Pink Top City Shorts: The Thrill of the Hunt

Pink Top City Shorts: The Thrill of the Hunt

July 22nd, 1956

The golden grasslands of Runyarwa stretched out like an endless, sun-baked canvas, broken only by the skeletal silhouettes of acacia trees against the pale blue sky.

Gaston Beaumont stood at the edge of the camp, slowly polishing his spectacles before resting them back on his nose. He drew a slow, thoughtful breath from his curved pipe, watching the lazy curls of blue smoke drift into the afternoon heat. Despite the ruggedness of the bush, Gaston maintained his impeccable, old-world air—clad in his custom-tailored khaki safari outfit, complete with a leather ammunition belt cinched at his waist and a matching pith helmet on his head.

Gaston: “Are the rifles prepped, Narcisse?”

Narcisse: “Perfectly oiled and ready, Father!”

He exclaimed, stepping up to his father.

At just 12 years old, Narcisse carried himself with the poise of a seasoned tracker. He wore a matching custom-tailored khaki safari outfit, complete with a leather ammunition belt cinched at his waist. He adjusted his round spectacles, his bright green eyes scanning the horizon with eager intensity, and placed his pith helmet on his head.

Gaston smiled warmly, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder.

Gaston: “This is a different beast than the highlands, my boy. The buffalo of Runyarwa do not forgive mistakes. You must study them and strike when you trap them. Are you ready?”

Narcisse: “I’ve been ready since we landed, Father.”

He replied, a confident smirk playing on his lips.

Their camp, a collection of canvas tents shaded by towering acacia trees, was positioned near a watering hole. At night, the air thrummed with the sounds of the night – the deep roars of lions, the hysterical laugh of hyenas, and the slow, rhythmic crunch of grass as larger animals moved through the darkness.

Gaston, ever the meticulous planner, had spent days studying the buffalo herds. He taught Narcisse to look for signs: fresh dung, tracks, and the swirling paths of egrets that often followed the massive grazers.

~

By dawn the next morning, their tracker, an old Runyarwan man named Mapfumo, had been following a set of fresh buffalo tracks since sunrise. He moved with a practiced ease, his body low to the ground.

Mapfumo: "The herd is close.”

He whispered to Narcisse, whose eyes were gleaming with the thrill of the hunt.

The sun beat down mercilessly as they navigated the dry riverbeds and dense thorn scrub. The heat shimmered on the horizon, creating illusions of water. But Mapfumo’s sharp eyes were fixed on the signs. He pointed to a patch of flattened grass, then to a fresh pile of dung.

They crept forward, the silence of the bush only broken by the occasional call of a francolin. The air was still, and the tension was palpable. Suddenly, Mapfumo stopped. He held up a hand, and Gaston and Narcisse froze.

Through a break in the acacia trees, a massive cape buffalo bull was grazing, its heavy horns curved like an ancient warrior’s shield. Its body was a mountain of muscle, its dark eyes watchful.

Gastron: “A double-lung shot, Narcisse.”

He whispered, leaning close.

Gaston: “Wait for him to turn broadside. Do not rush. A wounded buffalo is a demon on hoofs.”

Narcisse raised the rifle. He squinted through the scope, the buffalo’s dark form filling his vision. The bull seemed to sense something, raising its head and sniffing the air. Narcisse’s finger tightened on the trigger.

The shot rang out, shattering the silence of the bush. The buffalo flinched, then roared, its massive head swinging around. It stumbled, but didn’t fall.

Extending his hand rapidly, Narcisse generated a bubble around the buffalo. Inside, the beast roared and thrashed, completely unable to escape.

Gaston: “Shoot it again!”

He commanded.

Narcisse popped the bubble and hastily chambered another round; he kept his eyes on the buffalo. He fired again, and this time, the bull crumbled to the ground. Narcisse watched the bull fall to its death in awe, fondly recalling seeing his many hunts and Bijou lying in her own blood. The smell of death smelled so sweet.

