Help steadied his rifle, a Winston Buck 80 with a tin penny railing and an eleven-hundred-dollar Geo-Site casitor. It’d been handed down from hunter 2 hunter for three generations, and it was his most prized possession. Now, eight thirty in the morning amidst the crystal dew of the Buckhard Wildlands, Help’s muzzle reared its sights against a six-inch tall mound five feet’s distance from the barrel of his Winston.
“I’m a fuck a marmot up,” Help muttered to the natural world.
Sure enough, there was a damn marmot just waitin to poke his head up from out that hole, and when he did, Help’d be ready fer it. He’d slicked his ammo down with ditch grease, a portion of which he’d dolloped into his side satchel, a fist sized leather pouch that hung off his pant cord. Having locked in on his target, Help helped himself to a generous dollop of grease whilst fishin around fer his bullets. The grease felt good between his fingers, so he unfastened his cord and let his pant hang low.
“Slicker ‘an baby oil,” he cooed, sliding his hand back to fortch against the goose pimpled shaft of his cockpost. He started thinking on the racial superiority he felt he had over the Asian-Pacific Islander diaspora. This got his cockpost harder ‘an tombstone.
“Maybe that Australian painter feller was on to somethin,” he chuckled.
Right before he could get a squirt out, that marmot he been waitin fer popped up out the hole it’d been laid in. It flew at Help with a grace of derision uncommon in most animal species.
Easy does it, Help thought, adjusting his sights. Come to Papa Bear.
The marmot tore into Help’s face with a will uncanny. It’s little buck teeth bit a healthy sized hole through Help’s cheek, spit it out, and dove back in fer another chunk.
That’s right, you son of a bitch, just keep on thinking you won it.
The camera mounted on the Pacific Silver Fir captured every lurid detail in 4096×2048p. Help’d get a kick watchin the footage, should he make it back to the clubhouse alive.
Though the little bastard had turned Help’s complexion the texture of ground chuck, Help just smiled. You see, he’d lost all feeling in his face ten years ago, back when he’d gone bear hunting with nothing but a large rock on a string. Now he had a real weapon, a cold, black weapon.
As the evil critter continued to nibble the tongue from out of his mouth, Help used his foot to slowly turn the rifle around its mount.
Suck on this, you fat little shit humper.
Help’s big toe pressed back against the trigger. In an instant, the marmot felt 12 ton force of electric steel grind its way up through its asshole and come whizzing out its mouth, exiting through the gift shop of Help’s throat. The fucker didn’t have a chance in hell, and Help knew it–knew it all too well.
When his wife, Cheryl, pulled up in her fancy new electric vehicle, she could hardly believe the scene Help’d left her with, but ah, well, that’s just how they do it round here.
Afterword
Back in 1986, when I was still cutting my teeth at Hustler magazine, my editor, Harry, told me they needed a short story to accompany their annual Girls of Camping issue. He said they needed something “campy” and perhaps just a little bit “horny.” Furthermore, Harry’d let me know he’d need it by midnight that night or I’d be shitcanned.
I’d been up all night calling my extended family in Norway and hadn’t had a wink of sleep, so when my editor rang with the assignment, I hadn’t the wherewithal to even conceptualize what kind of a tale Harry had in mind. Well, two Snickers bars and a Diet Coke later, Bear Hunter flew off the typewriter with a wingspan all its own.
I still think about this story from time to time, especially when I’m out camping with my dogs. Pearl and Haley, two of the sweetest basset hounds you ever laid eyes on, love to hear me tell it, and so tell it I do.
By the way, it was actually this story that got me on the radar of Cheyenne Public Radio, which flew out to interview me in my cabin on Duly Creek. They sent out this reporter with the most amazing legs and a smile that’d chip the paint off an Oldsmobile. We’re now happily married, thank you.
Long story short, I was paid one hundred and eleven dollars for this story, and I’d say it was worth every penny. Nowadays, a professional writer would no doubt turn his nose up at such a paltry fee. Well, it was the 80s, and back then, money was worth more money. I can’t tell you why that is, you just have to believe me.
Happy hunting,
BITCH
If’n you enjoyed this fine slice of humble huntin, do consid’r purchasing one of Phil’s novels on Amazin’:
Get This One.
Or get This One.
I'm very curious about your writing process, thinking of starting a podcast to have you on