Tam and I seem to have strange dreams roughly within 24 hours of each other.
Mine is here.
I was on the African Veldt hunting with Robert Ruark, John Pondoro Taylor, and the Father of the girls that used to live next door to me, A local sports celebrity in the 60s, Gene Hackney. It must have been the 19th century, because the veldt was lush, and rife with assorted game. Early 20th, because I had a .505 Gibbs. It was heavy as hell, but only kicked as hard as a 12 gauge. I also had my .45-70, and a couple other rifles I keep around. I expressed concern when they told me to take a shot on a Black Rhino. "Aren't they almost Extinct?" The professional hunters laughed and told me we'd need much more ammo for that to happen. I had an exciting hunt. Bagged an Elephant charging within 40 feet. I walked back to the hunting camp to find Elizabeth, and Denice, (my late love), sharing tea under an umbrella, I said, "Oh shit, I'm dead!" not in the tone of 'busted', but as a revelation.
Then I woke up!
Most of it was cribbed from a Pat Mc Manus story in Outdoor Life.
My sneaky subconscious filed off the serial numbers, and filled out the story with my details.
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