Sanger Rainsford (0:14)

So there I was. Everyone had gone to bed, and I'm enjoying my pipe on the deck of our yacht. We were on the way to South America to hunt jaguars. I hear three gunshots. Went to the edge of the boat to see who's shooting a.22 in the middle of the ocean. Must have hit a wave and boom. I'm in the water, inky black. I try to yell, but you know water. And before I know it, the ship's lights are twinkling in the distance. So I swim towards the shots I heard and bada bing, bada boom. Washed up on your island. Sanger Rainsford swept both arms wide in a silent ta da and waited for a response. His host, the mysterious General Zarov, sat watching but said nothing. Silence hung in the air and Sanger was more than happy to fill it. Yeah, so my hunting companions probably think I'm dead. If it wasn't for this island, I totally would be. But I gotta say, looking at this mansion, the spread, all these sweet heads of all these animals you shot, I'm glad I landed here with a man of culture and taste such as yourself, who likes slaughtering rare and beautiful animals as much as I do. Like, is that a water buffalo from Africa? Those are the most dangerous animals to hunt, right? Almost, general Zaroff said with a sip of wine and sly smirk. That one, though, rammed into him after he got the shot off. The thing was already dying, but it put him in the hospital with a fractured skull for two months as a parting gift. Ah, well, you got him. Yes, general Zaroff said, swirling his wine and then holding out his glass for the man behind him, his servant Ivan. To top off, I always get my quarry. Oh, cool. Yeah, me too. I'm a professional big game hunter. Been published in Stuff. Yeah. Anyway, how often do you go to the Brazilian coast? If it's not soon, could I buy a ride to make it soon? I don't have any cash on me, but as soon as we link up with my party in Sal. Yes, it's always such a disappointment to kill your quarry, Zaroff said, frowning and staring off in the distance. Yeah, or the point of hunting, Sanger pointed out. But back to me leaving, I have found, well, I import a far more sporting type of animal on this island. Zaroff laughed loudly. Sanger said, it must be an inside joke or something. Like, okay, he'll bite. What is it? Tigers? Sanger sighed. Fun. It was, this type of dinner. Why did this always happen? Whenever people found out what he did, that quickly became the only thing they wanted to talk about. You inspired me to also be a big game hunter. Mind telling me how to do every aspect of big game hunting and maybe help me find a sponsor for my first expedition? Maybe he could mention them in his next publication or have them on as a guest. Even though that wasn't really the format at all. It wasn't that he didn't want to help. It just reduced every interaction to a transaction. It cheapened friendships. Oh, dear boy, no, not a tiger. Please. I've killed so many. They're like pussycats to me now. Zaroff boasted an 800 pound pussycat that can run 40 miles an hour. Sanger said, cool story, bro. Now back to me getting home. But Zaroff cut him off. No. For a time he felt so forlorn. He was a born hunter, but he had mastered the art. For a time, he didn't know what to do with himself. He needed a smarter animal or a new hobby. Sanger mumbled. Oh, nothing. Please continue, he replied When Zaroff said he didn't hear. Yes, I needed an animal with reason. Even the most dangerous of animals are merely a bundle of instincts and panic on four legs, Zaroff noted. Sanger said, yeah, but animals don't have reason. Oh, wait. He pinched the bridge of his nose. No, my dear boy, there is one animal that does have reason. Mr. Rainsford. General Zaroff's smirk grew. It is the most dangerous game. Sanger put on an expression of mock confusion. The most dangerous game? Oh, Parcheesi. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. I get this. I got this. American football. It's 1926. They don't even have helmets, just leather head straps. Oh, wait, no. Russian roulette. I should have led with Russian roulette. You're a Russian general. Zarov just sat a little confused. By Most Dangerous Game he meant. Sanger sat back. People. Yeah. No, I know you claim you hunt people. I'm Jason Weiser from this is fictional. Sauroff pursed his lips and looked to the floor. Well then, oh, you're disappointed that I ruined your big reveal? Sanger asked through another bite of his dinner. Should he be more sensitive to the guy who murdered people? Or so he claimed he did. Sanger still wasn't buying it. At that, Zaroff laughed. Murder. How deliciously provincial. Surely Mr. Rainsford didn't cling to such romantic notions of the sanctity of human life after the war. Really? The war was so bad you hunt people that that's your justification? Laughter shook the general. Oh, does the Victorian gentleman with his Old World morality have his snuffbox and carriage ready? You'll forget all this Puritan nonsense when you go hunting with me, sanger said. One, you're mixing up your metaphors and two, it's still murder. At that, the general grumbled. That word, it represents the morality that the weak use to tie down the strong, Zaroff said with a head shake. Life. Life is for the strong to be lived by the strong. And if it needs to be taken by the strong, the weak exist to give the strong pleasure. The settlers that wreck out there and find their