"Wave goodbye to ya head, wanka."
The Sniper pulled his trigger.
The Sniper cocked the bolt on his gun and climbed down from his perch. He straightened his hat as he walked to his camper van, a triumphant grin on his face partially hidden behind his mirror shades. He started it up and drove over the bumpy terrain of the Australian outback, his dashboard bobble head bouncing wildly.
Life on the Australian outback ain't easy. It was hot, dry; loads of animals itchin to finish ya off; Ya had to be dressed properly. Wide brimmed hat to keep the sun outta your eyes. Long sleeved shirt for when the going got tough(his shirt was khaki) and a vest with pockets full of ammo. A good kukri didn't hurt neither.
He'd spent many nights sleeping in the compartment above the cab of his camper van. Sometimes he'd run out of ammo and have to pull out his kukri to do the job. But no matter how bleak things seemed, he always prevailed in the end.
Sometimes it was too hot to do anything, so he'd miss a day sitting in the back of his van, rationing his food supply again.
There was a lot that could go wrong out here. Get bit by a raddle snake and you'd have to haul your ass back to town at the speed of sound, or else you'd die out here. No town for miles and miles.
Today he had just been camping around in the same spot, waiting for something to come along to the coast.
First kill of the day.
As he approached his kill his grin grew wider.
"Sorry mate!" He said in his heavy Australian accent. "Now I gotta make a necklace outta ya teeth. Bushman's rules."
He had blown the scalp off of a large, male, Saltwater Crocodile with his customized Remington 700.
"Merchant gonna pay a pretty penny for this."
And so he set to work. He took it's teeth, and put it in a body bag. After placing the bag into the back of his camper van(his living space), he drove back toward town.
He'd sell the meat of his kills to a local merchant down by the docks. Good way to make money.
Kill, sell, eat, repeat.
He'd go long periods of time without human contact and food, just tracking his prey like a lion tracks a bull elephant.
Slowly and carefully, with much vigilance. Making no wrong moves. Tension and power.
He came to a large tree with dozens of vultures roosting in it. He got out and searched around in the back of his van until he found his box of ammo.
He climbed up onto his camper van and loaded up his rifle. Then he looked through the scope and made some adjustments.
Near the very top of the tree was a freak-of-nature, giant vulture.
He held his breath to keep as still as possible. He lined up his laser sight with the vulture's head.
All the other vultures flew off, startled.
Thanks for standin still wanka!
He ran under the tree to claim his fallen prize.
He wrapped it up and put it in his van. He got back in, started the engine, and headed down the road.
He arrived into town and looked around as he smelled the salt air of the sea. Beauty.
There were people walking around the town, life going as usual. Nothing too interesting. He decided to stop at the boozer and pick up a countery.
He reached the pub and got out. Upon stepping in, he was instantly surrounded by taxidermy, the stench of booze, and the loud voices of hunters boasting.
He ordered himself some Vegemite and amber fluid. Then he walked into the corner where all the hunters sit.
"So I'm out in me boat, fishin, and a big, ugly, grey nurse shark comes up and attacks me boat. I'm sittin , mindin me own business, and 'e comes up want'n a fight! So, to protect me boat, I jump on top of 'im and punch 'im in the snout."
The Sniper sat there, enthralled in this tale, spreading some Vegemite on toast and swigging some amber fluid.
"So e's flounderin around, tryin to knock me off, but I'm too strong for 'im! I end up beatin im to death. So I take 'is teeth, for arrow heads, and go back to fishin!"
All the hunters around looked impressed, while the speaker puffed out his chest, hands on his hips, and grinned.
"Oh any bludga can big-note imself!" the Sniper spat out after swigging a shot of amber fluid. "That's impressive, spare the fact that grey nurse sharks are endangered."
All the hunters looked from the Sniper to the man who boasted, who now was speechless.
"If ya gonna play the game, play by the rules, mate."
All the hunters grinned. The boaster looked embarrassed and hushed up.
"So, Mundy. Any good kills today?"
"Just a big-ass, bloody, Saltwata Croc!"
They all looked impressed and nodded as he retold the first kill of the day.
"Oi, that'll make some bloody good eats."
"Spice up that jerky and put it in a sandwich!"
The Sniper mouth began to water at this. Crocodile jerky beat beef jerky any day. So he left to go to market.
He reached the market and went in. Once inside, he smelled the aroma of fresh fish and
up at the counter was the very man he was looking for.
"'Ello there, mate!" The Sniper said, approaching the counter.
"Oi! What'll it be this time?" The man behind the counter asked, his anticipation obvious.
"Just a big, beautiful Slatwata Croc!" The Sniper boasted, looking over his sunglasses.
"Ace!" the man said, impressed.
They went out to the camper van and the Sniper opened up the body bag for the clerk to see.
"Oh 'e's a bottla!" The clerk exclaimed. Now came the hard part. "I give yeah 250."
"250?" The Sniper asked. "Not on my watch, mate."
"Keep bloody 'goin!"
"The value 'o croc's just goin down!" The clerk said. "270. Max."
"Alright, mate," The Sniper said disappointed, but tipping his hat all the same. 270 was enough to feed him, and that's all he really needed.
After receiving payment, he moved the croc to the store's freezer and went back to the van.
There stood a man in a black suit. He wore a fedora and sunglasses. This guy looked like trouble. Very suspicious.
"Hello, Mr. Mundy," The man spoke in an American accent.
"Ello Mista..." The Sniper started for him.
"Do you know what Mann Co. is?" The man asked, ignoring him.
"No," The Sniper said carefully. That's some shonky business right there.
"We need your help," The man said casually. "You're the best hunter in all of Queensland. The only difference is, now we need you to hunt people."
"You appear to 'ave made a blue," The Sniper said, angrily. "I'm a Bushman. Not an assassin!"
"We'll pay you handsomely," The man said. "You won't need to sleep another night in that van of yours."
"Sorry mate," The Sniper said, opening the door. "My answer stands."
"Oh, okay," The man said, shrugging. "The animals don't see it coming. That's shooting fish in a barrel. Men... well that takes skill. Which I guess you don't have."
The Sniper got out of his van and slammed the door. This man had struck a very sensitive nerve. Somebody doubts his skill? Mess them up.
"You listen 'ere mate!" he said, pointing right at the man's face accusingly. "Nobody says ratbag rubbish like that 'bout me and gets away with it!"
He turned away and rubbed his stubble and muttonchops, thinking hard.
"If it's a war you want, it's war you'll get! I'll show you! I'm in!"
"Thank you Mr. Mundy."
And as the Sniper started getting into his camper van, he was chloroformed.