She’d told Jeff she didn’t want Taffy’s homebrew beer.
And he’d answered, “You wanted to come with us, be one of the fellas, so you’ll drink that beer.”
Fine. Except Jeff and his mates were used to Taffy’s homebrew, and she wasn’t. And in the course of the night it had gurgled through her intestines until, in the early dawn…
Feet rammed into boots, jacket slung over her jimmies, she dived for the door. And who’s cool idea was it to book them a cabin with an outside can?
“Yikes, where’s the rucking key?”
Then key and lock refused to match – a bit like Taffy’s homebrew and her intestines.
“Hells! What!” The door wasn’t locked.
Sat inside that rickety outhouse, she found blessed relief. Until…
What was that snuffling and chuffing?
She opened the outhouse door just enough.
“Oh shits! A rucking polar bear!”
144 words, written for What Pegman Saw: Manitoba, Canada
Adaptation of a story told me from a friend’s first marriage. But it wasn’t a polar bear, and it wasn’t in Canada, it was in Colorado, and it wasn’t on a hunting trip but at her new home.