Raptors 1, Hoyt 0
by Laurel Montgomery
Boyd’s fingers looked positively cyanotic. His sigh rose silver and disappeared against the sheet metal sky. Deer hunting sucked. Nothing to do but sit in the cold and wait.
“Want a pull? Warm you up,” Hoyt said. Beefy fingers held out the pretentious sterling flask.
“No, thanks. Might have to pee.”
“Smart, kid. Don’t worry about scaring the deer off, though. I got a jug up in here.”
Boyd eyed the old milk jug. No way he was sticking his pecker in that thing. Hell, there was no way he was whipping it out. Instant dicksickle.
“’s light out. I reckon we give it another twenty minutes. Maggie’ll be disappointed.”
Maggie hates venison.
“Yeah. Maybe next time.” Boyd kept his own counsel with his future father-in-law.
“Up there! I got the mate a couple weeks ago. Damn sumbitches got all my call birds before quail season even started.”
“I think there’s a pretty big fine for shooting raptors.”
Thunder shook the blind and the hawk sheered left. Hoyt couldn’t hit the broad side of the barn that drunk and hawks are a hell of a lot smaller than deer.
“I’m too old and too rich to let some tree huggin’ fed tell me how to manage my own damn land.”
The hawk circled back while Hoyt reloaded. The hawk shot first.
“What the hell?” Hoyt’s hand smeared the gooey brown mess from his pate into the fringe hair tufted over his ear.
“Least bird shit’s warm.”