The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
He had come to claim the feral girl. She must be seventeen by now, all ripe for the taking. The brochure proclaimed that many a rich hunter has tried to capture her and failed. He’s paid well for the hunt in this Reserve. It was huge, only parts of it were open for free range hunting. From what the brochure said, it was a hunter’s paradise for a celebrated trophy hunter like himself. There was something in the description of the Reserve about birds of prey to watch out for, but his guide, Dunkan, assured him they were no problem.
His bride, Sheila, had never approved his hobby. She hadn’t realized how serious he was about it when they wed. She’d begged him to remove the trophy heads of moose, elk, zebra, and the tiger skin that adorned the living room. When that didn’t work, she moved her bed into another room, ending all connubial visits. Shortly after that, he heard of the Reserve. The prize would not be another head for his walls. This time, it would be a young native virgin. To be sure, Sheila wasn’t privy to that part. Nor did she dream that he planned to bring his trophy virgin back to serve as his mistress. When Sheila mentioned that the area he would be hunting in was rather weak on details, he’d laughed. “But why are there no reports or mention of this place by any reputable hunters you know?” He’d said she asked too many questions.
As promised, the machan was well stocked with cold ale and sandwiches, essential to insure a pleasurable hunt. He smiled and nodded a thank-you to his guide, making a mental note to give him a generous tip.
The temperature rose by mid-morning. Sub-tropics humidity, but he was used to various climes. DunKan pointed south, where the undergrowth is thickest. Two hours later, he caught a glimpse of pale skin weaving through the leaves. Time for the pursuit.
Down and around she wound, disappearing and reappearing. Suddenly, she was much closer, as if teasing him with a taste of what soon would be in his arms. He licked his lips. The air was very still except for an occasional flapping of wings. He barely noticed the strange vulture-like birds alighting in nearby trees. And then, there she was, just ahead in the glade! Bushes rustled, parted. She crossed before him in bright sunlight, chestnut curls cascading past her shoulders. Insouciant eyes glanced his way – the perfect moment! He fired the stunner and she dropped out of sight.
“Now! The net!” he yelled, but Dunkan wasn’t there. Or rather, he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. The net suddenly fell on him and tightened.
“She’s my daughter, you bastard! You big game hunters with money for balls. We can play that game too.” The girl rose from the underbrush to join her father. Together, they dragged him to the center of the glade. Their birds would do the rest.
Fiction © Copyright Marge Simon
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
More from Marge Simon:
Satan’s Sweethearts – a collection of poems by Marge Simon and Mary Turzillo featuring the most monstrous, evil women throughout history!