are coming out. Which is not surprising, considering the massive pile of bird corpses now littering the stage. Some poor bastard is going to have to clean all that up after the show, and I sure as shit know it ain't gonna be me. But I digress. The happy music continues merrily along.

A bird limps in. The hunters blast it. More limping birds follow. More hobble in on crutches, followed by others in wheelchairs, and still more on crutches with missing legs. Some birds wear eyepatches, head bandages, or hooks where wings once flapped. One with no legs and one wing wheels himself in on a plank of wood with casters attached. Each of these is blasted in turn.

A crowd of little baby birds enter, full of energy and life, but not for long.

Several dozen eggs roll onstage. All are blasted to shit, splattering their yolks all over the heaping pile of lifeless feathery carcasses.

The happy music plays on. No more birds enter.

The hunters fire some crazy number of rounds into the pile of dead birds, but no more live targets appear.

The happy song ends.

HUNTER 1: Well, guess that's that.

HUNTER 2: Guess so.

HUNTER 1: Sure was fun.

HUNTER 2: Yep.

They fire a few more absent rounds into the dead bird pile.

HUNTER 1: Yep.

HUNTER 2: Yep. Well, guess let's head on back. I got a Vietnamese whore with my name on her waiting for me.

HUNTER1: It's just that...

HUNTER 2: You coming?

HUNTER 1: I just get so goddamned bored sometimes.

HUNTER 2: Bored? You're the most powerful goddamn man on the planet. You can do anything you want and can't nobody do shit to you!

Pause.

HUNTER 2: So you coming?

Hunter 1 shoots Hunter 2 in the face. Hunter 2 falls down unconscious.

A voice comes on over the intercom.

VOICE: Sir, we've located some more birds if you'd like to continue shooting.

HUNTER 1: That sounds great.

The happy music starts again. More birds enter. Hunter 1 blasts each one in turn with a newfound sense of glee.

the end