Here you will find everything that people know, and two things they don’t know, about the Great Hunter.
The Great Hunter started out as a Rough Rider under Theodore Roosevelt. He’s been an active Bledsoe City crimebuster since the late 1910s. He was the first. Maybe. He doesn’t remember. Nobody does. Those were different times, murkier, less well-documented than ours.
He used to be called the Great White Hunter, but re-branded himself in the 1960s, under the advisement of George Plimpton, who is supposed to have coined the term “re-branding” during the very conversation that they had on this subject, while shooting half-heartedly at rooster pheasants in North Dakota.
New name notwithstanding, the Great Hunter still looks like a product of the gorier edge of the Gilded Age, which he certainly is, and will always certainly be, as long as he lives — apparently forever. He still affects a luxuriant, chestnut-colored, well-waxed mustache, for example, wider than any other part of his head: “Strikes fear into the hearts,” he says. “Pip, pip, tallyho.” He wears jodhpurs, a pith helmet, a modern-day Kevlar jacket (seriously, wouldn’t you?), a monocle. He wears no socks. His feet bleed into his flat-soled boots. “Ballet training,” he says, “don’t you know.” He keeps his hands dirty, his face dirty, his brown eyes bright.
Sometimes he shoots criminals with arrows from his bow. Sometimes he shoots blow-darts from a blow-gun instead. Sometimes he shoots a thick handgun that he has to load by poking some gunpowder down the barrel with a little stick, then poking a bullet down the barrel after it.
That’s everything people know about the Great Hunter.
His real name is Isabel Stewart. They don’t know that. They don’t know that he was born a woman, that he still carries ladyparts between his hard, hairy legs. Roosevelt knew, but he’s the only one who ever did.