Howdy folks, it’s been about a month since I’ve updated this little stretch of stories and I want to apologize for my absent nature. You see, this time of year is especially hectic for people like me due to people going out to their secluded holiday cabins that end up being infested by something or another. I have a lot of work to do. Since I’ve been gone, a lot has happened on here and on YouTube. Someone started covering my series vocally, which I’m thankful of, and I’ve made my own YouTube account to respond to comments on his videos. Some of them are a bit pissy and aggressive, but you guys are supportive for the most part so I gotta thank y’all. Those pissy comments are still useful, by the way, since they let me know what I’m doing wrong. A lot of them were about my reckless nature in part one, and I wanted to address that real fast officially.
I was 22 years old at that time, a real snot-nosed cocky sonuvabitch all things considered, and I was damn near obsessed with being some sort of action hero with that confident swagger and disregard for danger. It is, honest to God, a miracle I survived to this point in one piece (for the most part). I should have damn well died in just about every excursion I went on in the first year or so of my career as a problem solver. I didn’t though, and the world is better for it. And I’m better for it. What I’m doing now is helping people and I take a comparatively cautious route about it. I don’t have time for semantics or flashy showmanship these days. I just get the job done quicker than hell and get out of town. It’s easier that way.
Oh yeah, and for one commenter that brought up an especially good point: I didn’t know any martial arts in the time period the first part was set in, but I did learn some pretty good later on. I practice it as often as I can now and I can’t say I’m the top dog but I’m pretty damn good. Really all I knew in the first year of my time was a little bit of boxing that I learned in high school. I really, very tiny bit. That and some stuff I saw in movies; that stuff isn’t very effective, folks. If you can’t afford a class in fighting, at least watch some official self defense videos online. They can be helpful if you’re really in a pinch for cash and don’t know anyone that can teach you. So thank you for that, commenter.
Now for some of the more substantial questions; I’m going to start with the first one I got, which was from edible eden here on reddit. She asks: What is your favorite thing to hunt? Well that’s kind of a packed question, but the quick and boring answer is pedophiles but since those guys are a bunch of disgusting fucking cowards there isn’t much to write about other than me bashing them to death in the most brutal way imaginable. Like I said, it would be a fun party trick to write but nothing substantial, especially in a long-awaited post.
Fuck, that reminds me that some people wanted me to recruit them or give them more info on how to get into this kind of life? It’s stupid, don’t do it; don’t even fucking think about doing it because you will probably die like I almost did on several occasions. Not everyone is so lucky.
That was off-key, but let’s keep the monster shit going. My most respected creature is probably what she was going more for, but since I have yet to kill the bastard I don’t think I should write a story about him yet. Instead I’ll tell you some stuff about him. He’s sentient, like us, and he’s a skin-walker. A downright fucking genius and kind of a gentleman all things considered. Stand up guy if he wasn’t a fucking degenerate and monster. He’s went a lot of different names. Agamemnon, Tacitus, Brutus, Lucien. Recently he’s been going by Abel, and I think it’s just to get me to come after him again. He loves the cat-and-mouse dynamic, which is probably the only reason he hasn’t gutted my like a fucking fish. He wants to keep this chase going for a while.
Other questions ranged from mothman to wendigo to- yeah, bigfoot. Let’s talk about bigfoot and why you shouldn’t worry about those poor fucks anymore. They’re terrified of us, first off, dumb as rocks second off, and they’re rare. They are honestly just a time of ape that lives in North America and nothing else. They rarely need to be hunted since most of the rowdy or relatively intelligent ones were killed a long time ago. I’ve only had to kill one myself, and that was because he was killing livestock in the area of a case I was already on.
As for the other two, the mothman is an elusive fucker and I’m pretty certain there’s only one of them, and wendigo are downright fucking cunts to deal with. They’re fast, angry, tough as nails, they travel in packs, and they’re not the dumbest creatures on the planet. There are also two types of wendigo. There’s the cave wendigo, the pale lithe fuckers that jump around and really give you a fast ass-whooping, and then there’s the forest wendigo. Those are the big furry bastards with the skull of a deer for a head. Both of them are terrifying in their own right, but I’d have to say that the forest wendigo are easier to take out. There’s usually only two of them and they’re not jumping around in a pitch-black chasm dodging bullets like they’re in the damn matrix. Right fucking annoying, those are.
Y’all got me on the wendigo talk now, so I guess that’ll be what the story for today is. I’ll talk about Bubba, the biggest fucking wendigo any of us had ever seen, and how I was the one to kill him.
Bubba was a name coined by one of the old guard, a guy named Walker Manfred who worked back in the 60’s. The 60’s were the last anyone heard of him, at least. Anyways, he spotted this giant fucking oaf of a beast lumbering about in a dense forest in Idaho. He didn’t dare go after him; the equipment he had partnered with his waning age did not help that case either. Instead he reported it back to some other hunters he knew and got the hell out of dodge before the damn thing caught wind of him.
For years some of the more daring, or reckless, hunters tried to get him. They’d injure him, or get him down, but for some reason he always came back. Without fail, he would get back up and just keep trucking. He himself had to have killed at least half a dozen of us before I decided to take a crack at him. This was just recently, too. About five or so years ago. With such a dangerous game I had scouted the area, collected as much information as I can, before I even made an attempt to strike.
Finally it seemed like a good time. It had been weeks of just watching and waiting, burning away precious time I could have used to killed at least one or two other nasties. Instead, I had made it my mission to send Bubba down to hell before the month was spent. It was spring, mid-day. Birds chirped in the distance, but nearby it was desolate. The beast had ran off most of the wildlife. He had exited the hole he lived in with his usual lumbering gait, stumbling forward lethargically with each step. He was looking for lunch.
