The hunt for Bigfoot. An eternal mystery which rivals that of most other great mysteries. The Bermuda Triangle, the Lock Ness Monster, Aliens. All of these mysteries. Unsolved. Unanswered. Staring at mankind, mocking us from on high, laughing. Just laughing. God damned mysteries. But now, that hunt is over.
Memo. For immediate distribution.
I’ve done it, lads. The tale I’ve waited to tell my entire life is here.
On my yearly sabbatical to the American Northwest, to escape the confines of Washington, DC and bask in the cool nights that the forest provides, it was time, once again, to hunt the woodland Yeti. While it may be said by some (not me) that it’s foolish to dedicate time to something so obviously false, I maintain that we wouldn’t have known the roundness of the Earth had no man been foolish enough to attempt to prove such things. Consider the Sasquatch my New World and the old growth forests of the Northwest my ocean blue. I digress.
The most appropriate step to take when hunting any large game is this: prepare. Now this may seem like a bit of a farce, but let me assure you, it is not. The brand of preparation required to face down your every fear is daunting to say the least. This isn’t just gathering supplies. This is ensuring you have the testicular fortitude to carry out the arduous task of felling a beast of mythological proportions. Have you ever stood eye-to-eye with a black rhino, only to have it urinate on itself and whimper off into the night? If the answer is no, then you don’t have the stones to track, let alone take down a Bigfoot. Needless to say: I was prepared.
As I headed out, armed to the teeth with large caliber rounds, a rather gigantic hunting knife, and various motion-sensing trackers to boot, I couldn’t help but wonder if the beast already sensed my presence. Somehow knew, with his giant monkey brain, that he had finally met his match. I don’t know what made it different this year, but I knew that success was to be mine.
Nearly three hours later, devices set in a matrix throughout the woods, I climbed a majestic redwood and hunkered down for a snack, high in the mighty branches. I happily gnawed on my venison jerky, and monitored my equipment. Then, my sensors lit up like a pinball machine. They had discovered the beast.
I immediately jumped from the tree, withdrawing my blade as I plummeted. As soon as my boots hit the dirt, I darted in the direction of the animal. After several hundred yards, I spotted it beating a hasty retreat. It took surprisingly little time to draw within some 50 feet of the Man-Ape, and when the moment was right, I took advantage.
Wanting to capture the beast rather than kill it, I returned my blade to its sheath, tore it from my belt, and whipped both square at the Yeti’s head. The handle of the knife made contact with its intended target, and the beast let out a muffled shout.
I approached carefully, zip ties at the ready, to bind the Bigfoot for transport. The stench rising from it was terrible, it quietly moaned in pain. It was surprisingly light as I hog-tied the animal and secured it to an expandable gurney for the long drag back to camp. It let out cries in its strange Sasquatch language, “Imadood! Imagiiie!”
“Silence, beast! Your reign as master of the woods is over. The creatures have a new master now.”
Unfortunately, once we were actually able to perform scientific tests on the Sasquatch, it turned out it was just some jackass in a suit. Suppose we should’ve inspected him a little closer before cutting him open for science. But hey, at least we had a guy in a suit. Those morons in Georgia just had a bunch of roadkill stuffed inside a gorilla suit.
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