The Hunting Party

---

When I was a kid,

I used to carry

a rabbit's foot for good luck.

But in Somalia,

I traded it for two cold Budweisers

and a back issue of Penthouse.

You hear people talk

about the horrors of war all the time,

but the dirty little secret is,

if you're just reporting it,

war has its bright side as well.

I know, I know. I'm sacrilegious.

But being that close to death,

being that alive,

it's completely addictive.

And if anyone tells you otherwise,

they are lying.

F***!

I know.

I worked with Simon Hunt for nine years.

We worked as a team

for the network news covering wars

from El Salvador to Desert Storm

to the killing fields of Bosnia.

Are we moving or what?

Yes, we're moving.

I just wish I had a f***ing Quaalude.

No one was crazier than he was.

No one was as dangerous,

as fun, or as good as he was.

Damn!

Even in the very worst of times.

God damn it.

You film any of that?

Are you kidding me?

Well, what the hell are we doing here,

writing for Travel and f***ing Leisure?

We're here for one purpose

and one purpose only,

and that's to get some

goddamn news footage here.

That's why you're going to go back out

into this mess and shoot something.

Ridiculous.

Afraid not, Duckie Boy.

Okay. You film it.

- No, you f***ing film it.

- You f***ing film it.

I don't know how to use

the f***ing camera.

Screw me.

Simon gave me balls

I never even knew I had.

Of course, during our years together

I got shot four times,

and Simon never got

as much as a scratch.

But together we won lots of awards.

Simon liked to point out, however,

that news awards were like hemorrhoids:

Eventually, every a**hole gets one.

But the fact was

Simon was the best in the business,

and everyone knew it.

He cared the most.

He got the best stories.

But things started to change

during the winter of 1994 in Bosnia.

All the senseless brutality

of every war we had covered

crystallized in one perfect

winter of tragedy.

And then one day Simon snapped.

I guess everyone snaps

once in their lifetime:

At a boss...

at a lover...

at the world.

But Simon's was a doozy.

And I filmed it all,

recording it for every journalism major

to download from here to f***ing eternity.

We now go to Simon Hunt

in Bosnia with the story.

Two years into a civil war

that has ravaged

this once multi-ethnic country,

Doctor Boghanovic's Bosnian Serb army

continues in its quest to liquidate

the Bosnian Muslims from this region,

today attacking yet another

supposed UN-protected village at will.

Simon, some are saying

that it was the Bosnian Muslims

who attacked first,

causing this latest battle.

- Simon, some are saying...

- It wasn't a battle, Franklin.

It wasn't a battle, it was a slaughter.

Well, Simon, certain

United Nations observers confirm...

Who are you talking about?

Are you talking about the Dutch?

The Dutch?

The Dutch were getting drunk

with the Serb army guys on slivovice

at the checkpoint earlier this morning.

- Okay, thank you, Simon Hunt...

- Safe areas?

These people were butcheredl

Women were rapedl

Children were murderedl

Oh, come on, Franklinl

Come on, don't get your panties

all in a twist.

- We're live, Simon.

- Lathered up.

You and your editor boys,

you can cut this part out of air.

Timid little network c*nts.

There have been many distinguished

moments in television history.

This wasn't one of them.

After that, everything changed.

Simon, of course, got canned.

And I, on the other hand,

received the opposite end

of the network spear.

I got promoted.

Guess a little reward for having to endure

the embarrassment that was Simon Hunt

for all those years.

I got sent to New York and was offered

the cushiest job in the business:

Chief cameraman for Franklin Harris,

the network anchorman.

I suddenly had what

everyone else wanted:

World capitals,

state dinners,

first-class jets.

And I took advantage

of every gift bag they gave me.

Simon had it harder.

- Much harder.

- Simon Hunt here in Northern Gaza.

He stumbled through

a half dozen cable news jobs,

one more demeaning than the next...

What the f*** are you doing?

...which usually ended with him quitting

or getting fired for insubordination.

Got great tape!

Great, great tape!

Finally he hit the bottom rung

of a journalist's career:

Showing up at a war

on nobody's dime but his own.

$500.

I'll take five hundred.

A world exclusive.

Don't you owe me

It's a shitty life.

Soon after that, I stopped hearing

from Simon altogether.

And then he dropped

completely off the radar.

There were rumors of spottings

in certain war zones

you wouldn't even want to fly over.

Stories like that.

And then slowly...

the stories stopped.

As for me?

Did I miss the action?

Did I want to go back

to the carnage and craziness?

The adrenaline and nonstop erection

that comes from fear and death and war?

Absolutely not.

And that was the lie I lived with.

- Watch the land mine.

- What?

Okay, that's not funny.

No, I just read there's

supposed to still be

over 500,000 un-detonated land mines

in this country.

You know, the last time I was here,

there was a sniper positioned right there

taking potshots at my ass.

Five-year anniversary. It's a good story.

Duck, you should talk

to some of your old contacts

and work with Benjamin.

I want to do something

on the reconciliation.

You know, Muslim and Serb widow

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