Gun, Not for Dinosaur
Chris Bunch
Now, Paul, you know I can't talk about that, even if you keep pouring til I'm wooden-legged.
Oh.
And what's this you're taking from under the bar, with that little smile?
M'god. I didn't know there was a bottle of Old Rare Jack Dann east of Sydney.
You're trying to bribe me.
And I know what you want me to do my tra-las about. That damned safari the hacks are calling the Mystery Death of Sir Peter Kilbrew, or Murder in the Pleistocene or Strange Time Hunter Killing or . . . or whatever other cockup labels they can come up with.
Sir Peter my arse. Born and bred a Texan, which is hardly one of my favorite sports, and getting that courtesy knighthood from King Willie just because he got the Royal Army's computer system to quit having the technicolor spits.
Damned glad you Americans beat hell out of the Brits back when, so when I'm here I don't have to worry about damned titles, theirs or mine.
I need another drink.
'Tis misfortune that I'm feeling bribable right now about Sir Peter, for the truth. Most likely it was that damned taxman, who wanted to look at all the records, and wouldn't let me get any real work done today.
I'm just a bit red-arsed about the bloody government, to tell the truth.
For it's not only their wandering about with their thumb up that kept proper sanctions from being put in place, which brought the whole bloody disaster to term, but now they're going to pass laws and regulations and call in air strikes for anyone who's not a proper civilized nation who even thinks about setting up a time machine.
You'd think it was the old days, when everybody who had a nuclear bomb was piss-scared somebody else, generally somebody of a darker complexion, might get one too.
But keep me off politics. I get into raving, and then my wife has got to take hell's own forever to calm me down.
But pour me about six fingers of that Jack Dann, and I'll tell you most, maybe even all, the truth.
. . .
