By Wes Parish
The Donald Duck waited patiently by the hunters' track in the Kaimai Ranges. Duck season was upon them, his Daisy was sitting on a clutch of eggs, and it was now impossible to have a good swim ... self-preservation being self-preservation!
The hunter's dog was sniffing the trail. Excellent! The hunter himself was looking around with a suspicious eye.
Even better. The rodents he had left disemboweled along the trail would in turn arouse suspicion.
If only he'd been able to do that to the Mickey Mice he'd left behind in the Disney World basements in Rotorua...
Any moment now ...
Yes! The hunter saw the breaks in foliage he'd left, and the trail he'd marked — and the dog took his scent. It charged through, barking for his master to follow.
And then the dog was right in before him. The Donald Duck seized his crossbow and took aim. The dog took the quarrel in its mouth, and said arrow travelled on and buried itself deep within its heart. Predictably, the canine keeled over and died.
It was time to fly. Figuratively speaking, of course. The Donald was much too heavy to get even the limited flight of his duck ancestors. He dropped the crossbow and ran.
As he'd thought, the hunter was taken aback by the small crossbow that had killed his dog. He stopped to puzzle over it, and the Donald Duck picked up a second crossbow, somewhat larger this time, and took aim.
After his second kill, and since there were no more humans hunting along this trail, he blew his whistle for the rest of the hunters of his clan to butcher his prey and carry it to the secluded spot where their Daisies were sitting on their eggs.
It had been an excellent idea to get these crossbows and knives from the Rotorua Disneyworld basement Mickey Mice.
A leader shows foresight — he'd worked that thing out in his earlier years. And a leader takes chances, a leader makes sacrifices — that, he'd also worked out.
He only wished it hadn't been with his siblings. Their agonised and betrayed screams as the Mickey Mice took them away and devoured them alive had been heart-wrenching ... but better them than him.
The Donald Duck muttered a short Our Father to Walt Disney the Duck Lord's Only Forgotten Son then shouldered his crossbows and followed the others.
About The Author
Wesley Parish is an SF fan from early childhood. Born in PNG, he enjoys reading about humans in strange cultures and circumstances; his favourite SF authors include Ursula Le Guin, Fritz Lieber, Phillip K. Dick, J.G. Ballard and Frank Herbert. He lives in Christchurch, NZ, is an unemployed Java and C programmer, and has recently decided to become a mad ukuleleist, flautist and trombonist, and would love to revert to being the mad fiddler and pedal steel guitarist.. "Where oh where has my little pedal steel got to ... ?"