George Orwell, Ron Silliman and I are walking into a village that looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane. Silliman suddenly chirps up in a kind of screech: “There it is! There it is!” and he’s jumping up and down like a boy at his first circus.
And, yes, he's spotted the elephant--off to the side, grazing quite peacefully. It looks so relaxed and so wise.
A lackey steps forward with a gun.
Silliman grabs it. I try to wrestle it away from him, and we fall, locked, to the ground. As we struggle, panting and groaning, I notice Orwell’s sitting down, drawing.
He's drawing the elephant and he's drawing it all in blue, except for the eyes for which he's using a kind of intense emerald green.
Silliman gets the upper hand and knees me in the nuts.
I’m next to the Big-Man in a helicopter and we’re coming down at a herd of elephants.
Silliman smacks the pilot’s back and shouts out “lower! Lower!” and he leans out and he’s firing.
A baby elephant, perhaps 6 months old, slides right down into the dirt. Red dust flares up.
Silliman’s screaming:
“Did you see that? A brain shot. A perfect brain shot.”
