I ntroduction: DeMarco Murray was no ordinary hunter. He had bested wild boar, grizzly bears, mountain lions, and even medium sized sharks. He often joked that the sharks were the only prey that had ever given him a hard time, and only because they could breathe underwater, and he couldn’t. He had some great times, hunting the world’s most dangerous animals. But lately, those old trophy hunts weren’t satisfying him. He wanted more. But what? Human? No, no. He read that book, and it disturbed him to no end. He, himself, was a human, after all. If you can murder your own kind in cold blood, then what are you? A monster. DeMarco swore that he would always keep a level head before, during, and after a hunt. How can one keep his or her sanity while murdering their own brother? No, humans were out of the question.
Still, a hunger burned within DeMarco. He was a man on fire, and he needed to suffocate the flames, before he was consumed by them.
DEMARCO MURRAY: THE DINOSAUR HUNTER (Pretend that there is some sweet adventure music playing while DeMarco Murray runs around in a vest and an Australian hat and winks at women while he holds them over cliffs and stuff)
P aragraphical Notage: The helicopter ride was rough, to say the least. DeMarco had guessed that the pilot was either new at the whole “flying helicopters” thing, or that he had opted to try to do it with his eyes closed. To be honest, DeMarco felt slightly sick from all of the un-necessary turns and turbulence. I may just swim back home instead of calling in a helicopter. It’d probably be safer, he thought. It was simply a jest, however. This island was 100 miles east of the Falkland Islands. Swimming wasn’t a real option.
As he began setting up his camp, he recalled what Jerry Jones had told him.
“And you’re SURE that huntin’ on dinosaurs is the only way that you can play football with the same passion that you had at The University of Northern North Texas?”
DeMarco had simply grinned and replied “It was Oklahoma, Jerry. Now give me those coordinates and make sure there is a helicopter waiting for me.”
Of course, Jerry had nodded and… Smiled? Did he smile? DeMarco couldn’t tell. But he knew that Jerry would come through. Jerry had come through, and then some. He had arranged for a series of private jets to get him to the eastern part of the Falkland Islands. The entire trip was secretive. The only other person, aside from Jerry and DeMarco, who knew about DeMarco’s dinosaur hunting expedition was the helicopter pilot. Unfortunately, Jerry had chosen Wade Philips to fly the helicopter. “He’s the only guy I can trust. Plus, I can pay him in fried Twinkies and Sonic Premium Hotdogs.” Jerry had explained.
Right, but he was a horrible pilot.
DeMarco shook his head and laughed to himself as he finished setting up his tent. The tent was fairly large. With room to stand up, to set up a few card tables, and with a sizeable “living area” that included a blow-up mattress and all of DeMarco’s clothing and gear.
DeMarco hadn’t believed Jerry about the secret island that was home to dozens of prehistoric dinosaurs. Of course, when Jerry had sworn up and down that the island was the same place that Jerry himself had hatched from his slimy, leathery, oval shaped egg, DeMarco had finally trusted his employer’s boastings.
The sun had just broken through the clouds and DeMarco thought that he had best scout the area. Just inside of the beach, away from the water, was a jungle of thick vines. As DeMarco hacked through the vines with his machete, he realized that there were many open areas within the jungle where creeks, streams, and collections of rocks were preventing the growth of trees. There was plenty of room to move around. He had spotted a few broken eggs on the other side of a slow stream. Upon further investigation, he noted that they were much larger than alligator or crocodile eggs. His heart began to race as he imagined a group of velociraptors roaming the jungle, in search of of prey.
Who is the hunter? DeMarco thought. These creatures were unknown. How did they hunt? How fast were they? Did they attack in formations? Were they even aggressive? DeMarco had seen Jurassic Park, but Steven Spielberg, despite his academy awards, was still only a director, and not a time traveler. There was no way to know the tendencies of a velociraptor, or a Tyrannosaurus Rex. DeMarco wiped a bead of cold sweat from his brow, and readjusted his grip on his gun. He had chosen the .700 caliber dinosaur hunting rifle for it’s stopping power and ability to penetrate such rugged skins. He had hoped that it could kill a dinosaur, or else he would need to be very handy with a knife.
After a few hours of hacking through vines and scouring the open areas that he uncovered, DeMarco was ready to turn back toward camp. He was getting hungry and, quite frankly, he wanted to try out his new fishing pole. As he turned to follow the trail that he had made while exploring, he heard a noise. Something that he had never heard before. It sounded like a large bird. A large bird with teeth, claws, and raptor eyes. This, of course, was all speculation. But, again, DeMarco had watched Jurassic Park, and he was almost certain that the chilling sound which filled his ears was the call of a blood-thirsty velociraptor.
Before he could turn around to look toward the area where he had heard the call, something had flashed in the corner of his eye. Without thinking, DeMarco dove to the side, landing in a roll that protected his rifle and ended with him in a crouching position where he was aiming his weapon at the general area where the suspected attack had come from. There was nothing. Nothing was there. But he had heard it. He had seen it, barely. But most importantly, he had felt it. No, it didn’t brush up against him, but his instincts had rang true. He was just attack by an animal who was, perhaps, physically superior to himself. DeMarco’s breath burst forth in quick puffs, mixing in with the pre-noon chill to create quickly dissipating clouds in front of his face. He scanned left. He scanned right. He heard nothing.
This time, he had heard it much earlier. DeMarco turned a full 180 degrees just in time to see a raptor charging right at him. He fired his rifle as he turned. The raptor, as if possessing knowledge of human tactics and weaponry, had altered his charge to the side to avoid DeMarco’s gunfire.
And suddenly, the raptor was there. A full speed charge, culminating in a mouth-to-face collision that favored the dinosaur greatly. At least, that would have been the case, had the human been ordinary. But DeMarco The Dinosaur Hunter was no ordinary human.
He was a Dallas Cowboys running back.
And he was a dinosaur hunter.
TO BE CONTINUED…(Unless I get fired for this)
Curious as to how DeMarco’s dinosaur rifle looks or performs? Here is a link to it’s inspiration: http://www.theblaze.com/stories/want-to-see-a-customized-700-caliber-dinosaur-hunting-rifle-in-action/