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In This Issue

• The Mighty Hunter
• The Orphan: Victim or Commodity?
• Sex and the City, Victorian Style
• Choose Your Own Victorian Adventure!
• Letters to the Feditors
• Lay A (Caucasian) Burden Down
• Missives From My Mother
• A Cautionary Invective On Throttling One's Own Fowl
• Change Comes To Constants
• London's Burning!
• "Green Sickness": For That Vintage Venereal Burn
• Dear Fundamentalists: Get Down And Get With It
• Fed Sudoku Challenge!
• Connect-the-Dots
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 21.6

Mike Bredin

Kimi Traube

I say, Xavier, adjust that umbrella a touch. It's lollygagging about in my peripheral vision.

Yes, that's much better. Be a good chap and pass me my gin and tonic. Mustn't let the malaria get to us, hmm? They say civilization just can't flourish in these warm climes, you know, but I daresay the liquor is of quite a high caliber! Then again, I suppose we do manufacture it, or at least provide the recipe. Do you know, Xavier? No? Pity.

Xavier, I'm not cross with you, old chap, I know you're prone to forgetting in the heat, but I tend to prefer four cubes of ice in my-what have you got in your mouth? Is that... is that an ice cube? Are you sucking on that cube? Distasteful! Spit it out! Spit it out this instant! Xavier, you know we ration those ice cubes so that I may have exactly six gin and tonics per excursion. It's simply vital for the health and the old hunter's instinct. Now spit... it... out!

Honestly, Xavier, I'm flummoxed. If you wanted ice, you could have waited until we returned. You Mahdis, you've got no respect for the fine art of hunting. I should remind you, Xavier, that you're amongst the most privileged of your race. You've the luxury of attending a hunting expedition as a man in the esteemed employ of Lord Blathringthorpe - that is to say, myself-while upon our return to Bombay you'll be given a pile of hay to sleep on that would seem like luxury to a Chinaman in the employ of Prince Albert! And I know you're bitter, don't give me that look, but honestly, your tongue was a minuscule price to pay for such a privilege.

Now then, if you're quite satisfied, let us resume the hunt. It's so hard, you know, hunting Zulu up here in India. They're dash rare, you know. Half the time you think you've bagged one only to find it's some bloody Punjabi, following after some bloody lord or another, and it just isn't sporting to shoot a man's servant if the chap's two feet away from his master. He's liable to get blood on his  best safari gear.

Goodness, don't tap me on the shoulder when you turn your back away like that, Xavier! You gave me such a fright there. I think I may well need another gin and tonic. Yes, I do believe it's just about time. How many ice cubes have we left? Seven? Well, it would be eight, if not for your little indiscretion, but we won't mention that.

Ah, that's better. Now, the trick to hunting Zulu is to not let them get their spears out. Those shields of theirs are just fine, although it's always a shame if you puncture it with your shot. It's not as if you can hang it over your mantle with that unsightly bullet hole-

Oh, bother, I've fallen over. Blast this treacherous terrain. I knew I should have gone hunting in Shanghai, but they're so bloody particular about that sort of thing. Only hunting in the opium dens now, they say. It's no bloody sport that way! They just sit there, smoking opium! You might as well join them and shoot them when you're done! Such-ho! A Zulu! There, in the distance, Xavier! My rifle, please!

Xavier, hand me my rifle or I will be most put out.

Thank you. Now, dash it all, my vision's all blurred, where is he, can he-didn't I tell you not to tap me on the-

Ah.

Xavier?

Xavier, old sport, can you hear me? Groan once for yes.

Oh dear.

Umm. Well. Saladin? I say, Saladin! Yes, I seem to have rather mistaken poor Xavier for a Zulu again. The wound doesn't seem to be serious. No, I can't really tell where the ichor ends and the ground begins, blast this rust-colored earth! You know, Xavier old boy, if you just went about naked as the day you were born you'd be perfectly camouflaged! What a challenging foe you'd be out on the hunt! Oh, Saladin, just pick him up over your shoulder, do be a chap and patch him up. If he proves too much of a bother, it's all right, just pop him in the Ganges, there's a good sport. Ah, before you move him, could you pass me those last three cubes of ice? I've got a fierce desire for a gin and tonic.