the cure for polar bear boredom or a fishfuck delight

[mindbum]

the cure for polar bear boredom
or
a sumptuous multicourse fish fuck delight


The polar bear swats the empty keg across the clearing. It clangs off rocks and bounces before it comes to rest.

-What’s all that clatter?

A man fumbles with a tent zipper. In another nearby tent muffled sex sounds occasionally break out in full volume. The man makes his way out the tent and looks around and sees the polar bear 50 yards off rummaging though last night’s wasted party site. The air above the campfire shimmers from remaining coals. The tiniest smoke flies.

The man’s eyes grow large for half a second but he remains calm.

-Well shit

He reaches for his cigarette pack. It is devoid of butts. Four joints stand in one corner.

-One thing’s as good as another. Good morning sunshine.

He removes the first and lights it. The pack goes in his shirt pocket.

He stands still, smokes and watches the bear. The firepit is between them, as well as a fair portion of clearing. They are still fucking in the tent.

The man smoking the joint starts thinking about polar bears. Largest carnivore on land, hollow fur, the myth of a particular taste for human flesh. Toxic liver. Top of the food chain.

The man thinks some more.

-Wait. We aren’t anywhere near a pole. What’s going on?

Polar bears get very bored in zoos. In the wild they walk or swim thousands of miles. They are roamers, nomads. For winter's cubbing the she-bear builds a snow cave to keep her cubs warm. Otherwise it’s all seal hunting, long walks in diminishing arctic whiteness and the rare but increasing encounters with man. Polar bears gather to rummage town dumps round the Hudson Bay. Men are forced to trank the monsters and ship them off to the Arctic Circle, from whence they have dipped too low. It is easy to hunt trash.

In zoos polar bears suffer boredom. Depression sets in. They lack the stimulus of motion and hunting. In a zoo they pace their confines til they wear the pads of their feet raw on the concrete.

Polar bears have hollow fur for insulation and floatation. Polar bears in New Zealand turned green with algae in their fur, laid down and died of boredom. It ain't easy for arctic carnivores to be green.

All these thoughts flit through his over-informed head as he puffs on the joint imagining the raw power of the beast.

The polar bear bats an empty keg across the clearing. It bounces off a rock and then a tree. The bear has found a toy. Now he needs a friend to share it with. The bear chases across the clearing after the keg away from the tents.

-Wow.

He exhales smoke from his nose.

-Any animal that plays jokes or games is smart.
-Are you going to smoke that whole joint by yourself?

A blonde girl (it’s dyed, but shh...) has emerged from his tent and approached him without notice. He starts. She takes the joint.

She drags deep and talks around the smoke in her lungs.

-They’ve been going at it for a long time in there.

She points to the other tent with her cloud of smoke.

-Anytime you get em out in the woods they turn wild. They wont wear a thread of clothes today.

She pulls close to him. Her hand crosses his chest. He takes the joint. All husky she strokes his arm.

-I feel like an animal out here.
-Concentrate and tell me what your animal instinct tells you about that polar bear.

He points and holds onto her for the comfort she’ll need.

-Holy shit!

She says it loud. When you throw in the wind, the loud sex and the frolicking carnivore it doesn't make much matter.

-Shhh. calm down.
-What the fuck?
-It’s a polar bear playing with an empty keg like a beach ball.
-Wow.
-Try not to attract his attention
-She’s beautiful
-She?
-Yes.
-Did you lift her skirt when I wasn't looking?
-Fuck you. She’s an elegant dancer gracefully crossing the meadow.

He smiles and exhales.

-She is beautiful.
-You don't think she’ll eat us do you?
-So far she hasn't shown much interest
-Maybe she’s toying with us
-She-bears are the most dangerous.
-Wait, why is there a polar bear here?
-The Arctic Circle this ain't...
-There’s a circle-K in town.
-I guess they have icees.

The joint changes hands leisurely. He gathers firewood as it has been scattered by the previous night’s activities. Stoking the fire seems like a good idea. All the food is already tied in a tree. She picks up sticks to help. The other tent has quieted down some. They walk behind the tents with tents and fire between them and the clearing and the polar bear. Here they grab some larger stuff to burn. They make a few trips.

All it takes is laying dry wood on the still-hot embers til flames lick into sight. Man’s answer to nature is most often fire.

-She’s going to need a drink after this frolick.
-The closest water is behind us.
-Oh.
-It never pays to stand in a she-bear’s way and running just makes them chase you.
-Are we in any actual danger?
-They like the taste of human flesh.

