I walked inside Big Jim’s Hunting Shop and rang a silver bell that sat atop a paper-covered cherry desk. A sign hung above the entrance read: ” Mammoth Hunting Trips: $1,999. “

“Big Jim’s out today,” came a voice from the back room.
“Come back after lunch!”

I placed my elephant gun on the desk and looked around at the mounted gorilla heads and thick ivory tusks. “I’m here about the mammoth hunting trips,” I yelled toward the back room.

I heard the clatter of clunky boots and an older man of about 60 emerged holding a dinged-up tin cup. The smell of rum wafted off his breath as he spoke. “Yes, hrmpth, yes! Good! Got a major credit card? Hrmpth.”

“Will you take American Express?”

“Sure! I’m Big Jim,” he said. “Sorry ‘bout that earlier. Hunted mammoths before? Hrmpth.”

“Nope – elephants, but what’s the difference?”

“Plenty! Hrmpth. That peashooter wont cut it! Hrmpth. Even with a bigger gun, you’ll need perfect aim. Hrmpth. Only a side shot through the eyes will kill the giant bastards. Hrmpth. Yes.”