HELP! A Bear Is Eating Me! - Mykle Hansen [21]
But I can’t jack off, I don’t have a towel or anything, do I? It’s bad enough I crapped my pants, but if they find me with cum all over my jacket they might get some funny ideas about some gay tryst between me and Mister Bear. I can just see it: forensic evidence suggests that Mr. Pushkin was erotically drawn to the bear’s embrace. Like one of those Internet furry cartoon suit pervs. None for me, thanks. I mean, I appreciate fine furs, especially on Marcia, but when I’m poking Marcia I’m not pretending to poke Rocky the Flying Squirrel.
Hello, Walter. How are you weathering the ordeal? Bloody but unbowed, I see. Shit, I must have taken a Viagra! That’s the only explanation for your sudden improvement in posture. Ooh, you’re warm and I’m cold.
But no, I am not getting Marv-jizz all over my camel hair hunting jacket. The blood and the mud and the other stuff that Edna spilled on me, it’s just so un-Maxim, so non-Esquire. It’s decimating my image, it’s massacred my grooming. I strive to always look my best, but right now I look my worst, my absolute worst ever. I hate looking like this. Don’t I have a handkerchief somewhere? What have I got? Car keys, drugs, silver-plated executive ball-point pen, Leatherman Super Tool, drugs, Nokia picture-phone, drugs, iPod, earbuds, stashbox (full of drugs), some papers … here’s the Google Maps instructions from Anchorage to Noplace. One eight and a half by eleven sheet, white bond inkjet printer paper, folded. Walter, what do you think of this?
A little rough. But it’ll do.
Oh yeah. Marcia. Marcia in a halter top. Marcia in a fur thong. Marcia naked on her hands and knees, hair messed up, face in the pillow, hands clutching the carpet, and me behind her pushing my Monster Black Torpedo, laughing, making her take it, and her, whimpering, covered in fur, turning into a bear, growling … hang on, no, not that. That’s too weird.
Back up. Just Marcia now. Yeah, beautiful Marcia. Her hot naked body. Her lurching nipples. Me lying naked on the bearskin rug in the executive lav. Her, turned around and squatting down on my Monster Black Torpedo, bearing down on it slowly. Oh it’s big, oh, it hurts, it’s too big, she wants to stop but I grab her ass and call her ‘ho-bag!’ and there’s a growl, and the bearskin rug comes alive and bites into her leg as she moans, and the blood, the teeth … oh, god-dammit!
Bears. No, women! Other women. Lots of women. (Bears.) Tits, big round tits with tanning oil on them. Asses, slapping them. Thighs. (Bears.) Whimpering, gasping vaginas crammed full of Monster Black … Bears. Bears, bears, bears. Fuck, this is going nowhere. Walter, help me out here. You must know something I don’t. When I close my eyes I see Mister Bear in a bikini, Mister Bear on my desk, Mister Bear on the floor of the executive lav on a rug made of … me.
Okay, calming down. Regaining control. So maybe now is not the time. Sorry Walter, you’re going back inside. I know you’re suffering down there little buddy, but things are tough up here too. Things up here are getting a little bit unreal.
What did I take? What did I neglect to take? Maybe I’m going off my Septihone. It said on the bottle that disorientation may occur. I didn’t know they meant sexual orientation. Quit fucking with me, Walter — there is no way I’m having sex with a bear.
8
Bears ate everybody. Bears devoured Edna and Marcia and the members of Image Team. Bears swarmed over the Forest Rangers, ripped them apart like bloody cotton candy, seized their shotguns and marched on Anchorage. Right now they’re rising up against mankind, a ferocious bear battalion