Bret Ripley wrote:It all started back when I was an ivory hunter searching for King Solomon's Elephant Shrew Graveyard and its legendary treasure in elephant shrew tusks. One day I was leading a band of Masai warriors and bearers across a lonely veldt. Out of nowhere, Pavel, my valet, was gored by bull elephant shrew. Did you know that an average of 60 cashew farmers per year are gored by bull elephant shrews? I didn't, but I learned it later. Pavel never got the chance, poor dumb bastard.
So, there I was, stuck in the middle of a vast African veldt preparing to pack out a treasure trove in elephant shrew tusks -- without a valet. So, naturally, I did what most men in my position would do: I sent a runner back to Dakar to hire a valet with good references and pressed on. I can only assume the runner was also gored by a bull elephant shrew, because I never saw him again. A few days after I despatched the runner the Masai leader remembered he'd left the water running back home and they all left me.
That was almost forty years ago. Forty years with no valet and no sign of King Solomon's Elephant Shrew Graveyard. But still I press on. Why do I do it? May as well ask why a man does anything. But I know that's no answer, not really. So let's just leave it at this: I do it because of that one day out there on that lonely veldt; let's just say I do it for Pavel, poor dumb bastard.
(Translation: bump)
A tale of great heroism and loss, Rider Ripley. The loss of Pavel must have been heart breaking (not to mention inconvenient).
I've seen photos of people that have been gored by elephant shrews. Ghastly! Those tiny pin pricks on their ankles take forever to heal.