A bit of his hair flopped directly in front of his forehead. This piece of hair was exactly what I focused on next. In the two previous shots, I had taken out his plum hand and left a serious wound in his chest. As I centered on his head through the targeting ring of my rifle, a thought brought me back to last year. Almost as if he were present, Ulric’s voice rang deep within my own head, “The head, remember, the head,” he told me. At the time, we had just started a bottle of whiskey after completing a bottle of the Ugandan equivalent, waragi. It was long after midnight in my campground residence. In the hours that passed after the children went to bed and our wives decided that a movie starring a woman with a prosthetic leg submachine gun was beyond their interest, we watched three zombie flicks, chewed venison jerky and drank. We slipped into our familiar Peace Corps banter but after the third movie, and a good swig, Ulric became serious. Ulric Savage, now a professor of ecotourism has never been one to invoke discomfort.
