Job hunting

As I arrange myself comfortably to lie on the crest of a hill, the butt of my trusty .300 Winchester Magnum cradled against my right cheek, my eye looks through the sniper scope and I adjust it for a distance of five hundred meters. I wait, patiently, expectantly; this takes time. Many hours pass and the sun makes its peregrination across the sky while sending welcome (if weak) warmth. Occasionally a cloud positions itself between the sun and me and a shiver goes through my slender frame. It is February in Ireland. But suddenly I see one! A job! There it goes, scuttling for its nest, its ears flapping like a rabbit's and its long, pendulous snout looking vaguely comical as it sniffs frantically for its burrow. After all, they are completely blind and hairless and depend on their superior sense of smell to guide them. It seems paradoxical then that they should have to do most of their journeying over land and during the day. This is because their burrows have many entrances in the ditches of fields but are connected underground via networks of tunnels. They run on all fours, on legs that seem almost too spindly to support the weight of their round bodies. Grotesque looking things!

I take aim, the fleshy body huge in my scope. I know that I have to hit the cranium first and then the spine, two bullets that must not miss their destinations. I exhale and fire. The top of the job's head splits and I see a mist of blood and grey gore as I swiftly move the rifle to take aim at the back of the squealing, falling but still struggling job. They have two brains, one in the head, the other in the spinal area, with which they retain all abilities and motor functions, sort of like a second hard-drive with all the necessary information to keep the thing running. I fire. I see the little puff of dust where my bullet hits the ditch. Curses! Half its body is already in the entrance of the burrow! I fire again and miss a second time when I hear a distant shriek and it falls to the ground, lifeless. Someone else, some other sniper has hit it! I leap up and sprint on weak legs to where the creature is lying in front of the entrance of the burrow. I am nearly there when to my left a small, lithe man appears. He dashes to where the lifeless form lies, grabs it by the tail and triumphantly holds it aloft. "Bastard!" I scream, beside myself with rage and frustration. "Better luck next time." he replies with a grin and disappears into the underbrush.