way here, no one cares about them. You could buy a thoroughbred horse for the same price as a dozen sailors, but they're men. Rainsford said he had been hired as a guide by a lot of millionaires on a lot of big game hunting trips. He was kind of numb to depraved requests. But this. They're weak to me, so I take my pleasure with them hunting each and everyone that arrives on my island. Come, the General said, gesturing to the balcony. The balcony overhung a cliff that went straight down to the rocks below. A thick wrapped wire connected an old timey Frankenstein type switch. When the general threw the switch, lights illuminated in the water indicating a safe channel for ships to use. Zaroff dropped a walnut on the floorboards. We when the ships followed the lights, the rocks just underneath the water destroyed them. Just like he slammed the heel down on the nut, breaking it to pieces. That Sanger had seen the men in the dungeon, well, what Zaroff called his dungeon, it was more like something between a hostel and a well stocked hotel. A whole ship from Spain, teeming with sailors had crashed on the rocky trap not two days prior. They now sat in a well lit cell with plates of food all around. Clean cots too, no alcohol, though Zaroff preferred them sharp. At a moment's notice he was radioing a ship. He told them they will be gone in no time. So they all stuck around. None of them even thought to leave, though the dogs would have made that prospect unattractive. Zaroff said that it was always fun when the last few realized what was going on. The day stewing in their panic made it all the more enjoyable. When Zaroff did release them, one by one, the men had a three hour head start. They were given a hunting knife and food. General Zaroff limited his weapon to a.22 caliber pistol to give the quarry a sporting chance. And if they managed to stay alive for three days, they would be allowed to go free. None had ever been allowed to go free. One had gotten close, but Zaroff sent his hounds out into the forest at dawn of the third day and simply followed the screams. Sanger only understood bits and pieces of the Spanish that Zaroff was speaking to the men in smiles and laughter. But he understood what Zaroff was doing when he pointed to one of the bigger men at the back, waiting for him to come to the front. Zaroff needed help with something when they were outside, after Ivan had seated the man at the table by the forest with a pack and a hunting knife. I even held out the pistol to Sanger. Well, were they to go hunting tonight? Sanger laid awake. He had refused the general's offer, a response Zaroff attributed more to Sanger's exhaustion from having survived the open ocean. More so than not wanting to become a murderer. Hearing someone talk about hunting humans was one thing. Sanger had taken many rich people on many hunts. He heard a lot of terrible things from men who knew the law would never touch them. Though seeing Zaroff sit, the man he was going to hunt down and calmly explain to him what was going to happen, how he was going to follow the man into the forest and and murder him, that was different. This was real. The poor Spaniard didn't last long if the shots that rang out a Sanger tossed in the silken sheets of Zaroff's palace three and a half hours later were any indication. I'll pick out a better one for our first hunt, zaroff said as he finished explaining just how disappointing the quarry was last night. These sailors, they're domesticated, raised in the hulls of ships. The last ones, as they figured out what was going on, they were the truly fun ones. A cornered animal is dangerous. How much more? A human. Yeah, I'm not doing that, sanger said, pushing his plate away. I'm not going hunting with you. Do you have docs here? I'll wait around for the next time a shipment comes in from the mainland and ride back with them. Zaroff made a hand signal. Ivan materialized behind him. You're quiet for a big guy, sanger said, taking a big gulp of his wine. You don't know how right you are. The general smiled. Ivan could neither speak nor hear. The general chuckled. Ivan had other talents, you see. Ivan used to work for the Tsar back before that nasty business in 17. Sangert should think of Ivan as something of a priest. If the Tsar ever needed a confession out of someone, say, a dissident or enemy. Ivan always got that confession. And now if a man didn't want to be hunted, if he refused, he went to Ivan for some convincing. And if he couldn't be persuaded, well, by then there wasn't much left of him to be hunted. Zaroff shuddered. Even he didn't have a stomach for Ivan's tastes. So he was going to ask Sanger again. When would they be going on their hunt? Wow, that was about as subtle as a baseball bat. Sanger took another gulp of wine. Ivan knows how to use one of those, too, the general noted, and then took a deep breath. He should be clear. He pulled Sanger's wine glass away from him. They were hunting tonight, one way or the other. Sanger pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. There it is, what this whole thing had been leading to. He rose and went to the balcony. This leads straight to the rocks below, right? Sand? Sanger asked, walking up to the rails and climbing them. Zaroff sat back and took a sip of his wine. If Mr. Rainsford thought so low of his own skills that he couldn't survive, sure he wouldn't