On The Run

The hunter cowered behind a tree. He took off his fur cap, wiped the sweat from his gigantic bald head, and breathed heavily and rapidly.
He stopped.
Can it hear me?, he thought.
A twig snapped.
He’d lost his gun. His beloved double-barreled shotgun.
In the distance, a click.
It has my shotgun.
After all these hunting seasons, the hunter had finally become the hunted.
More footsteps. Big, furry footsteps.
His heart pounded. His throat clenched.
“Don’t bwast me!” shouted the hunter. “Fow God’s sake, wabbit, pwease don’t bwast me!”
Click.
The hunter ran, wishing it was still Duck Season.