Help! A Bear Is Eating Me! (5 page)

“Oh, I’m relieved,” sneered Edna. “All this time I thought you came up here to shoot guns at bears.”

“Baby, that
is
the human relationship. Hunting is a nature thing. Animals hunt other animals, or else they hunt plants, but everything hunts something. As hunters we must respect our prey, get to know them, study them, learn from them. Hunting brings us closer to nature, that’s just a fact.”

“Marv, you’re not honestly going to
eat
this bear?”

“Baby we are going to skin, clean, fillet, marinate and barbecue this bear, yes. No part will be wasted. We will take no more than we need in order to have an authentic bear-hunting experience, and then we will respectfully leave this place and return to the city to share the wisdom we have gained,” I said. Or some such bullshit.

“What does bear taste like?” enthused Marcia from Product Dialogue.

“The pizzle,” I said, “is considered a delicacy.”

There was no more grousing after that. Soon enough the dashboard chimed succinctly to announce we had reached the coordinates of the official Alaskan Bear Baiting Station — just a clearing with a metal sign nailed to a tree, proclaiming it as such — and yes, we got there first! I stepped from the gleaming Rover, tossed a few business cards on the ground, and claimed the camp in the name of the Image Reversal Team of Wilson & Saunders Market Strategies. Marcia and Edna headed off to opposite sides of the clearing while I popped open a cold Budweiser, unloaded the self-inflating couch and waited patiently for it to self-inflate.

Marcia and Edna. What a riot. If I were in a hospital recovering from exotic neurosurgery, and you were a biographer for a large publishing house, sent to capture the exciting story of my trial by bear, perhaps you’d ask why I chose to handicap a perfectly legitimate hunting trip by including a couple of jelly-kneed women who don’t even enjoy killing. You might wonder, as some members of Image Team no doubt wonder, why, of all useless jelly-kneed PMS-ing bitches, I would choose to bring that burbling font of aggravation which scientists call Edna. But especially you have to be wondering, why would I bring both my so-called “life partner”
and
my under-the-radar fuck? In the same car, no less?

Well … I can’t exactly tell you. Not yet. But I can tell you this:

Marcia from Product Marketing came along because I told her to come, and she does what I tell her to do, which is the cornerstone of our relationship and what makes her such an excellent fuck. She is a whore of the finest caliber. She sucks it, she takes it in the ass, I can slap her, I can dress her up and boss her around, I can stick it in every hole and she takes it squealing. She is tight and round and versatile, and compliant. Frankly, I am addicted to fucking Marcia from Product Dialogue. She’s a sex-pill I must take regularly to relieve the crushing stress of delegation. And I mean regularly — I put her on birth control just so she’d quit bleeding on me every month, so I could still fuck her on schedule without ruining my Calvin Kleins. There’s no way I could survive a week away from civilization without a Marcia to fuck. Especially with Edna on board.

Edna I do not fuck. I used to, for years. I know Edna’s vagina like I know my own driveway. But I’ve moved on from there. Edna’s vagina is neither tight nor versatile, and especially not compliant. Edna’s vagina is as kinky as a cold bowl of oats. There was a time, back in the halcyon days of early wedlock, when for some reason cold-oat-bowl sex seemed intimate and charming. Back then I had just caught hold of the first rung of the ladder to the top, I was young and starry-eyed with a huge future to offer, and Edna was young and pretty and had a large inheritance. From the moment I met her, I knew she’d buy me things, if I could just embrace that cold bowl of oats deep inside her. I suppose I knew someday I’d be able to afford my own things, but I just couldn’t wait. I’m impatient, and I love things. And I suppose at times it wasn’t hard to pretend that she was good enough. She used to be sweet, and quiet, and less fat.

But oh, how the world turns. While Edna has grown tiresome, I’ve grown strong. I’m high up on that ladder of success with a clear shot at the top rung, and I’m most handsomely compensated. Oh, the things I can buy! Such fine things, and so many of them. My Rover. My fine clothing. My luxury condominium in Bainbridge. My guns. My porno. Tight furry slut-pants for Marcia. Budweiser by the truckload, Slim Jims by the mile.

