HELP! A Bear Is Eating Me! - Mykle Hansen [29]
And my job? You want that too? You think it’s easy delegating to a brainless clutch of ostriches? Go ahead and try, see how long you can handle it. The Ups and the Veeps are tough birds, Baumer, who feast upon the failures of underlings. They’ll eat you for a taco salad. But please, give it your best shot. I could use a little sabbatical. Take my desk for a week or two and consider it a perk, a little reward for the initiative you’ve shown this weekend, in so cleverly and ingeniously plotting to kill me. I have to admire your gumption there, your self-startedness.
But the thing is, Frankie, when you took my Rover keys you crossed the line. It’s the line that separates the people I’m going to kill from the people I’m just going to scream at. I’ve been screaming and threatening and intimidating the members of Image Team for so long, I think maybe some of you have begun to suspect I’m all bluster and no bite. I certainly haven’t bitten any of you recently. I’ve been lax, Frank, you’re right there. I’ve clearly let my domination of Image Team slip a little. I, Marv Pushkin, am man enough to admit a minor failing of mine. Forgive me, team; I’ve been under a lot of stress. Keeping you worms under my heel is a tough, thankless task, but it’s my job, and if I don’t do my job well I can’t expect you to do you jobs well.
Therefore: Members of Image Team, by way of apology for my recent poor performance I am going to shoot Frank Baumer in the face, and Edna in the back of the head, and together we will skin and clean and eat them, to build team spirit. And we will tan their pelts and hang them in the executive lav, where a little backsplash from the executive urinal will only help to reinforce the message I’m trying to communicate.
And what of Mister Bear? I haven’t seen him in ages. Moved on to the next injured hunter? Died of wounds sustained while defending my snacks? Shacked up with Mama Bear in a trailer by the stream? I don’t know, and I couldn’t give an intercontinental ballistic fuck. I’m not angry with you any more, Mister Bear. You’re just a pawn in Frank Baumer’s evil game.
I’m still going to kill you, though. It’s only fair. Please understand that when I kill you, it’s not out of malice, but for the urgency of Justice. Because I am the favorite son of the universe, and when I am wronged it must be made right, and that job falls to me because I’m the only man in this god damn forest who’s got a clue about anything. Because I’m Marv Pushkin. I am judge and jury and search and rescue. I am ranger and sheriff and hangman and chef. I will get free, and I will get that shotgun, and I will have hot and cold running vengeance installed out here by this time tomorrow. The universe loves me, I always get my way, things like this simply do not happen to me. This is just a sick, demented aberration of the laws of nature, physics and the United States, and it WILL END because I will MAKE IT END because I’M MARV PUSHKIN!
10
Morning of the fourth day. This place is cold, damp, smelly and utterly inconvenient. Stuck under a car, bear ate my feet, wife treacherous, bugs biting, hip wound seeping, blah blah blah. I’m not a complainer, so enough about all that. Here’s at least one piece of good news: I finally found a use for the saw blade in my Leatherman Super Tool. It’s the one blade I never use, and I’ve always wondered if maybe it’s overkill, maybe I should have bought the smaller version, but now I know I was right to buy the biggest, most modern and most favorably reviewed pocket multi-tool on the market, because I’m going to need that saw blade to saw my own legs off. Try that with the Gerber Evolution.
A bold move, for sure. Drastic? Definitely. But I just don’t see any other way out of this pinned-under-car situation. The only HELP out here is self-HELP. All