Mapfumo: “A clean shot, young master.”

Mapfumo nodded in approval.

Gaston clapped his hand on Narcisse’s shoulder, a wide smile spreading across his face.

Gaston: “You did it, Narcisse! Your first buffalo. You have a steady hand and a brave heart.”

He chuckled. Narcisse looked up at his father, feeling proud of himself.

Gaston: “When Charlotte has her son, I hope he’s as good a hunter as you.”

The smile on Narcisse’s face faded when his father made that remark. He squeezed his rifle, and his jaw tightened.

Narcisse’s victory was sweet, but the day was far from over: he had yet to hunt the gray giant.

They continued their pursuit, following the tracks of a large elephant bull that Mapfumo had spotted earlier. The sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the savanna.

Finally, they spotted it, a magnificent bull with tusks that reached almost to the ground. It was grazing peacefully near a waterhole, its long trunk delicately picking leaves from the branches.

Gaston checked his own rifle, a double-barreled .470 Nitro Express, the quintessential elephant gun. They approached cautiously. The elephant was unaware of their presence, its massive bulk framed against the setting sun.

Gaston raised his rifle, aiming for the heart-lung shot. The .470 roared, a thunderous crack that seemed to shake the very ground. The elephant trumpeted, a sound of rage and pain, as it stumbled forward. Narcisse shot his hands out, forming a bubble over it, so it could not escape. Narcisse smiled at his son and raised his rifle to shoot it again. Before the bullet pierced through the elephant, the bubble popped, and the elephant trumpeted once more.

It fell to one knee, then the other, before finally collapsing onto its side.

Gaston walked over to the elephant, his hand running along the smooth ivory of its tusks.

Gaston: "A grand old bull. A worthy opponent."

He looked at Narcisse, a look of contemplation on his young face.

Gaston: "You did well today, Narcisse. You showed courage and skill."

Narcisse nodded, but his thoughts were far away. He thought about his father wanting to take his sister’s future son on hunts, and where would that leave him? He also knew Charlotte’s 16th birthday was days away and dreaded his father gifting her another dumb mutt he would have to eradicate as he did Bijou. A flicker of doubt crossed his face, but he quickly pushed it aside, smiling up at his father.

Narcisse: “No, father, WE did it. You and me.”

He beamed.

~

The dust of the Runyarwa bush was finally washed away, as the steamer brought Gaston and Narcisse back to the refined shores of Nouvelle Gaule.

While their heavy trophies—the magnificent buffalo horns and the massive elephant tusks—were crated and shipped via slow freight to be prepared by the colony’s finest taxidermists, the father and son traveled light. They carried only their rifles, a leather album of photographs, and a trunk.

As their chauffeured saloon car wound through the manicured cobblestone streets of Clerteaux.

The car pulled up the sweeping driveway of the Beaumont estate. Standing on the grand portico was Emmeline Beaumont. Gaston stepped out, giving his wife a kiss on the cheek.

Gaston: “Hello, Emmeline. Where is my beautiful Ice Princess now?”

Narcisse’s jaw tightened.

Emmeline: “Hello, darling.”

She kissed her husband.

Emmeline: “Charlotte is practicing her ballet right now.”

Gaston: “A daughter’s sweet 16 is a year of elegance! She only deserves the finer things life has to offer, and when she gives birth to her son, he will be my little prince.”

He grinned. Narcisse’s green eyes burned with rage. And what about me?! He wondered.

Gaston entered the mansion to see Charlotte sitting in an armchair, sipping on tea, and reading a book. He inhaled and admired her beauty.

That night after dinner, Gaston sat with Emmeline in the grand salon, inhaling a drag from his pipe.

Gaston: “Charlotte is becoming a woman now. We only need the very best for her.”

He began.

