The Last Hunt
A work of fiction by Tsao Alexander
Waterton Publishing Company
This is a work of fiction. The events described are imaginary and the settings and characters are fictitious and not intended to represent actual places, companies, or persons.
Copyright © 2026 by Waterton Publishing Company. All Rights Reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
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THE LAST HUNT
Few can sojourn long within the unspoilt wilderness of a game sanctuary, surrounded on all sides by its confiding animals, without absorbing its atmosphere; the Spirit of the Wild is quick to assert supremacy, and no man of any sensibility can resist her.
James Stevenson-Hamilton (first warden of South Africa’s Sabi Nature Reserve)
CHAPTER I
“I’m telling you the ground shook when he fell.” He took another sip of beer.
“How many shots?” The other man took a sip of beer and leaned back in his chair.
“Three I think. I shot twice and the guide shot,” he hesitated, “maybe four shots. I donno. He was a big one though. Of course I couldn’t keep the tusks. So I gave them to the guide, Rada.”
“Shit. That’s too bad. Those things are worth a bunch. You couldn’t get a waiver?”
“No,” he took another sip, “I tried. It was hard enough getting the kill permit.”
“Too bad.” The other man took a gulp of beer and belched.
The two men stood up. The first man took a gulp and banged his mug on the table.
“Time to go. Watcha got going this weekend?”
“Joey’s soccer on Saturday. Winnie’s soccer on Sunday. Maybe clean the garage. You know.”
“Well have a good one.” They clasped hands and bumped shoulders and went their own separate ways through the parking lot.
Monday morning Thomas went to his office early. It was February, almost tax season, and he wanted to make sure notices went out to all of his clients. He also wanted to make sure his tax apps were up to date and working. It would be a busy next couple of months.
At nine his receptionist arrived. She looked a bit haggard but her demeanor was perky.
“Welcome back Great White Hunter!” Her voice boomed.
Thomas smiled, “Good to be back, Shea, all’s good at the fort?”
“All good. Even a few new clients!”
Good news for Thomas. His Africa trip had cost a bunch.
“So, tell me about it,” Shea quipped, “but first let me get some coffee.”
“It’s already made, made it at seven when I got here.” Thomas drank the last bit from his cup while Shea pulled a chair up to his desk and looked intently at Thomas.
“So tell me – did you get one? How was the country? Tell me tell me tell me!”
Thomas got up and walked toward the coffee maker. “Got a big one. Botswana was fine. Good guide. Everything went pretty smooth.”
Shea turned to face Thomas as he poured coffee into his cup. “How many does that make now? How many elephants?”
“Two African, one Indian, but we don’t talk about that one.”
“Where next Bwana?” Shea glanced at the lion head on the wall.
“South Africa for tiger. There’s a tiger ranch where they take you out and you get to shoot a tiger.”
Shea shuffled. “Hmm, sounds interesting.” She wasn’t impressed. Actually, none of it impressed her, some fifty-something accountant riding around in a Land Rover shooting at some of God’s most noble creatures so he could hang their heads on his office wall. But Shea liked her job; needed her job; and if she had to kowtow to the boss, so be it.
“Well,” she said, “back to work.”
“Yep,” Thomas leaned back in his chair, “we make it through April, nice bonus for you, and then I’m off to the far continent in the footsteps of Ernest Hemmingway,” chuckle.
Shea turned away and rolled her eyes, thinking, ‘More like the footsteps of Daffy Duck with a rifle.’
Thomas spent the morning sending emails to clients. ‘Don’t forget the tax deadline is looming! I need your records by the first of March!’ There would be stragglers. There always were a few. That was okay. Most of the firm’s clients submitted their online bookkeeping records early.
Then there were the prospective clients that Shea mentioned. Thomas put a call into each one – leaving a couple messages and talking to one. She was a likely new client; owner of a beauty salon with six chairs.
Lunch for Thomas was a sandwich he made that morning – ham and tomato. One of his favorites. And a bag of chips and soda. He was not a picky eater; daily fare consisted of frozen meals, sandwiches, and the occasional restaurant. Chick-fil-A was his favorite.
The afternoon passed quickly. Thomas was hard at work preparing returns for clients who had already submitted their files. For the most part, Thomas found tax season hectic and tedious. Stuck at a computer churning out digital documents and emailing links to clients.
Occasionally he would glance up at one of stuffed animal heads or one of the skins to remind himself of more exciting endeavors. Stalking a beast through the growth, hands on rifle, close behind the guide, aware always of the sounds and wind direction.
Then he would look down at his screen and punch out new commands.
When he got home that night, Thomas poured himself a gin and tonic and sorted through the mail, mostly junk. He set his cleaning out so that he would remember to bring it in the morning. After a while he stuck a frozen lasagna in the microwave and sat in front of his laptop reading news stories and personal emails.
This was Thomas’s routine. He was a creature of habit. Once in a while he would go to the gym at noonish, but most of the time he ate in his office. Once in a while he would meet a friend for happy hour, but most of the time he went home. Once in a while he would meet a woman for coffee, a woman he met through an online dating service, but most of the time he would not. Thomas was bored, frustrated, finding his only real enjoyment in killing an exotic animal. Or of dreaming of killing an exotic animal. He was a man. Men kill things.
And so it was with great pleasure that he found an email from Hunter’s Paradise in his inbox the following morning. ‘Looking forward to seeing you May 1. Booking confirmed. Information packet attached. Happy hunting!’
Hunter’s Paradise was a ranch in South Africa that raised exotic animals for trophy hunters. They had cats, buffalo, rhino, zebra, elephant, and a variety of wild boar. Their motto was: ‘We guarantee that you will go home with a trophy.” Their brochure showed a picture of a dead lion next to a Land Rover with two men kneeling next to it. The brochure also displayed photos of smiling men, and a few smiling women, holding powerful rifles while hovering over dead animals.
“I got a lion on my first day!” one of the hunters touted in a YouTube video. A stout woman with grey-blond hair tucked under a safari hat said, “It was so easy! Our guide was terrific! He took us close to the rhino and made sure we had a good shot. I highly recommend Hunter’s Paradise. We’ll certainly be back!”
