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Just recieved this email from FC, he has asked me to post it here.

"Good morning, gentlemen, it occured to me that you might be curious about my hunting weekend, so I spent a little time writing up some of my experiences, and I hope you enjoy.

We arrived at the estate last night just before sunset. Our chaffeur dropped us off right at the edge of the wood, where an employee from the hunting ground was waiting, shotguns waiting as well already loaded. My colleague, Jack, who is the nephew of Lord Carrington, gave a generous tip to our driver, who spurred the horse, and the carriage left us.

"It's a fine time to shoot," Jack said, gripping my shoulder, "and there's daylight yet."

With the sun setting behind us, we mounted our guns on our shoulders. The hunting ground employee, a young scouse named Ollie, pulled a string that opened the door of wooden cages hidden in the brush. A flash of feathers, a thunderclap, the smell of burnt gunpowder. Two quails, leaking life into the dirt.

"Brava!" Jack proclaimed, clapping my back. Ollie let loose the leashes of two dorsett hounds, who retrieved the birds. They were set at our feet, lifeless, no convulsions.

Over the next hour, we cut down nearly threescore birds, the pair of us, until the dwindling light forced us back to the lodge, our bounty in tow. As we sat at a grand mahogany table, sipping armagnac and watching the flickering fireplace, a servant brought us our dinner: a pair of the quails we had, with our grit and cunning, killed ourselves. The meal was rich and bloody, punctuated only by the sound of masculine laughter.

After dinner, and a glass of port, I retired to my chamber where I found a chambermaid, a young hungarian girl named Latia, preparing my bed.

The next morning I awoke with the sun beating through a window. I showered, mildly annoyed that the hot water ran out before I finished shaving with a straight razor. Coming out of the bathroom, I saw that Latia was still unconscious in my bed, having fainted late the night before, and I noticed that the bruises I had decorated her face with were already turning from blue to yellow.

I dressed. My wardrobe was freshly bought from William Evans, in Mayfair, and I noted with satisfaction the way my cap sat atop my head. I descended the stairs into the common room, where Jack was waiting with three gentlemen, fresh arrivals from London. I saw with horror that each of them wore a patch on the breast of their hunting jackets, and that each of them said either Oxford or Princeton. My jacket had no patch, and after introductions, one of Jack's friends, Lord Arthur Blemmingytonshire, inquired after this ommission.

"The truth of it is, old chap," I said, careful to affect the British accent I always use when in the company of gentlemen, "I spent most of my college years touring Europe, although I did attend school in the states." Seeing a flash of dissapproval, I quickly added "At Princeton, of course."

We all laughed gaily, and the houseservants brought out breakfast: wild boar sausage, and a cask of hearty red wine. "Gentleman, today we hunt!" Jack proclaimed, brazenly dabbing wine off of his chin. We set out.

One of the other hunters, Sir Frederick Englandtonshire approached me as we walked toward the wood. "I understand you hunted quail yesterday." I nodded. "Quail is a fine quarry, very cunning, and to capture it requires constitution and bravery, surely, in the hunter. Today, though, we hunt a more dangerous game. In fact, we hunt THE most dangerous game."

"Surely not--"

"Aye," Jack said, walking behind me. "Today we hunt man. There is nothing that makes you feel so empowered as to track, seek, and outsmart another human being. The men we pursue will be criminals, of course, we are not savages. But being criminals, they will be hardened, they will be brutal, and they will not hesitate, if given the chance, to turn the tables on us. We must be steely with our resolve, because today we face a most deadly task."

We arrived at the edge of the wood, where we had hunted quail the day before. Waiting for us there was our quarry: a cruel-looking man inside a wooden cage. I pulled my cap close over my forehead, and looked the knave in the eye. I saw no remorse there, for whatever his crime was, only hatred, and I knew with certainty that given the chance, this man would drag a knife across my throat.

"Pull!" Jack shouted, and the door of the cage was opened. The game was afoot! The man ran out from the cage, towards the woods, and I took careful aim, my gun on my shoulder, and with the man a full ten yards away, I fired, and shot him dead.

More later."