Kudu Excerpt from the book: “The kudu raised its head from the water. It stood proudly head up and facing to the right. A tourist-hunter would probably aim for mid-belly. Maurice aimed for a low-neck shot. That made for a large target, and one that if it did not kill the animal, would wound it severely enough to stop it running more than a very short distance. Moreso, it preserved all the prime eating meat on the animal’s shoulders. This was a large kudu. It was the first live-male kudu Maurice had ever seen, with a perfect full triple- spiral in its horns.  It was likely the alpha-male of the entire region. It had to be the main breeding kudu of a region spanning ten farms. It was a champion of hundreds of horn smashing duels with other adrenalized young bull-kudu challengers. It was mighty, it was regal, and it was handsome. Its chest was large and proud. Kudus were renowned for their jumping ability. Maybe this big patriarch could clear an 8-foot fence. It was the trophy of a lifetime, for African hunting. Maurice squeezed the trigger. I felt life coming to my barrel.  The fire-driven copper-covered lead bullet spat out from my barrel faster than sound, near as fast as light. It was spinning, rotating to the right, and following an immaculate smooth-curving trajectory. Gravity with mathematical precision, pulled the bullet downwards in a predictable amount, a few inches from a line-of vision tract.  The shot echoed back from a far hill. Some dust spat upwards from just beyond the Kudu. The kudu took one step forwards and turned its head half to the side. It listened for a second, first hearing the bullet hit the soil to its left, followed a moment later, by a loud slam of the gunshot from its right side, up on the hill. Then it ran straight forwards to how it had been standing, in a magnificent gallop with those monstrously powerful rear thigh muscles thrusting 600-pounds of antelope weight, off like a drag-racing car. Maurice's mouth opened. He had missed it. He felt fifty emotions. He was disappointed, he was angry.  He was energized. He said to himself “Hell, no!” He jumped to his feet. He realized his bullet has passed too high and had passed above the Giant Kudu’s shoulders. In a snap almost too fast to see, Maurice cocked and reloaded me. He aimed again. He aimed this time for a head shot. No messing around now! He aimed 12 inches ahead of the running kudu to adjust for the bullet’s microsecond of flight time, and he squeezed my trigger. I, The rifle fired, and a microsecond later the spent-cartridge of my first shot then bounced onto the ground. Maurice had rammed in a fresh cartridge into the chamber, cocked the firing pin, aimed, and fired the second round before the ejected previous used-cartridge had even hit the ground.  The following microseconds seemed like an eternity to the humans. The kudu managed to run half a stride further after the shot, then buckled at his front knees and dived headfirst into the ground. It was instantly dead. Frederic screamed “Yay, Dad!” and hugged his dad. Maurice dropped me to the ground and hugged his son back, with tears in his eyes. That was the best shot of his entire life. That was the big kudu they had tracked and listened to for 2-hours, before losing its trail. It was the biggest trophy Maurice would ever shoot in his life. The story would become a family legend, not retold by Maurice too much, but retold often and proudly by his son Frederic. For a moment Maurice had experienced in his body and brain, an adrenaline surge, and dopamine burst as he had never experienced in his life before. He felt an exhilaration that kept him smiling for an hour. He could not explain those feelings. Maurice took a few breaths, wiped his cheeks dry, and picked me up. They walked down the hill. The bullet from my barrel had entered the King-Kudu’s brains a half-inch behind his right eye, sideways into his skull. This was maybe, the most perfect hunting shot ever. A running kudu head-shot at 450 feet range! Jealous men would sneer and say it was a freak- shot. Good men would slap Maurice on the shoulder and say smiling, "Man, let me buy you a beer!"  Read the book, “I am The Rifle,and I kill” - available on Amazon (Click). Write to the author your book review, or any questions and other comments. AUTHOR (click)

A full grown Kudu’s horns have three spirals.

Kudu Excerpt from the book: “The kudu raised its head from the water. It stood proudly head up and facing to the right. A tourist-hunter would probably aim for mid-belly. Maurice aimed for a low-neck shot. That made for a large target, and one that if it did not kill the animal, would wound it severely enough to stop it running more than a very short distance. Moreso, it preserved all the prime eating meat on the animal’s shoulders. This was a large kudu. It was the first live-male kudu Maurice had ever seen, with a perfect full triple-spiral in its horns.  It was likely the alpha-male of the entire region. It had to be the main breeding kudu of a region spanning ten farms. It was a champion of hundreds of horn smashing duels with other adrenalized young bull-kudu challengers. It was mighty, it was regal, and it was handsome. Its chest was large and proud. Kudus were renowned for their jumping ability. Maybe this big patriarch could clear an 8-foot fence. It was the trophy of a lifetime, for African hunting. Maurice squeezed the trigger. I felt life coming to my barrel.  The fire-driven copper-covered lead bullet spat out from my barrel faster than sound, near as fast as light. It was spinning, rotating to the right, and following an immaculate smooth-curving trajectory. Gravity with mathematical precision, pulled the bullet downwards in a predictable amount, a few inches from a line-of vision tract.  The shot echoed back from a far hill. Some dust spat upwards from just beyond the Kudu. The kudu took one step forwards and turned its head half to the side. It listened for a second, first hearing the bullet hit the soil to its left, followed a moment later, by a loud slam of the gunshot from its right side, up on the hill. Then it ran straight forwards to how it had been standing, in a magnificent gallop with those monstrously powerful rear thigh muscles thrusting 600-pounds of antelope weight, off like a drag-racing car. Maurice's mouth opened. He had missed it. He felt fifty emotions. He was disappointed, he was angry.  He was energized. He said to himself “Hell, no!” He jumped to his feet. He realized his bullet has passed too high and had passed above the Giant Kudu’s shoulders. In a snap almost too fast to see, Maurice cocked and reloaded me. He aimed again. He aimed this time for a head shot. No messing around now! He aimed 12 inches ahead of the running kudu to adjust for the bullet’s microsecond of flight time, and he squeezed my trigger. I, The rifle fired, and a microsecond later the spent-cartridge of my first shot then bounced onto the ground. Maurice had rammed in a fresh cartridge into the chamber, cocked the firing pin, aimed, and fired the second round before the ejected previous used-cartridge had even hit the ground.  The following microseconds seemed like an eternity to the humans. The kudu managed to run half a stride further after the shot, then buckled at his front knees and dived headfirst into the ground. It was instantly dead. Frederic screamed “Yay, Dad!” and hugged his dad. Maurice dropped me to the ground and hugged his son back, with tears in his eyes. That was the best shot of his entire life. That was the big kudu they had tracked and listened to for 2-hours, before losing its trail. It was the biggest trophy Maurice would ever shoot in his life. The story would become a family legend, not retold by Maurice too much, but retold often and proudly by his son Frederic. For a moment Maurice had experienced in his body and brain, an adrenaline surge, and dopamine burst as he had never experienced in his life before. He felt an exhilaration that kept him smiling for an hour. He could not explain those feelings. Maurice took a few breaths, wiped his cheeks dry, and picked me up. They walked down the hill. The bullet from my barrel had entered the King-Kudu’s brains a half-inch behind his right eye, sideways into his skull. This was maybe, the most perfect hunting shot ever. A running kudu head-shot at 450 feet range! Jealous men would sneer and say it was a freak-shot. Good men would slap Maurice on the shoulder and say smiling, "Man, let me buy you a beer!"  Read the book, “I am The Rifle,and I kill” - available on Amazon (Click). Write to the author your book review, or any questions and other comments. AUTHOR  (click)

A full grown Kudu’s horns have three spirals.