Hunter Ray's Elephants
by Martin Rutley

It was late Saturday night when they brought me in. Strapped to a stretcher, disinfectant smeared into the corners of my eyes. Six of them, dressed identically in the green and grey of the company uniform, the smell of petroleum in their greasy sideburns. Several of them recounted stories of previous raids, venting their disappointment at recent assignments they had been given. In spite of this, they moved effortlessly in pack formation, each bound invisibly to the other.

They asked me what kind of a man sniffed stain remover while masturbating to Pete Burns on his bedroom floor? Hadn’t I noticed the pre-cancerous cells in my liver? Didn’t I suspect my girlfriend was fucking the I.T. guy from data capture? Who cut my ‘gooky fucking hair?’ Didn’t I realise those idiots in the CIA couldn’t work a soda machine?

This wasn’t a dissection of what made me tick – they didn’t give a shit about the ins and outs of a rodent like me. This was an institution at play - a muscle, too long at rest, flexing itself.

“Hunter Ray loves to play,” the tallest of the six said, his voice all baby talk and laughter.

The others followed his lead, repeating the rhyme over and over, their voices steadily increasing in volume.

I was beaten into the early hours of the morning - a solid workout for the boys on nightshift. Each of them put in his fair share, no slacking or slipping off for a quick cigarette in the reading room. These boys were keen.

Hunter Ray continued long after the others had had their fill. Of the six, his blows landed hardest. He liked to strike with the heel of his boot, displaying an obvious bias towards the lower spinal region. The ‘Hunter Ray Heel Kick’, I christened it - a signature manoeuvre none of the others had attempted.

I gave them everything – a schematic of my habits, my tendencies. I told them I’d seen elephants with bombs strapped to their heads, walking up and down crowded shopping malls at Christmas - children pulling at their ears, hitching each other up onto their backs.
I gave them directions to Statue Island, to the palace of the blue goddess, ‘Katrina’. I left nothing out, right down to my weakness for Renaissance art and my love of all things Italian.

This pleased them, most of all Hunter Ray, who silenced me with a finger pressed to his lips. At his signal, they moved away from me, gathering into a small circle at the far end of the room. A phone call was made. Following this, five of the six filed noiselessly out of the room.

“ F-f- fuck sentimentality,” said Hunter Ray, moving towards me.

His playful nature, suggested in the soft edges of his little-boy face, had been evident from the outset.

“The schizophrenic presents a genuine problem, perhaps the last of our age,” he said, kneeling beside me.

Hunter Ray told me he was a killer of some reputation. He said he knew no other way – that he’d risen to the highest ranks of the corporation because of his willingness to finish the job.

“Although there are, as is always the case, other reasons,” he added.

Casually, I recalled how the others had left the room. Not as separate, individual entities, but as one – joined at the hip, at the neck – its hairless mandibles held high in the air.

With both hands, he opened my eyes big and wide. “Of course, all men have secrets.”

“Why did you come for me?” I asked, repeating words that had sounded previously in my mind.

“ Why did I come for you?” Hunter Ray produced a smile that pulled at the lids of his eyes. “I came for you because your elephants exist.”

Then came the truth, inextricable from the soft light that flooded my eyes – my elephants, every last one of them, were not mine, but Hunter Ray’s.

The End

Story copyright Martin Rutley, published by the Fortean Bureau
http://www.forteanbureau.com