Everyone knows that as humans, we have, built into our brains, ancient unexplainable hunting instincts. The scramble for money is nothing more than a vast crisscrossing random mob, hunting and feeding on itself. What everyone doesn't know is what these "hunting" instincts can become when sharpened by drugs, technology, and freedom. That's where I come in.
I am...... THE HUNTER.
From a deep sleep, I suddenly snap to, like a Doberman pinscher, sitting up and alert... nostrils flaring, my head cocked to hear small sounds near & far.... I LEAP from my bed for 75 to 100 vigorous fingertip-style pushups followed by 100 to 200 rapid fire situps....
OH GOD, THIS ENERGY IS FANTASTIC! UNLIMITED STRENGTH INTEGRATED WITH SMOOTH AGILE OPERATION!
And its OUT to the sheetrock shack out back, KICK out a few 4x8's and 2x4's! Karate Joe style KWAK! KWAK! KWAK! DOOOSSGH! Running leap... WAKAJONOSHAKA! KWAK! KWAK! KA-WAKADA!
Gypsum dust flies as I kick face-size holes all over the freshly resurfaced walls. This wake-up call is starting to do its stuff!
It's time for breakfast. I power gulp 2 to 4 cans of SPAM & inhale a couple of protein-laced fruit smoothies containing assorted vitamins, minerals, hormones, enzymes, steroids, and heart drugs.
By now, I, THE HUNTER, am already feeling the urge to roam, to run, to kill... but not yet, I pop 2 vials of Uncle Emil (you know, AMYL NITRATE) WHOOSH!
I run 13 consecutive 50 yd. sprints... while standing in place... I FEEL GREAT!
Cartwheel to the bathroom where I "leave the past behind" in the toilet, so to speak. I got my digestive system completely lubed by SPAM gristle and my dumps only take a seconds. I prefer diarrhea cuz it's quick.
Running on my hands, I go to the medicine chest. I mainline 1/2 g of coke in my arm, and 1/2 g of crank in my neck, pop 2 more Emils in each nostril, WHAAAHHOOO!
EXERCISE MACHINES CAN KISS MY ASS!
I run full speed towards a partition wall -CRASH- and cave it in with my head into the next room, I pull back in and proceed to Karate Joe the shit out of the entire house.
I stop in the kitchen to eat 6 corndogs and down 2 liters of ice cold BIG RED, then I top that off with 4 jalapenos, 1 pint of Jack Daniels, and more cocaine & speed in the ol' purple "high"way, yeh, Gram Central Station, those quack jerks who said injecting nerve drugs is dangerous are a bunch of stupid know-it-alls!
OH, I FEEL SO FUCKIN' GOOD!!
I HOP ON ONE HAND AT ABOUT 20 MPH OUT TO THE GARAGE, OUT TO MY PRIDE AND JOY, A REGULAR ISSUE U.S. Army jeep with a fuel-injected, large block Chevy engine, custom traction gear, and side, front, and rear "ramming armor" built by yours truly.
I AM THE HUNTER.
I hit the streets at maximum rush hour, I'm wired to the tits, I've been working out for an hour and a half, I've got a tank of gas, and I DON'T feel like waiting in line with a bunch of jerks who are going to work! These roads were designed for much higher speeds than is generally known. The speed limits were lowered because of government gasoline kickback cartels and chicken-shit mothers against fun driving.
Armed with this inside info & my ram-jeep (which hauls ass!), I leave those small-brained slobs in the dust, and sometimes, if they happen to be in my lane when I land at around 100 mph after a good hill, and they happen to tumble down to the ocean in flames, well, it's TOUGH TITTY, OUGHT TO LEARN HOW TO DRIVE OR GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY!!!
THE HUNTER must prowl.
THE HUNTER can never wait.
THE HUNTER must have thrills.
Barreling down the causeway free-basing coke & drinking whiskey while weaving through lanes and cars at an 80 mph clip, I pass a patrol car with 2 cops. They try to follow but NO, they can't move thru the traffic. Unlike THE HUNTER, they are prisoners of lame technology. They try to radio in my license plate number but.... fuck you, I don't need a stupid little rectangle with numbers & letters to drive up the side of a freeway embankment, smash thru the rail, total 2 import cars by ramming between them, cut thru a gas station, flatten a gas pump, trash can,& bus bench, sideswipe a telephone booth, out into the street, hop the island, drive down the wrong side, cut through yards, ignoring 3 wooden & 2 chain-link fences, barbecue pits, dogs, hot dogs, and generally having a good time, in a good car, doing what I want, in a way that only I can.
I AM HUNTER.
I LIVE BY INSTINCT, NOT WORDS ON PAPER.
I RUN WILD, OTHERS RUN AWAY.
WHEN I'M DRIVING, IF THERE'S NO ROAD, I CREATE ONE.
When ramming won't work, I use precision demolition to clear my path of the morons who can't comprehend what an accelerator pedal is. Dynamite is too messy. Hand grenades are pretty good. I make my own out of used beer cans, chemicals, and some hyper-volatile magnesium & phosphorus shrapnel made basically out of roofing nails & battery acid. In addition, in my back seat, I have a fully armed bazooka that I stole in broad daylight from a GI in a parade. Just walked up, gestured at his shoes with my hand he looked down, and I pinned his hands to his thighs with a couple of barbed ice picks. While he hopped around yelling, I grabbed the bazooka and drove off. . . .and if some stupid GIs don't know how to get out of the way of a speeding, runaway, getaway vehicle, and they don't look behind them for jeeps burning rubber & popping wheelies while plowing thru a parade crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, well, too bad!
I AM HUNTER. I DON'T WAIT.
I DON'T HOLD BACK.
I TAKE WHAT I NEED.
I GO WHERE I WANT.
It's bad for the engine if the brake is used, because it's unnatural for an engine to slow down, it only knows how to go fast, but it's the govt. gas kickback cartels that put on the brake! If a vehicle has to stop spin it around and FLOOR it just enough, to a perfect, calm, gentle stop. Only cowards & women use the brake pedal.
The traffic has died down and the HUNTER is hungry and thirsty, but I am not content to merely eat or drink. NO, I must shock, stun, amaze, mortify, and completely gross out those I consider to be my inferiors.
I stroll into the supermarket and forage freely, tossing half finished food and wrappings aside when I become bored. At the meat stand, I tear open a package of T-bones and knaw on a fat blob while the rest of the steaks fall on the floor. I chew till it loosens up, then I power spit the fat blob and stick most of it on the forehead of the nearest passerby. Then, in my coolest looking badass walk, I slink up to the meat cooler and smash the glass with a jug of wine. Scooping out handfuls of cowbrains, I pelt the startled shoppers and mock their cries of dismay.
Down the aisle, a hostess offers me a dinner cracker from a tray saying, "would you care to try a sample, sir?"
NO THANKS, I say as I rip the top half of a cracker box off, and chug-a-lug the contents of the bottom half, spilling most of it down my chest. Then, I munch a few times on a very gorged mouthful of dinner crackers & then power blort the whole pulpy mess right in the hostess' face.
I AM THE HUNTER.
I DON'T SAMPLE. I TAKE.
I DON'T TASTE. I GORGE.
I HAVE NO DESIRE TO "TRY" ANYTHING!
I EITHER DO SOMETHING ALL THE WAY, OR NOT AT ALL!
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