be the first to try that route. One of the sailors laid face down in the quicksand in Death Swamp to the south. Zaroff's favorite hound couldn't resist. Both of them ended up dying, though not without a considerable amount of pain for the sailor, anyway. It was Sanger's choice. But as for the General, he thought Mr. Rainsford had a sporting chance. He had published articles on big game hunting. He certainly had a better chance than any of the others. Sanger backed away from the rails. In truth, he had been sizing up his odds since, well, he saw the Spanish man pulled from the cell the night before when he realized all this was real. He hadn't been dreading it. He wouldn't murder someone for sport. He wouldn't even consider it. And Zaroff wouldn't have word of this island getting out. So there was only one conclusion. Sure, he could have gone on a hunt and shot Zaroff when his guard was down. But that made the assumption that Zaroff would lower his guard and that his dogs wouldn't maul Sanger the moment he showed the smallest bit of aggression toward their master. Also, he didn't know how good he was with a.22, so he would be hunted. Zaroff tried to mask his giddiness, but he just couldn't. This was so exciting to have someone of Sanger's caliber on his island. He was trying to get Sanger as excited about being murdered as he was to murder him. It was all so unnervingly official. If it had been 40 years in the future, it might have come with typed and Xeroxed printouts that read, so you're gonna be hunted. He got a hunting knife, meticulously cleaned by Ivan after being recovered from its previous owner. Hunting clothes, fresh provisions for three days, and a promise. If Mr. Rainsford survived, he would find a sloop at the docks that would place him on the mainland. The only thing he asked in return was that Sanger agree to say nothing about his visit here. Yeah, I'm not doing that, sanger said. I mean, I'll do the hunt thing because you're right. It's my best chance of survival. But no dice on not saying anything, Bud, I'm not going to be complicit in this. The general smiled. Well, they could have that discussion over a bottle of champagne in three days time. Well, that is, unless Anyway, Zaroff liked to take a siesta. And to make things even more interesting, he wouldn't start hunting until dusk. But unless Mr. Rainsforth was that confident in his abilities, he would want to start right away. Zaroff grinned and clenched his fists. Oh, this was so exciting. Sanger didn't run straight out. That trail would take him straight to the water and lock him in, and Zaroff would see it coming. He used his three hours sending Zaroff on a fox hunt, looping his trail back on itself, walking into streams, following for a bit, leaving and then walking back into them around dusk. Face striped with lashes from branches and hunting clothes torn, he knew it was folly to try to crash through the brush at night. He risked being heard or leaving a trail he didn't mean to. He found a thick tree, was sure to leave no trace on the bark, and stretched out on a thick branch. He had to have confidence in his trail. If he was going to sleep, he had to put it out of his head. The thought of waking up to the click of Zaroff cocking his pistol. He didn't sleep. Turns out he didn't have confidence in his misdirection. He was right not to. At dawn he heard footsteps. Rainsford held his breath as Zaroff's wide eyes scanned all the details of the trail before him. He wasn't put off by Sanger's last loop and stopped directly underneath Rainsford. He looked off in all directions. With one hand he took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth and lit it. The other didn't put down the pistol, Zaroff's finger on the trigger. The smoke found its way up and Sanger, daring a look, saw Zaroff shake his head and chuckle as he tracked the path back the way he came. The air seemed to burn Sanger's lungs. This wasn't just some psychopath millionaire. This was a psychopath millionaire with some serious talent. Not that Rainsford assumed that it would be easy, but he kind of assumed it would be super easy. He was used to gunning down lions, charging for rich guys, having them try to explain why their pants were suddenly wet, and him getting a generous tip to never mention it. He was used to explaining why you couldn't shoot buffalo driving from a jeep or knife a tiger cub to make a toy for your child. This man Zaroff could follow that trail in the dark. It was only by the slightest chance that Sanger still lived. No. Sanger shook his head, still hugging the tree branch. It wasn't chance. You don't follow a trail like that through the night and then give up when you reach its end. Zaroff knew that Sanger was above him. Zaroff was toying with him like a cat plays with a mouse. Zaroff wanted to make it last. He would be back. Sanger looked at the branches, logs, and vines all around him. Zaroff would return and he would be ready. A little farther, a little farther, Sanger said to himself as Zaroff walked closer and closer. The man came back with purpose this time. Disappointment that the trail hadn't changed, that Sanger thought he was safe. He must be thinking he would just go in, shoot the man for ruining his sport, and then go have dinner. Sanger didn't know what Zaroff was thinking up until he heard the snap. In a blur he saw the tree coming down