When last I visited the continent of Africa, I found it an absolutely marvelous experience. The very first thing I did when I entered the village was to sneeze on my assistant then, with little else to do, I went poaching.
Us VanGuard’s don’t hunt like the average colonialist. Rather than choose one gun and painstakingly sling it across our own backs, we employ the use of caddies, who can carry many guns. My rifle-bag is predominately composed of crocodile leather, save the strap, which is anaconda skin.
I don’t miss much, but if I do, the blame is laid squarely on the sinewy shoulders of my caddie. I have little tolerance for failure, and those that underachieve are quickly released from my services and black-listed from employment up and down the coast. This is nothing to lament, for local caddies from generational gun-caddie families are as abundant as anaconda skin in this region.
My khaki suit is made from only the finest plant fibers. Harvested in the foothills of Chad, the sacred buds are collected by hand and woven into top-notch imperial materials. Of course, this is all done in my personal sweat-shop. All of the workers are under the age of eleven because their dainty fingers are perfect for handling the khaki plant with care. I pay the workers next to nothing, and we make a grand profit because we have a monopoly in the area.
I have four wives.
I want to murder a large male giraffe. I think its mottled neck hide would provide much needed warmth for the arduous winter months. It would be a very long scarf, one that would wrap around my person multiple times. I would allow a tail to drag behind me, much like King at his inauguration.
God save the King.
I intend on having no less than two indigenous boys to hold the tail when I walk. I will equip them with wicker baskets full of poppy leaves, to be scattered on the ground wherever I may sojourn.
My opium den is the most popular place of whoring in the vicinity. It is however, the filthiest. Those that frequent the den have built up a resistance to the contaminated well water, but frisky newcomers almost always come down with a nasty case of “Hutuu’s revenge,” by which I mean, cholera. Most of my sex workers are actually male. If any one finds out, I will surely be hanged.
The other day I made a shocking discovery. The rug in our second floor guest bathroom wasn’t made from animal! I couldn’t believe it. After a mild anxiety attack, I jumped in the Range Rover and shot the first snow leopard I could see. It was a pregnant mother with cubs. I made haste to the sweat-shop and suspended all khaki related activities until the game-cat was skinned, treated, and transformed into a carpet.
With the new hearth rug tucked under my arm pit, I desperately wanted to get home, so I took some short-cuts along the way. I drove through sensitive agricultural fields which were in the last stages of crop rotation, and several bird sanctuaries. I may have bulldozed a few shanty-town homes in the process and was most definitely leaking oil the entire way. At one point I came across a dry irrigation ditch (we are suffering a drought), so I made some nearby villagers construct a make-shift bridge. They were very thirsty afterwards so I gave them the remains of my coca cola drink. It was all flat and warm so I didn’t want it anymore.
After placing the new rug on the floor, I had sexual relations with two of my wives in the shallow end of our fresh-water infinite pool and smoked opiates until I lost consciousness. I dreamt of flying.
~Rupert Common