Is it really my fault? I wouldn’t be so obsessed with money if there wasn’t so much great stuff for sale. I blame society. And this story of mine, this ordeal under this car versus that bear, is going to net me seven figures, easy. I bet the Disney Channel snaps it up for one of their nature specials. Should I settle for seven figures? I wouldn’t start there, but could I settle there? I think not. There’s going to be all the collateral as well, the books and cartoons, plush toys, Happy Meals, that stuff ’s worth a lot. But if we could piggyback the Say No To Bears campaign onto a Disney nature special, I might be willing to settle for seven figures. Because nobody reaches kids like Disney. Disney owns kids. Disney and I could do crazy things to kids.

But that’s assuming that the Rover lawsuit settles early out-of-court, so my neurosurgeons are getting paid. That’s the important thing: I want the best treatment. I want the Tiger Woods of Neurosurgery working on my feet. I want —

Shh!

Someone’s coming!

5

I heard it. If you were real you would have heard it too. Someone stepping through old twigs and undergrowth, someone coming through the trees, they are coming to save me they are coming RIGHT NOW! All right! About fucking time, too! I’m trying to yell HELP but my voice is a little stuck. But I hear it.

It’s not just me. Mister Bear hears it too. He’s up on all fours now, waving his nose in the air and growling low from deep in his hairy guts. I’m yelling OVER HERE and no sound is coming out of my mouth. I’m screaming BEAR! Can they hear me? I’m so close! Why can’t I speak? I can cough at least. Cough cough cough! COUGH!

Mister Bear is scampering away. Is that his fear-scamper or his hunger-scamper? I’ve got to make some kind of signal. I’ll rap this empty beer can against the tailpipe. Rap rap rap rap rap! Cough cough cough! Three coughs means I’M OVER HERE. Five raps means BEAR WARNING!

Did I hear it again? Yeah! There, I heard it.
Definitely coming closer, this is working, I’m a genius, rap cough rap cough rap rap rap! If I could just figure out how to scream … over here, yes! Follow your nose to the smell of human blood, gasoline, shit and fine Oxford leather upholstery. You are getting warmer. I hear you, you are getting very toasty.
Hot, you’re hot! You’re on fire, baby! I see you!
Over on my right, at the edge of the clearing, peering in! You are down on your hands and knees, carefully checking for predators. You must be a Forest Ranger. You are wearing a large fur parka … and a furry hat …

No you’re not. You’re a bear. Another fucking bear. A second, separate, extra, additional fucking bear.

Great! You know I almost ran out of fucking bears for a second there! I was down to just the one fucking bear, and when he ran off I didn’t know how I was going to meet my fucking bear requirements, my being attacked and eaten requirements, my savage predator from hell requirements. But three cheers for Alaska, they’ve got 24-hour hot fucking bear delivery.

Note to self: Nuke Alaska.

Now this new bear is standing up, I can’t even see his head from under here. He’s big. A grizzly, this one. Big and brown. Quiet, though, not an asthma sufferer like Mister Bear. He’s looking around, he’s sniffing, he sniffs the car, does he sniff me?

He sniffs me.

I’m going to take an OxySufnix now.

He’s coming on over. Shit, he’s just enormous. Smelly, too. He’s sniffing the ground but his head alone is so large that I can’t see the top of it. I wonder if I have another Spicy Chorizo Jerky Twister in this box.

Now he’s going around behind me. Where is he? What’s he doing?

No! He’s peeing on the Rover! Goddammit, I think I might actually be losing my placid inner balance here. Squirt squirt squirt, I hear the stream hitting the mudguard and dripping on the ground, and surprise! It reeks, utterly, of bear.

Fucking bear the second: you may rule nature but this Rover is
mine
. It is my castle and my kingdom, and you shall rue the day you urinated upon that which is Mine. Come on over here and try the Spicy Chorizo, you stupid fat northern handbag.

I wish I had some poison in my pillbox, something really deadly like botox or botulism or sarin that I could dose a Slim Jim with and feed it to the bears. I read that raw meat can develop botulism just by being left out for one day. I’ve been left out two days; maybe my legs will develop botulism and Mister Bear will be poisoned by them.

The big brown furry fuckwad’s over on my left now. His paws are so much larger than my head. Toes the size of my hands. He’s got some reach.