and with it Zaroff. Sanger's head popped up a bit, but as he saw Zaroff struggle to his feet, pistol still in his hand, he slid back down into his hiding place. Ho ho. Very good, Mr. Rainsford, Zaroff said as he popped his right arm back into its socket. He didn't even wince. Zaroff inspected his torn sleeve and the blood spot that was beginning to grow underneath it. I too have been hunting in Malaka. You almost got me, though. I'm going to go home and dress this wound, but I'll be back. Thank you for tonight's entertainment. Despite Zaroff's bravado, Sanger could see him pressing on the wound. He really was hurt as soon as he could no longer hear the footsteps, Sanger made a break for it. Sanger remembered the war. France. He had dug until his hands bled. A moment's rest could be the difference between bullets whizzing over your head and bullets whizzing through your head. He had never been so scared in all of his life. Until tonight. He didn't bother trying to cover his tracks. Zaroff could follow anything. So picking his way across, doubling back, it would only waste precious time, time he could use to prepare. It was something of a happy accident when nearly losing a boot to the quicksand, the mud made a deep, slurping, sucking sound. And Sanger got an idea. He cut a spade from a piece of wood, moved about 20ft back from the quicksand and started digging. It took most of the night, but he was confident that Zaroff wasn't coming back. That log had hit him harder than he let on. He would make sure he was at the top of his game. It did take all night. The pit. Sanger barely got the sharpened sticks turned upward before he heard, off in the distance, barking. Zaroff wasn't playing around anymore. It was the dawn of the second day. Sanger was almost halfway to freedom. He was glad he hadn't wasted time covering his trail. It wouldn't have mattered anyway with the dogs. Dog, it turned out, singular. Probably Zaroff's best. Sanger smelled Zaroff's cigarette before he saw either of them. He saw the flashlight shining. He crouched behind a tree and every second was a minute. If his covering to the pit was too strong and Zaroff walked over it, Sanger would have to move faster than he had in his entire life. And he heard a cracking. The sound of dirt and grass hitting the ground, and a cry in pain. He leapt out with a smile on his face and then dove back behind the tree with as little noise as he could manage. A figure, a human figure, was still standing. A mere two feet from the pit, Sanger heard a slow clap. A Burmese tiger pit. Bravo claimed one of his best dogs, too. Point Rainsford. He said that tomorrow he would see what Rainsford could do against the whole pack. Rainsford heard the steps retreating could be a ruse, a feint. But Zaroff was probably still recovering from the hit earlier. And if Zaroff was anything, he was a man of his word. Zaroff wasn't about to cut things close. Dawn of the third day, and he was bringing out the whole pack of hounds. Probably because none of his quarries had ever drawn first blood or taken one of his hounds without giving their own life in return? He didn't know if Zaroff was scared, but the man was smart. Sanger, from his spot in the tree, shook his head. No, this wasn't good. There were two, of course. Zaroff wouldn't hold a dozen hounds and a gun. Ivan was there. Sanger hadn't accounted for Ivan. He could only pray he heard the trap snap from its hiding place. If he did it right, there shouldn't have been any noise at all. And he did do it right. The knife, Sanger's hunting knife, had sprung from its hiding place and buried itself in his enemy's head. His regret was that Ivan triggered the trap first. Zaroff's giant, sadistic servant was dead. That presented other problems. Ivan had been holding the dogs. So while Zaroff stepped over Ivan's body and continued the hunt, the dogs broke free from the dying grasp of the giant and took off after Sanger's scent. Rainsford knew that if he stayed in the tree, he would be surrounded and shot. He had a little bit of a lead on the dogs, so he took off in a run. Unfortunately, when he found a break in the trees and saw the sunlight shining through, he had to skid to a stop. He was on the edge of a cliff. Either side curved back into the forest, and he could hear the dogs closing in. If Zaroff had him dead to rights, he wouldn't simply shoot Sanger and be done with it. Sanger had cost him a dog and his faithful, brutal servant. The American knew that should Zaroff take him, he wouldn't know a moment without pain until the general, in his magnanimity, allowed him to die. So there was the sea. From the moment he had fallen from the boat, the sea had been his fate. This whole thing had only been delaying the inevitable. But he could take one small bit of satisfaction in all this. Zaroff wouldn't have Sanger's head to mount on his wall. He assumed Zaroff did that the night he arrived. Zaroff had invited him to his trophy room several times after the big reveal. But that was a hard pass on Sanger's part. The dogs burst through the trees, growling and panting. Zaroff emerged, gun drawn. He was a hundred feet away, but he understood the situation as well as Sanger did. He had the man then. His smile evaporated when Sanger took a step back and glanced over his shoulder at the pointed rocks below. Zaro shook his head, but now it was time for Sanger to