He poke his long rifle through the bush, white heat of the African sun scorching his neck and-
B L A M!
The panda took it in the gut, black and white and red all over. The bear staggered silly, his knees weak, and finally collapsed on the dusty Serengetti plain. Lukedor, his gun still smoking, turned to his African manservant Makumba, exchanging a dignified high five.
Their celebration didn’t last long- another panda grazing at the foot of the monadnock had stopped at the sound of the gunpowder blast. He locked eyes on Lukedor. And he began to charge.
Makumba- naked as usual- panicked, ran out into the clearing, shouting in godless gibberish and befouling his unpompered buttock. It was just the diversion Lukedor needed: as the panda turned to witness Makumba’s humiliation it slowed its run, and that’s when Lukedor fired, piercing the great beast’s head and neck.
“AIIIIIII-EEEEEE!!!” The wounded bear let out a great bellow, existentially vexed. Still on his feet he turned and ran at the chocolate native.
Makumba fell to the ground, unable to find the sign of the cross, wishing he’d been converted to Christianity.
The panda stood over him, rearing back with his paw, nails sharpened, ready to tear his prey to shreds.
That’s when Lukedor jumped on the animal’s back, his Bossie knife in hand. The bear reared back, and for a moment Lukedor rode him as one would a bronco. Before he was thrown clear he reached 'round and slit the panda’s belly wide, its intestines spilling slow onto a paralyzed Makumba like a can of baked beans being poured down a sink.
An enormous panda leapt from behind Lukedor, toppling his pith helmet and sending him to the ground. Lukedor whipped his pistol from his belt and pushed it in the bear’s mouth, firing.
The panda’s brains were blown out the back of his head like a fantastic idea, splattering Makumba who was still too petrified to move.
Lukedor got to his feet and restored his pith helmet. He packed his pipe full of tobacco and opium and lit up, his lungs filling with the heavy smoke of success.
“So... wot do you say about lunch?”
Makumba, covered in goo, spat out a few panda teeth, rubbing his belly intently. He had been a man of few words since he had lost his tongue in a rabbit attack, but he took a deep breath and spoke in determined profundo: "Rum."
Lukedor smiled, the mutilated corpses around him going hazy. "Well-spoken, my heathen amigo."
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