She punches his tricep.

-You are the loathsome portrait of vile worthlessness.
-It’s true.
-You are the epitome of putrescence.
-Your adoration is limitless
-If you let me get eaten...
-You’ll show me then.

She stands in front of him with her arms around his back. She casually slips her hand into the back of his pants with her middle finger in the top of the crack of his ass. She presses her pelvis against his crotch and encounters something very hard.

-What’s that in your pants?
-Just a piece of democracy, honey.

He hits the roach and gives it to her.

Carnivores, omnivores (& even some vegetarians) are hard pressed to resist canned fish. Most especially the smelly corpses of sardines.

The wind shifts and picks up. A coming shower or storm to weather. It is a tailwind coming from behind the tents, past the fire and across the clearing toward the polar bear playing near the treeline in the shade. The smoke somewhat covers their scent.

Meanwhile in the other tent where the fuckers’ve quieted down some, one of the girls has revealed her canned fish fetish. The occupants of the tent are one man, two women and about two cases of variously canned fish.

She, we’ll call her Lily since she’s aflower, wants desperately to gnaw the bodies of her lovers through a substantial film, barrier, levee of sardine and anchovy corpses. A sumptuous multicourse fish fuck delight.

The other lady in the tent, Sally for short, is a bisexual marine biologist who has visited dolphinsex.org and other salacious cetaceans.

The man in the tent, Mark, usually has his sardines in mustard sauce on saltines. Maybe anchovies on pizza. He doesn't trust tuna fish sandwiches from delis. Eggs stuffed with canned fish are a delicacy in his hometown.

Sardines in olive oil from the Mediterranean that come in rectangular tins with rounded edges that have pull-tabs to get at the guts. The octopus in its own ink is the kind of can with a key that turns the lid back like a bed or a windowblind. Anchovies in tomato sauce in tiny red cans you have to open with a can opener. They look ready to leap free of tomato paste.

He has an Army surplus P-38 can opener that he carries on his keychain. It is smaller than most keys and has one moving part: the blade. It is not sharp to the touch but does cut the can with leverage. It is an ingenious device.

They are soon bathing in these and more canned fish and seeming bucketsful of olive oil.

Outside:

-I guess I’d even kill a polar bear for you
-Boy that’s saying something.
-It is. They’re special animals.
-Umm...
-They wander through the least inviting climate as lonely nomads looking for something to kill.
-How much time is left?
-For them or us?
-Before she decides to eat us.
-I guess she wouldn't mind a snack and a nap after all this fun.
-I’ll get some more firewood.

She goes off to do so. He feels the safety of his piece.

Off across the clearing the bear stops her frolic abruptly and sniffs the air inquiringly. She returns to her occupation as quickly.

He piles wood on the fire and waits for the girl. He thinks how blonde hair reminds him of Doris Day every day.

Across the way in beer keg bear land the animal demonstrates her prowess at denting the keg by tossing it in the air and swatting it like a beachball.

She rears fully nine feet, lifts the keg with both arms and throws it in the air wherein she takes the mightiest of swipes and catapults the keg fully fifty feet. The musculature of the bear’s arm makes it such that the bear’s swipe is among the strongest animal motions in nature.

It is of velocity and power enough to be truly bone-crushing.

The large claws on enormous forepaws rend flesh like a sickle through hay. The heads of grain fresh-fallen.

She returns with a respectable armload and dumps it on the woodpile. She smiles determined, looks at the polar bear and goes for more wood.

He watches her ass as she walks away. He takes out the second joint and lights it in a big blue cloud. He turns and looks downwind at the bear. Her nose sniffs the air and she is probably also watching dear Doris’s ass as she walks away.

The bear returns her attention to the keg. The keg of good old times. The keg of when the bear lived in a small Ontario zoo and the only thing to do was pace concrete or play with an empty keg in the water where she swam. Polar bears swim to cool down, even in the Arctic, they are so well insulated.

The man inhales and wonders if it’s really familiarity he sees in the way the bear plays with the keg.

Pushed under water six feet by the bear’s hulking forearms the sealed empty keg rockets out of the water fast and high into the air when released. A real gas.

He exhales and puts another couple sticks on the fire. He arranges a few sticks so only their tips are in the fire should he need a flaming club.

