If you are an HFC boy and you have a rubber band, you shoot people.
Fortunately for those of us who were the targets of said amusement, the ammunition was paper. Unfortunately, said paper was folded into miniature pellets that were as hard as rocks and hurt almost as much. The wiser victims stayed in secure positions like the gallerie where they could hide behind the benches when the missiles began to fly.
Less wise victims remained on the staircase where you would have to be blind to miss, especially when firing from this close range. (Don't worry, he wasn't actually shooting at me. He was just demonstrating good form.)
Miscardet was the instigator of the sport and he was the clear gold medalist. He could hit a target at 40 feet and when he did, OH BOY, did it sting! I was perfectly happy when he turned his prowess to hunting birds instead of helpless interns.
This is my favorite photo. It proves that I am a quality war correspondent. Miscardet was actually shooting at me - at my head, to be exact - and I successfully captured the shot while flinging myself on the ground to save my life. I heard the bullet - I mean, wad of paper - ricochet off the wall behind me and from the courtyard floor, I gave up a prayer of thanks that I was still breathing. Look at the grin on his face! Do you think he was amused to see me scramble for my life or what? Oh, I love that boy.
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