Gaston: “The ballroom is to be decorated in a motif of midsummer starlight, featuring thousands of imported white roses. The menu will be a seven-course feast curated by the estate's chef, concluding with a massive, six-tiered raspberry-cream gateau. The music will be a live jazz orchestra flown in directly from Argentville.”

Emmeline smiled as her husband relayed the itinerary of their daughter’s Sweet 16.

Emmeline: “You always went above and beyond for Charlotte, darling.”

Gaston smiled, patting his wife’s hand.

Gaston: “And I will until the day I die.”

~

The days leading up to July 24th flew by. The Beaumont mansion had been transformed into a hive of frantic activity. Florists unloaded crates of white lilies and roses, while a small army of caterers debated the exact temperature at which the champagne should be served.

On the afternoon of July 23rd, an unexpected delivery arrived at the back estate gate. A heavy flatbed truck carried a massive, freshly varnished wooden crate bearing the stamp of the port of Clerteaux.

Gaston: “Ah! My trophies have arrived!”

He roared from the veranda, abandoning his afternoon tea.

Narcisse followed his father down the steps. The cargo had made remarkably fast time. With crowbars in hand, the estate's groundskeepers pried open the thick pine lid. Inside, packed in layers of straw and heavy canvas, was the preserved, polished skull and sprawling horns of the cape buffalo Narcisse had shot in Runyarwa.

Gaston lifted the heavy specimen with a grunt, holding it high.

Gaston: “A masterpiece! Look at the boss on this beast, Narcisse. It will hang directly above the fireplace in the library.”

Narcisse marveled at the horns. A trophy of something I hunted, he thought.

~

On the evening of the 24th, Charlotte sat at her vanity in her slip. She heard a knock on the door.

Charlotte: “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Gaston stepped in.

Gaston: “Hello, my beauty.”

With a smile, he presented her with a velvet box, then opened it to reveal a golden pearl choker set with a large central ruby. Charlotte’s emerald eyes lit up upon seeing it.

Charlotte: “Oh, Papa… It’s beautiful.”

She gasped.

Gaston removed it from its box, draping it over his daughter’s neck and brushing her hair aside, caressing it, and clasping the choker.

Gaston: “It’s your birthstone.”

He whispered, massaging her shoulders.

Charlotte: “It’s beautiful, Papa…”

When the sun finally dipped below the horizon on the evening of the 24th, the Beaumont estate lit up like a fallen constellation. Hundreds of paper lanterns hung from the ancient oak trees, and the neoclassical facade of the mansion was bathed in a soft, golden glow.

Guests arrived in glittering gowns and tailored tuxedos, the cream of Nouvelle Gaule society. In the grand ballroom, the Argentville jazz orchestra struck up a lively swing tune, the brass section catching the light of the crystal chandeliers.

Charlotte made her grand entrance down the spiral marble staircase, looking breathtaking in a custom-tailored pale blue tulle gown that perfectly complemented her snow-white hair and fair skin. She resembled an ice princess. Narcisse stood frozen as he gazed at his sister. I don’t have anything to give her, he thought.

As the lively jazz tempo wound down, the conductor of the Argentville orchestra caught Gaston’s eye and gave a subtle, respectful nod. With a dramatic sweep of the baton, the brass and percussion faded, giving way to the rich, soaring romance of a classical waltz. The chatter in the grand ballroom hushed to a soft murmur as the guests parted, clearing the center of the polished mahogany floor.

Gaston stepped forward, smoothing the lapels of his immaculate tuxedo. He offered Charlotte a low, theatrical bow, extending his hand.

Gaston: “Shall I have this dance, my ice princess?”

Narcisse glared at his father and tightened his fists.

Charlotte: “Of course, Papa.”

She curtseyed.

As Gaston led her into the first slow, sweeping turn, the sheer scale of the moment seemed to settle over the ballroom. They glided past a bank of white roses, and he effortlessly guided her through a reverse turn. As he spun her around, her hand extended, creating swirls of ice around them.

