Once I was in the forest with my grandfather, Mike. He was a great outdoors-man, and he was teaching me how to hunt. I never saw Mike get scared of anything. Except that day. We were trailing some deer, and, out of nowhere, this huge goddamn bear flies out of the brush. Looking all ugly, showing his teeth. He stopped and raised up on his two back feet. Mike froze. He had his 30.06 still on his shoulder, might as well have been a walking stick. The bear came back down on all fours and charged. I was learning many things at that time, including fire-starting. I patted my pockets as quick as you like and found two flints. One I threw as hard as I could at the bear's head. It flew into his maw and sank down his throat. It didn't kill him, but he was hurt and he turned around to think things over. I saw my opportunity. I whipped the other flint up his ass, sidewinder style. I chucked that flint so hard that it struck the first flint in the bear's stomach. Explosion. Man, I blew that bear straight back to hell.
I thought about that the other day when a friend of mine was proud that he'd figured out how to get the toilet to stop running.
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