Posted by Max on October 06, 2000 at 06:29:00:
The Tourist
I never really liked tourists very much. Sure, they brought money into my country, but most of it went to the rich white folks that owned the hotels and casinos. For us natives, the Europeans were just one more group to be subservient to.
As I walked along the Nigasso River, it was not uncommon to see the Europeans playing in the crystal clear pools along its northern bank. They were an uninhibited group, unlike the occasional shy Americans that journeyed down here. The women were frequently nude, and also had an irritatingly expectant attitude toward our young men when it came to sex. It was if they failed to recognize that we “primitives” lacked any moral fiber with respect to fidelity. It frustrated me to no end.
This morning; however, I had the opportunity to change the cozy relationship that the hotellies (rich foreigners) had with our natural settings. I had been out hunting when I came upon one of the infidels swimming in the river. I watched her for awhile, and as I observed her carefree attitude I began to feel the anger welling up inside of me. The long, tall, beautifully shaped “woman of culture” had slowly turned into a predatory bitch as I let my emotions take over. Beads of perspiration formed on my brow as my hatred grew.
Eventually, she perched herself on a rock a foot or two beneath the surface. As she ran her fingers through her long black hair, the hemispheres of her breasts caressed the surface of the water. A large white gardenia flower floated a few inches directly in front of her. As it moved up and down with the eddies formed by the gentle current sweeping past the rocks I drew an arrow from my quiver. It was a practice arrow, the type used for shooting targets pinned onto hay bales. It lacked the razor sharp fins typical of hunting arrows. I figured it to be perfect for what I had in mind.
The woman was between 40 and 50 meters from me. It was definitely a long shot for someone of my skill, but I was occasionally lucky. I dropped it into the bow and drew it back. I searched for the angle that “felt” right, then waited for the appropriate moment. It arrived a few seconds later. Both of her hands were presses against the sides of her face. Her breasts seemed to swell as she drew in a breath of air and let her fingers slide through her luxurious mane.
The bow string snapped forward launching the arrow in a silent arc. I watched its flight as it sailed over the shimmering water. At first, it seemed to be flying too high, but as it nosed downward, I instinctively knew it would strike her. Down, down it went. Suddenly, it appeared to be standing among the petals of the gardenia. In fact it was, but it was also imbedded in the soft skin beneath her breastbone. The tip had gone through the floating flower, through a few inches of water and then into her softened body.
For a few moments the woman just sat there, staring into the slowly reddening water. To her, the image must have seemed unreal. Suddenly she stood up and stumbled backward a step before catching her balance. She stared upstream, her eyes finding mine for a moment then returning to the arrow. Her hands gripped it, then slowly pulled it out. She stared at the blood staining the first two to three inches of its length before throwing down into the water.
Slowly, she stumbled her way to the path she had followed to the river. Her gait was unsteady and slow as she staggered toward civilization. But I knew I could catch her before she escaped. I drew another arrow, this time a regular hunting arrow, slipped it into the bow and set out after her.
Tracking her was easy; something a blind man could do. She was losing more blood than her fingers could hold back, and the trail of crimson stickiness was hard to miss.
I caught up with her where a small branch had fallen across the trail. I was only 10 feet from her as I drew back on the bow. I held level with a point where her hair slid past her left shoulder blade. She was motionless. Her mind was surely trying to decide how to get past the fallen limb. I took in the shapeliness of her legs, the curve of her tight, little ass and the smooth softness of her back. Once set free, the arrow buried itself in a space between two ribs. Less than half of the aluminum shaft was visible from where I stood.
There had been a sound with the event as well. It was like a slap followed by a rush of air. A second or two later, a muffled whimper.
The woman fell forward against the branch, then slid to one side as her body rotated. About two inches of shaft and the arrowhead protruded from her left breast. It had missed her nipple, but one of the razors had sliced the edge of the areola. Her eyes were glassy, but she watched my face as she slumped to the ground. Her lips were moving on the way down, but I had a difficult time understanding her. I think she was mouthing the words “You bastard,” but I could be mistaken.
I didn’t really care what she’d said. The important thing was that the events surrounding her death would scare the other tourists. If one was good, two would be better. I liked the sound of that I thought as I propped her body up against a tree. Perhaps a blonde would be nice. All I had to do was find one.