From the edge of the floor, Emmeline watched them with a serene smile, her hand resting gently on Narcisse’s shoulder. Narcisse yanked it away and stormed out. Emmeline knit her eyebrows.

As the waltz reached its grand, swelling crescendo, Gaston lifted Charlotte’s hand, letting her spin out before drawing her back into a final, perfectly timed dip. The crowd erupted into warm, enthusiastic applause, the sound echoing off the high, gilded ceilings of the mansion.

Gaston brought Charlotte back to her feet and kissed her forehead tenderly while caressing her back.

Gaston: “Happy sixteenth, my beautiful ice princess. The world is yours now. Just promise your father you will still let him lead.”

He whispered.

Charlotte: “Of course, Papa.”

~

Narcisse stormed out in tears and went to the garden’s cemetery. Through his tears, he saw Bijou’s tombstone and kicked it over.

Charlotte stepped out of the mansion to get some fresh air. Narcisse gasped and used his hunting skills to hide in the trees.

Charlotte walked down the gravel path, past the manicured hedges, and deep into the shadows of the estate’s sprawling rose gardens. The distant, muffled brass of the jazz band hummed in the background.

Suddenly, a sharp snap of a twig broke the silence. Charlotte froze, her hand instinctively flying to the ruby choker.

Charlotte: “Who’s there?”

She whispered, peering into the darkness. Narcisse’s heart hammered against his ribs. He knew Etheressums had acute hearing, and panicked, fearing that she had heard him.

From behind the stone statue of a woodland nymph, a figure stepped into the pale moonlight. He looked entirely out of place amidst the marble and velvet of the Beaumont estate.

He wore a scuffed, grease-stained leather motorcycle jacket over a plain white t-shirt, his white hair slicked back with cheap pomade. A pair of worn denim jeans clung to his frame. He had a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a bruised knuckle on his right hand, looking every bit the kind of Clerteaux street youth Gaston would normally have chased off the property with his rifle.

As Charlotte stepped closer, the tough exterior melted into a nervous, boyish grin.

Man: “Happy birthday, Lottie.”

He said softly.

Charlotte: “Julien!”

She gasped, her heart leaping into her throat. She glanced frantically back toward the glowing windows of the mansion.

Julien: “I had to see you.”

He took a cautious step forward, his heavy boots crunching softly on the gravel.

Julien reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a small, crumpled paper package tied with a piece of rough twine. He held it out to her.

Charlotte hesitated, then stepped forward and took it. Tearing the paper gently, she found a beautifully polished brass compass, its face worn but elegant. Engraved on the back in shaky, hand-carved letters were her initials: C.B.

Julien: “Found it at the docks. Spent three days polishing it.”

He murmured, looking down at his boots with a rare flash of shyness.

Tears welled in Charlotte’s eyes. It was a stark contrast to the gold and expensive ruby she had received from her father, but to her, it was priceless.

Charlotte: “It’s perfect, Julien. Truly.”

She clasped her hand over her chest.

Flat on his stomach, Narcisse glared through narrowed, dark eyes, tracking Julien’s every move. His rage boiled over at the sight of this hoodlum with his sister, encroaching upon his turf and territory.

Gaston: “Charlotte? Charlotte, darling, where have you gone?”

The booming, unmistakable voice of her father echoed from the terrace. The heavy beam of a flashlight began to cut through the darkness of the rose garden, slowly sweeping across the hedges. Gaston was on the hunt, and he was heading straight down the path.

Charlotte’s eyes went wide with panic.

Charlotte: “You have to go. Now! Go through the iron gate by the east wall, the latch is loose!”

Julien gave a quick, crooked smirk, seemingly more thrilled by the danger than terrified. He caught her hand, giving it a fleeting squeeze.

Julien: “See you by the docks on Tuesday, Lottie.”

With the agility of an alley cat, Julien melted back into the shadows just as the bright beam of Gaston’s flashlight cut through the very space he had been standing.

