“The Hunt“
Gary was once again drifting off.
How long could he do it? How long could he keep it at bay?
He could not allow himself to relent.
Fight it. Fight with everything you have, he repeated to himself. Never give in… never give…
The darkness came swiftly. No more sounds.
He had finally relented.
The dream… it was back.
Saturday night, he was on his way to the biggest night of the year—the annual wildlife safari lottery drawing.
Last year, he thought I was almost there. The second ticket called—307110—and I had 111.
Every year, the American Right to Carry (ARTC) sponsors an excursion to Africa: three days and four nights of gun shows, seminars, and parties—so say the advertisements and the language on the permits.
…but insiders know.
The real attraction is the hunt.
Anyone who is a member of the ARTC knows about it.
Tonight, the crowd seemed extra-large.
Gary was talking to an associate. Tim Crowder was there every year, just like Gary, and over time they had developed a sort of friendship—at least for the time they were there.
“You almost made it last year, huh?” Tim said.
“Yeah. One number away sucks.”
They both chuckled.
The event was winding down as the speaker took the stage.
“How is everyone doing tonight?” he asked.
The crowd responded.
“That’s wonderful! Guess what time it is?”
The crowd roared.
“That’s right—it’s lottery time.”
“Five lucky winners will join us on this year’s fantasy excursion to Mozambique, Africa, where you’ll spend three days and four nights filled with fun, guns, and hunting beyond your wildest dreams.”
“So, with no further ado—reach into your pockets, grab those tickets, and see if you have… 899776.”
He repeated the number, then moved on to the next ticket.
It came down to the final two.
Then—
“878362.”
Gary froze.
He checked his ticket.
Then he handed it to Tim.
Tim checked it again.
Gary slowly raised his hand.
It was his dream come true.
Later that night, Tim called Gary.
“You wouldn’t believe it, man,” he said, barely able to contain himself. “Rob got a call from his job. They need him in Atlanta—some emergency underground pipe break. Sewer line’s dumping into a river.”
“They need someone with experience,” Tim continued. “He gave me his ticket.”
“We’re going to Africa, my buddy.”
Gary was just as excited as Tim.
He had been wondering who he would team up with—and now he had his answer.
“That’s great news, Tim,” Gary said.
“Let’s meet up tomorrow. Lunch. We’ll plan everything out.”
“Sounds good, my buddy.”
They ended the call.
The next day, they met at their usual spot—the sports bar on Main Street.
They talked about the trip.
Mapped it out.
Built their plan.
The flight was better than Gary expected.
Not great—but not terrible either.
He had heard horror stories about the stopover in Addis Ababa, but like most stories… it was nothing like what people said.
After arriving at the hotel and settling in, they met in the lounge for a drink.
The bartender was… different.
Very talkative.
Unusually so.
Gary had seen a lot of bartenders—but this one stood out.
He went on and on about foreigners.
About the two-sided coin.
“Every coin has two sides,” he must have said fifty times.
“We relish the profits of tourism,” he continued, “and all the events we host… but each year, we lose a little more of ourselves. Our culture.”
“We are beginning to act like you.”
Gary and Tim exchanged looks every time he spoke.
They didn’t respond.
Eventually, he asked what brought them there.
When they told him they were there for the ARTC convention—
his demeanor changed instantly.
For the rest of the night, he barely spoke.
Around 11:00 p.m., the bartender returned.
“I apologize for earlier,” he said. “Talking your ears off.”
“We’ll be starting happy hour in thirty minutes. It lasts two hours each night.”
“I want you to accept your first drink on me.”
He placed a glass in front of each of them.
“Thanks for putting up with me.”
“This one’s on the house. We call it Ohirowa Wulala.”
“Drink up. Enjoy your night.”
He walked away.
They drank.
The fire was hot—
hotter than anything they had ever felt.
The chanting was deafening.
Tim looked over at Gary.
Just moments ago, they had been in the lounge.
Now—
they stood in what looked like some kind of ritualistic environment.
A large, burly man approached them.
“You have fifteen minutes,” he said.
“Only fifteen minutes.”
“You may go in any direction you choose.”
“After the time expires… the hunt begins.”
He fired a round into the air.
“LET THE HUNT BEGIN!”
Gary didn’t remember how long he had been running.
His lungs burned.
His legs felt hollow.
And the sound—
that sound—
was getting closer.
Drums.
Not just drums…
Something deeper.
Primal.
Alive.
He stumbled, catching himself on something rough—stone, or bark, he couldn’t tell.
The world around him didn’t feel real anymore.
It shifted.
Blurred at the edges.
Like a memory he couldn’t quite hold onto.
A voice echoed in his mind.
Not spoken—
placed there.
Every coin has two sides.
“I’m not here…” Gary whispered. “This isn’t real.”
But it felt real.
Too real.
The heat of the fire still clung to his skin.
The chanting still vibrated in his bones.
And somewhere behind him—
a crack.
Gunfire.
Gary shut his eyes tight.
Wake up.
Wake up.
WAKE UP.
And just like that—
he was back.
And the words followed,
Every coin has two sides.