My Kind of Town

Don Chapman

Inspiring fiction

>> Above Kahuku

Dave the Driver, as he was known to members of the hunt club, dashed across the pasture to where the supine figure lay, kneeled at his side and appeared to take his pulse.

"That old you're-being-sold-into-slavery-in-Africa-just-returning-those-folks-a-favor spiel makes 'em run like hell every time doesn't it?" he said.

"Used a new one this time," the one known as The Chef said. "Told 'em they were about to be used as human sacrifices and eaten by cannibals while still alive."

Dave had to bite his lip about halfway down his chin to keep from laughing. "Dammit, Chef, don't make me laugh. Sure as hell some of them are up there watching, and I'm trying to look forlorn and remorseful over your sad and untimely demise."

The Chef winked. "Told 'em I was with Amnesty International."

Dave covered his face, choked back a chortle. "I'm telling you, cut the comedy! But that should sure put some purpose into their escape!"

Which was exactly the point. Members of the hunt club leasing the Rockin' Pikake Ranch did not want docile quarry. They wanted them running, jumping, hiding, doing everything they could to escape. Well, everything but shooting back.

And if they got too far, which is to say within 100 feet of the Rockin' Pikake property line, a sharp jolt from the electronic dog collars around their necks would halt them. The collars were also GPS-active. Still, the head start and the inspiring fiction made the hunt seem eminently sporting to Victor Primitivo and fellow members of the club.

Primitivo and the others had watched through binoculars as one of their employees appeared to lead an escape. He loved the way his Shauny ran. She would be a challenge. And somehow he would have to separate her from the young man -- he was Clive's -- and the young girl -- she was Fariq's. The team hunt would be enjoyable at the start. But Primitivo's juices wouldn't stir until the hunt was one on one.

Now the corral area was buzzing. Tex the stablemaster had loaded each of the members' gear onto horses, seven of which had come with the ranch. Eight others belonged to various members and were shipped in quite privately. Primitivo slid his rifle into a long leather holster attached to the saddle and pulled himself onto the big horse. "Beautiful creature," he said.

"So's that R-93," Tex said. The wood handle was fine-grained, burnished so deep you wanted to dive in. And then it was inlaid with gold in ancient Roman symbols. Tex leaned in for a closer look. "You don't have one of the new pins with the P on it. Didn't you hear about Blazer's recall of the R-93s?"

Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be e-mailed at


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