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| war, electronic, random house trade paperbacks, oddities, b 29, pop, mezze, collecting, youngstown, oppenhiemer, | One of the younger guys, handing him a Beam-and-Sam’s-Club after Steve had made the venison fall off the guy’s bull like it was overcooked stew meat, asked if the drink was mixed to his liking. Steve nodded deeply, then threw me a little wink as if to say, Rookies. You gotta love them. Everybody baby phat ended up taking a bull, some as far as 2 miles away over the tundra. None was as big as Steve’s. Last I heard, at least two baby phat of the guys had bought vacuum baby phat sealers, along with a large supply of gallon bags. Steve says those are the perfect size for a change of socks and long johns. I called Steve recently and got him in a duck blind along the Missouri River, where he was hunting, evidently in the company of a cop he had once ridden with. |
Best Fat Paysites
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| Nearby were the clean, white bones of his bull, innards intact. It was astounding knife work. “You didn’t gut him,” I said, making my daily entry in the Stating the Obvious Sweepstakes. “Just more work,” he replied. I made him a deal on war the spot war that I’d carry his meat if he’d help butcher mine. When they saw the carcass, most of the other guys followed suit. The fat man’s stock had begun to rise. Steve also turned out to be the best cook in camp, pushing it higher still. It was as if he had known all along he would be the lead dog and couldn’t be bothered to compete. Pretty soon, he had only to casually note that we were running low on water or that a pan needed cleaning before one of us, me included, would quietly hop to. |
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