I once had a dream that I went on a hunting trip in Africa with Roosevelt and Hemingway.

We each bagged lions the size of elephants and they each had large tusks that curved upwards towards the sun and mouths that opened as wide as hippos and were as tooth filled and hungry as a crocodile.

They charged at us and we did not hunt until the blacks of their eyes were on us.

Roosevelt shot first and hit his beast in the front right leg before taking aim again and firing, the bullet tearing cleanly thru the neck and the lion fell to the ground.

Next was Hemingway and he roared as loud as the lion charging him and with one shot targeted at the animal's heart brought it down.

As the wildness neared me I jumped into the air and landed on the back of the lion. I grabbed his mane tightly and swung my arm beneath his neck and, with knife in hand, slit the lions throat causing him to slide into the dusty ground and rolled me off into the laughter of both Hemingway and Roosevelt.

The lions were field dressed. The meat was fried, cooked, roasted, jerkied, devoured. What wasn't edible was left for the scavengers to pick clean.

Their heads are now mounted on the living room walls.