As for me, I had smeared myself in mud and dung about an inch deep to cancel out my smell. I wasn’t having this fucker get a sniff of me and decide I was the big mac he was looking for. I had a pretty substantial loadout for this as well. I had brought the biggest bore fuckers I could muster up, with a Ruger M77 in .458 Winchester Magnum and a Magnum Research BFR in .45-70 Government. I already knew these slugs packed an enormous wallop, but I also knew that it would only slow down and injure the damn thing, especially with its gargantuan size. That’s why I had a cold steel longsword as well, since decapitation is generally the best way to kill the damn things. For the most part, you use the guns to incapacitate them and then you lob their heads off with a machete or the like. This guy deserved a damn-near claymore to get the job done.
So there I was, leaning against a rock smeared in mud and God-knows-what, waiting for a good shot on the thing. Finally, it broke through the foliage that was partially blocking my view and had entered the clearing I had stationed myself in. The stink of its mange hit me like a wall, but I didn’t falter, instead I leaned up on the boulder and shouldered my rifle. It stood there, searching around for anything to eat in the clearing. I didn’t have long, I felt. I inhaled, lined the sights up at its head, and exhaled. I squeezed the trigger slowly as I did so. The crack was sickening and boomed across the forest for at least a mile. Damn thing had moved and I took its right antler off.
Now it was facing me, all twelve or so feet of it (at least), snarling from its skeletal maw. The thing’s silent hobble transformed into a cacophony of huffs and puffs partnered with the sound of its hind legs galloping haphazardly toward me at breakneck pace. It was covering the distance fast, faster than initially expected. I actuated the bolt on my rifle and fired again, pegging it on the collar bone. It ripped straight through him. Black blood and other filth oozed from the gaping hole left. It was too close. It rose up, pulled my revolver from its holster, cocked the hammer, and fired into the beast. It hit its stomach causing it to hunch slightly right before it reached me. It met the rock, skirted across the top of it with a tumble, and landed on its shoulder no more than a few feet away from me. I had tried to duck when it got to close, but its weight caught me and I tumbled across the newfound battlefield with it.
Now it was just me, it, my pistol that had spun several feet away from me in the collision, and the sword sheathed on my side. I was up before it, but only marginally. I knew I had to get to that pistol now, so I rushed for it right as it got back on its legs. Damn thing shoulder checked me so hard that I flew through the air and collided with a nearby tree. Though I certainly had bruised ribs, maybe even a broken one, from that I got up as quick as possible.
It had hunched itself to my height so I could see its gnarled, bloodstained teeth in full view. It glared at me with its yellow, slitted eyes with great contempt and rage. I met its stare with a heaving breath before drawing my sword. It ground its hooves into the ground before rushing me. I dove out of the way, just barely. It met the tree full speed and stumbled back. It was obviously disoriented from blood-loss and probably a concussion. Now, with the pistol in full view and the creature distracted, I dove for it. It found my offhand no problem, and I proceeded to lay three slugs into the thing’s back before it even had a chance to turn around. One missed, but the other two hit true.
The wendigo let out an ungodly screech and slumped against the tree, cradling the trunk with its arms as if it were a wailing baby. I smirked in delight and holstered my pistol. I wrapped my second hand around the hilt of the blade and approached the heaving, dying thing to deal a killing slash to its vertebrae. Unfortunately, this is exactly what it wanted me to do. Right when I was in range, it brought back its giant elbow and caught me in the jaw. The blow took me off my feet, and I reeled across the dirt and muck. Thankfully the sword slid after me and stopped right by my side. Even though it seemingly had some fight left in it, the bullet wounds were definitely taking its toll. It was having a tougher-than-hell time of lifting itself up to its sturdy hooves. To be fair, I was also having that same problem.
“Dammit, Bubba. Why don’t you just fuckin’ die already.” I spat as I finally found the strength to lift myself back up. That elbow really had been a good one. It growled in response to my words. I lurched forward and swiped the sword up with one hand, stabbing it into the ground. I unholstered the pistol with my other hand and lined it up to the beast. My eyesight was blurred slightly, but the last shot I had left hit true. This time, it tore its foot clean off. A mangled hoof, along with an ankle and a bit of calf, dangled by a tendon from the remainder of its leg as it howled and toppled over to its back. Now was my time.
I put the pistol back in its home and took the sword up again, this time a bit more cautious of Bubba’s movements. It was time to put this poor bastard where it belonged: six feet under the earth. It growled a wet, bloody growl when I got close; its eyes were glazed and staring me right down with that same hatred, though it was waning. It reached out to me and I sidestepped it, cleaving its arm right below the elbow off in the same motion. The wendigo screamed in agony as a response. I just went and did it before it had any chance to think of another way to counter. I gashed its throat open with one swing, causing it to gag and gurgle some of its dark blood. The second swing completely took the head off. The body twitched a bit, the last signs of the nervous system doing its thing, before it went stiff. I tossed its parts back into the cave so it could rot.
Damn thing was a fighter, no doubt.
Anyways, I think that is a pretty good place to leave off. If y’all have any questions, comments, or concerns, please let me know. I might be doing a Q&A here shortly, so keep those comments coming. Anyways, I’m Cain. Signing off.
Submitted December 18, 2018 at 08:38PM by loganburns346 https://ift.tt/2LqrtYR
No comments:
Post a Comment