smile himself, give Zaroff a very deserving hand gesture, and drop backward off the cliff. By the time Zaroff made it to the edge, Sanger was gone. It was 20 stories down. If the rocks didn't kill him, the water would. Well, shoot. He sat on the edge of the cliff and finished his cigarette, eyes watching the water and the rocks, finger on the trigger. He took out his flask and sipped some brandy while the dogs milled around behind him. His lead dog dead. Ivan dead, without even a trophy to show for it. He won, but he lost. He looked out. It was midday and he was on the other side of the bay from his chateau. It would be dark before he gathered up the leashes and returned home. The general finished a bottle of wine, serving himself. How provincial. He had another half a bottle to wash away the sour taste of loss. The American hadn't played the game. He hadn't died honorably. He knew he was gonna lose and just threw the board on the floor like a child. Zaroff wasn't used to life without Ivan, So it was 10:30 by the time he finished dinner, got all his dogs fed and in their kennels and locked up for the night. He stumbled into his room, locked the door behind him, and flipped on the electric light to find Rainsford sitting in the chair next to his bed. Finally, Sanger said, lighting a cigarette himself. He had been wanting to do that for hours, but didn't want the smell to ruin his reveal. He sucked at the cigarette and exhaled. And also, this is how you do a reveal. How? Zaroff asked. Yeah. Turns out a swim across a bay is faster than walking 12 dogs through the jungle. And remember that afternoon on the first day where I walked out and looked at the cliffs and the rocks below? I wasn't going to jump. I was plotting my course back up. I was hoping it wouldn't come to that. I thought I might actually die when I jumped off that cliff. But you have a nasty habit of staying alive. Lets see if we can fix that, Sanger said, rising. Now, Mr. Rainsford, let's call the third day a wash. We can have a drink. I'll call you a sloop. You can tell whoever you want whatever you want. My hunting days are through without Ivan to drag the sailors here to help convince them. It takes all the fun out of it. Please. I'll help you in the dry clothes, Zaroff said with a wave. But he saw that Sanger had already helped himself to his closet, namely his belt, his holster with a pistol tucked inside. General, you made it clear that to you I'm simply an animal. Why would you sit down for a drink with an animal? Because right now I am just a beast at bay. His hand rested on his own pistol. Zaroff smiled. Very good. The hounds had eaten, but they could eat again. One of them would be the dog's late night snack, and the other he would sleep in this bed. This. This was the ending he had been hoping for. Aw, Mr. Rainsford, you do not disappoint. Oh my gosh, let's just be done with this, sanger said, not sharing or caring about the general's elation. The Two men standing 15ft apart watched the other. The dogs down in the kennels, the Spanish prisoners in the basement, and a ship passing on the open sea all heard the singular gunshot ring out from the room at the top of the chateau. The next morning, Sanger found the captives, the men Zaroff had rescued from one of the ships only to hunt. They cheered when Sanger opened the door. And then. Oh. Oh, it was the other guy. Hey, where was Mr. Zaroff? That guy was awesome, sanger said. Zaroff was away. He had told Sanger to tell the men that they could just take whatever they wanted from the house and grounds and pilot his own personal ship back to the mainland. The men smiled. Wow, Mr. Zaroff, what a great man. Sanger grimaced. Yeah, great man. The sail puffed out as the men watched Zaroff's estate burn. It was the weirdest thing. Sanger accidentally trailed several gallons of gasoline through the chateau and then also accidentally lit it on fire. He said he should really be more careful. The sailors asked about their friends, the ones who had been taken earlier by Zaroff. Sanger said that he thought they were already on the mainland. By his justification, he had already saved all of their lives. He didn't need to deal with telling them about the horrors that their friends had experienced and that he had saved all of them from. As Saluis came into view, Sanger Rainsford reached to his belt, pulling out the.22. He looked at it and then threw it into the ocean. After everything he had been through, experiencing what it was like to actually be hunted, it was the last gun he would ever hold. That's it for the story this time. Look for a new episode of Fictional in two weeks. But if you're looking for something to listen to in the meantime, a new episode of Scoundrel is out right now. A bizarre and tragic true story of a woman forced into a convent so her dad could take all of her money. She takes control of her life through love, murder, and, of course, poop smoothies. Check out her other podcast History's Forgotten Villains by searching for Scoundrel wherever you get your podcasts, or by following the link in the show notes. Today's story was adapted from the Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell. Fictional is a narrative podcast and next pop production created by Jason and Carissa Weiser. Our theme song is by Breakmaster Cylinder. Thank you so much for listening and we'll see you next time.