Setting: In the woods.
Hib: Then there's wind.
Tip: Yeah. Wind.
H: Wind and wind.
H: Do you tell them apart?
T: No idea.
H: Context, I guess...
T: Context... Yeah.
H: Yeah... before it... and after.
T: Surrounding it... the meaning of other words in the sentence.
T: (standing up, pointing rifle straight out at audience and firing) Damn... missed again.
H: You are not a good shot, are you?
T: Fuck you... good enough.
H: Wasn't even moving that fast.
T: Fast enough... there's funky winds...
H: Right, not winds, winds.
T: Obviously, context and all, obvious it's winds, not winds.
H: Yeah, winds doesn't make sense in that sentence.
T: Or wind.
H: Doesn't matter by itself.
T: Yeah, just in context. (jumps up, shoots twice, sits) Shit!
H: Missing everything today.
T: Know that, Hib.
H: Don't get pissed, just stating facts.
T: Don't state too many facts to a man carrying a rifle.
H: Doesn't look like I have much to worry about on that score.
H: Suppose I am, in the proper context.
T: Just a fucker.
H: Like your wife's bed, that sort of context.
H: In that context, oh yeah.
T: Fucker doesn't even bring his gun on the big hunt.
H: It's broken, told you that last night, but...
T: Get a new one, is all...
H: You didn't even remember to bring your extra.
T: Forgot, man.
H: Bullshit, you didn't want me bagging anything...
T: Not true, Hib, just forgot.
H: Yeah, yeah, yeah...
T: God's Honest Fucking Truth, Hib.
T: Here comes... (stand fires, sits)
H: That thing was right there, not even twitching, Tip.
T: Shut up.
H: Your site is probably fucked.
T: Probably, you sat on the damn thing in the truck.
H: Sorry, man. I apologized already.
T: Should've pulled the trigger then.
H: You still would've missed my ass.
T: Damn, that's a tough thing to miss too; what you put on about twenty in the last month?
H: No, same weight as last time you saw me.
T: Bullshit. You're porking up.
H: Fuck that.
T: Nothing but Ho-Hos and mayonnaise for you, I guess.
H: At least I've got some mass to me.
T: I'd say more mass in you.
H: Not a fucking pussy scrawny girl, like you.
T: Yikes, guess I hit a little button somewhere in all that flab.
H: Shut it, prick.
T: Ahh, Hib, let's cut the bullshit.
H: Sounds good.
T: I mean let's just agree to disagree that you're a fat fuck.
H: Yep, and you look and shoot like a girl.
T: Fair enough.
H: Fair enough.
T: (long pause) You've never hunted before, have you?
H: No... never have... don't want too.
T: Shit, man, why didn't you ever tell me that.
H: Fuck, Tip, this is the third time I've gone out with you, and it never struck you as suspicious that I always "forget" my gun?
T: Well... no, I guess, you lying about hunting had me convinced.
H: No, I just like hanging out in the woods, and Dale told me you were a terrible shot; so I knew...
T: Fucking Dale. Fucker... that dickass can only hit shit because he's got these laser sites... it's not fair... that's not hunting...
H: I would agree there.
T: Talking shit about me, that fucking rich snob.
H: (long pause) So, Tip, you ever hit anything?
T: Yeah... I hit shit... all... I've killed many... I've hit a lot of... all the time... just one after the other sometimes, you know...
H: (long pause) So.... no then?
T: (long pause) Not technically... not in the formal sense of the word "hit", I guess... then no... I haven't.
H: You know... don't worry about it.
T: No, it's fucking frustrating... I love shooting things, but I never can hit anything.
H: You know... I'm sure the dolphins (pointing where Tip has been shooting) don't mind in the least.
(lights out, another shot)
H: Let's go, Tip. Flipper wins again.