Gaston: “Ah, there you are, my girl!”

He said, stepping into the clearing. He looked around suspiciously. Charlotte quickly hid the brass compass in the folds of her tulle gown, offering her father a sweet, innocent smile.

Charlotte: “Shall we go back inside?”

~

As Julien ran down the road toward the gates, he was suddenly enveloped in a purple bubble.

Julien: “What the Heck?!”

The bubble hoisted him into the air before suddenly vanishing, plunging him hard onto the ground, where he crashed and fractured his leg.

The moment of impact was punctuated by a sickening, wet crack that echoed in the quiet night air, followed instantly by a surge of white-hot agony that radiated from his leg like an electrical storm. Julien gasped, the air fleeing his lungs as he collapsed into the dirt, his vision blurring with tears of pure shock. Every nerve in his body seemed to scream at once, leaving him breathless and reeling as he struggled to process the searing trauma of the impact.

Narcisse loomed over him, a small, terrifying silhouette against the pale light of the moons. Julien tried to crawl away, his fingers clawing uselessly at the dirt, but his mangled leg anchored him to the spot in a cage of agony. He watched with wide, paralyzed eyes as the boy uncapped a heavy canister, the sharp, chemical stench of gasoline flooding his senses. There was no childish innocence in Narcisse’s gaze—only the cold, predatory calculation of a hunter who had finally cornered his most prized prey. Primal terror seized Julien’s throat, rendering him silent and helpless beneath the boy’s hollow, unwavering stare.

Narcisse unscrewed the cap and splashed him with gas.

Narcisse: “You are like the egrets in Runyarwa, Julien.”

He whispered, his voice as smooth and cold as polished ivory. He circled the writhing boy, the gasoline canister dripping rhythmically against the dry soil.

Narcisse: “You think you can just follow the herd, picking at the scraps of a life you don’t belong to. My father talks of princes and hunters, of legacies and blood. And then there is you—a grease-stained parasite clinging to my beloved Charlotte, infecting my territory with your filth.”

He stopped, looking down at Julien with a look of clinical detachment, as if he were merely observing a wounded buffalo before the final strike. Julien’s bottom lip trembled as his fear overtook him.

Narcisse: “A hunter's duty isn’t just the kill, you see. It’s the cleansing. Removing the vermin so the garden stays pure. You aren’t a man, Julien. You're a mistake I’m about to correct.”

Narcisse reached into his pocket and pulled out a single wooden match. He struck it against the side of the box, the small flame dancing in his green eyes. As the flame landed, a raw, visceral cry ripped from Julien's throat—a desperate, shattering sound that pierced the quiet night air, echoing with the absolute terror of his final moment.

Narcisse stood back, his green eyes widening as they drank in the spectacle. He watched with a clinical, cold satisfaction as the fire began its work, the dancing orange light reflecting in his steady gaze like a twin set of flickering beacons. He didn’t see a boy pleading for his life; he saw only a target being systematically erased, a blemish on the landscape finally being scrubbed clean. As the flames rose, Narcisse felt a profound sense of order returning to his world—the vermin was being eliminated, the territory was being purified, and the hunt had reached its perfect, inevitable conclusion. This was the thrill of the hunt.

~

Charlotte, feeling a sudden, unexplained wave of dread, excused herself from the ballroom and slipped out into the cool night air. She followed the path toward the east wall, the scent of smoke growing stronger with every step until it became choking. When she rounded the hedge, her heart stopped. The sight of the charred, smoldering remains lying on the path stripped the breath from her lungs. A low, ragged whimper escaped her lips before it exploded into a piercing, agonized scream that echoed off the mansion walls. She collapsed to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably, her delicate gown dragging in the dirt as she reached out toward the devastating scene.

Narcisse watched her from the trees with a smile. A trophy just for you, Charlotte, happy birthday, he thought.