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*ck!

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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking film it.

- You fucking film it.

I don't know how to use

the fucking 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 asshole 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 fucking 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 cunts.

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

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