Outer edges of the sport leave the fresh and young targets for the kill. Walking through the marsh, the hunters gather round to lock their sights and set upon their prey.
In this game, the winner is the one that gasps the last breath. In this game, the first one to turn back never looks again for the rest of its miserly life. For as long as the minute clocks on.
Crack goes the thunder of the gun and the first, the tallest, collects a bullet to the head. Nothing much, just the formality of procedure, and the closest thing around to dropping a scarf.
The race is on and the lives of the shorter stock tick by as the men with the guns run, holding on to the final seconds of the minute before the next shot is fired.
And then the first minute passes and the game really begins...
Written on Wednesday, 22 March 2006