C’mere you … what bear can resist Texas Pete’s Spicy Chorizo Jerky Twister? Here, I’ll unwrap it. There, I’ll toss it where you can see it.

He’s interested … he’s nosing it. Mmm, aromatic isn’t it? Smell the chorizo. Taste the sulfites. Feel the burn. He’s licking it … yes, eat the jerky! Yes! He’s eating it! Sucker! He’s chewing the whole thing, he’s gnawing it up good. Hah! He’s swallowing it. He’s licking his big bear lips and his huge bear teeth.

He looks like maybe he wants another one.

Great. Welcome to Marv’s Alaskan Bear Bistro and Snack Bar. I’ll be your maitre’d and entree this afternoon. I’m sorry sir, there are no tables available under the Rover, but please allow us to seat you in the Leg Room. Please do not enter the kitchen while the chefs are hiding. No, honestly sir … no, these snacks are reserved! Why do you want Slim Jims when there’s perfectly good Leg of Marv over there? No! Get away! Cough cough! Rap rap!

Hey, what was that noise? An animal, a scream. A bear scream from way over there. Jesus, I’m parked on the bear freeway.

But no, I’d know that asthmatic voice anywhere … it’s good old Mister Bear himself, back from the 7-Eleven with Slurpees and a video. And just like that, Big Brown is backing off from my snack box and stepping away from the vehicle.

Mister Bear, could it possibly be that I’m glad to see you?

Now they’re back behind my head where I can’t see. But I can hear the growling and smell the bear whiz. I smell a bear fight.

There they are, on the left. Big Brown — oh shit, now that I see them side by side he’s twice as big, easily — he’s advancing on Mister Bear who’s backing slowly away … now he’s stopped, he’s on his hind legs, snarling like a jet plane taking off underwater, scrunching his bear face into a wrinkled, toothy scowl. And now … he leaps! Straight through the air and right at Big Brown and they’re wrestling like cats!

Bear fight! Bear fight! Bear fight! Oh, this is incredible. I have to get a shot of this with my phone, where’s my phone, here it is. Shit, they’ve stopped. C’mon bears, fight some more. Over to the left a little.

Oh jeez, the blood. Mister Bear took a hit there, right down the shoulder. But Big Brown got clawed in the face, oooooh … the eye. The former eye.

Big Brown’s backing off … he’s turning … he’s walking away. Mister Bear charges at him, screeching and snapping, and Big Brown scurries into the forest like a frightened Papillon. Ladies and Gentlemen … it’s Mister Bear in the first round!

Incredible. I’m tingly with extreme-sports-feel. Wow. Did you see my bear kick that other bear’s ass? That other bear that was twice my bear’s size? My bear is awesome. Mister Bear, you’re a madman! You’re a monster! You saved my snacks! You’re my hero! Mister Bear, do you want a beer? Let me buy you a beer. Man, you have got to be the meanest, baddest and most omnivorous bear in all of Alaska! You are king, Ichiban, number one! You wear the belt, you pose with the swimsuit models. Woo-hoo!

Hey, I said that! Hey, I’m saying this! I can say! Mister Bear you have not only vanquished our common foe, you have also cured my laryngitis. Is there no limit to your awesome power? Are you sure you don’t want a Bud? Here, I’ll open it for you. Interested? No? Okay, I’ll have one. Do you want a Slim Jim? No? Here, this one isn’t spicy, it’s Country Turkey and Cheese. Not interested? Well, is there anything, anything at all I can get you?

Oh … you want that?

Yes, of course, I forgot … you’re eating me.

Well all right, go ahead. I already wrote off everything south of the axle. Let’s just — OUCH! Let’s … let’s make a deal: I’m all yours from the knees down, but please, after that, at least
try
the Slim Jims. After that you’ve got to stop because the rest of me is not sitting under a car, and I suspect the pressure of the axle on my legs is acting like a really expensive luxury tourniquet, I think that’s why I haven’t yet bled to death. But if you eat me on this end I’ll bleed like crazy and not only will that be impossible to get out of my brand new suede hunting attire, but also I’ll die. And I’ll be dead and we won’t have this special relationship of ours any more. You’ll be all alone out here with no one to eat or talk to. And I’ll start to go bad and develop botulism, and then you’ll die from eating me after I’ve been left out too long.