Again the polar bear stops her frolic. Sniffs the air and looks so convincingly his direction the man turns to look behind him. The sky is overcast and grey. The wind blows a little harder.

Back in the fish porn tent one girl eats smooshed slippery sardines from his chest and the other girl’s tongue traces the lines of things written in octopus ink on his scrotum.

The things happening in this tent, all this slippery erotic fishy wetness, surely, it must have an odor. A rank and overwhelming odor were you in the tent save for if you are a canned fish fetishist.

The things done with, to and for canned fish in the confines of that tent defy explanation and good taste.

Absently, Mark, covered in canned fish and oil, wonders if he will ever again eat fish, canned or otherwise, and what will he think when he eats or sees or smells it?

Maybe it’s some kind of sick seafood lesbian thing but what matter it stinks to high heaven and there are three of them. Now, there are relative heights to Heaven. What a beast might smell greatly exceeds what a man smoking a joint might smell.

He doesn't really notice the canned fish manifesto wafting through breathable fabric called walls of a colorful tent. The Bedouin live in tents in the desert. A yurt is a tent made from fur.

This tent is a geodesic dome made entirely of synthetic materials that are laughably flammable though allegedly sprayed with a flame retardant liquid. Probably not water.

Under the rain fly (tarp that covers the top of the tent and adds to the overall geometricity of the tent) there are screened sections for air circulation. The tent is getting a little muggy inside.

The two colorful tents of thinnest lightweight fabric make it look like the circus is in town. Town is an otherwise untouched clearing in a large tract of what passes for virgin forest.

He puts the joint to his lips and realizes it’s gone out while he was thinking. He re-lights it with a thoughtful puff...

He emerges from a reverie staring at the embers of the fire. Some time he can’t quite account has passed.

His awareness makes contact with his brain and he turns instinctually to where the bear had long frolicked. There, where there’s nothing to be seen, by the treeline across the clearing. Lucky for this look the approaching bear appears in his peripheral vision where movement is most acutely recognized. He leaps and just misses being trampled and is instead roughly knocked aside in a disoriented mess. A brush with certain steamrolling death, he actually spins in pirouettick motion and turns roughly into the ground.

The charging bear throws barrelsfull of turf into the air. Stones and lichens and thistles and wild garlic and the like.

She streams straight for the nasty canned fish masturbatorium now oddly translucent and seemingly glowing as the fish oils have saturated the colorful fabrics and the midday sun is brilliant.

He wants to get up. To fight. To stop the bear. The sun seems to be gashing through his eyelids.

The bear puts on the brakes when she gets to the writhing shivering windblown tent. She licks the tent. She licks more, voraciously and her nose pokes through the thin wall and she gets a fresh whiff of what’s inside. The occupants do not take notice.

She rises. She raises her left arm and swipes her enormous clawed motion downward to slash open the door of the tent.

Inside, Mark is above the women ejaculating on a pile of fish on their faces. They devour this gooey mixture and border on eating the other’s face.

The bear’s claws stick in Mark’s back and she draws him toward her and catches hold of him with her other arm and draws his unprotected belly to her mouth. She tears the intestines from his belly and devours his liver. Next the spleen. And so on. Mark screams. She tires of the sound and bites his face. The scream ceases. She sticks her snout as deep into the upper chest cavity as she can. It nearly gets stuck. She waves the Mark carcass around and the limbs rattle like twigs.

She tears off a drumstick.

No one can move. The two girls in the tent, lily and whoever, are dumbstruck in shock. Mark is dead. Our hero, would be protagonist, has yet to reach his feet.

The polar bear seems hungry from her activities.

The living man wonders, momentarily, how the bear has avoided overheating.
They live where there is always ice and snow. There is none here in the noonday sun and no water to cool her locomotive.

She slurps and growls and gnaws and chomps and licks all recognizability from the corpse. She throws the dissection and lunges after it as she had earlier with the keg.

One of the girls from the tent emerges. The polar bear raises her head immediately and stares predation. The bear approaches slowly. She licks her lips.

Lily is unaware. She stumbles and drags her feet. It is perhaps a special instinctual somnambulism to effect escape kicked in at just the wrong moment.

Our living man’s hero has done it. Feet firmly planted he reaches into the front of his pants and pulls out the forty-five. One in the chamber. Seven in the clip. The heft is professional. It represents knockdown power. There aren't many bullets.

He releases the safety and feels the gun in his hand. It helps him stand.

-Hey lady what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Who said you can eat my friend? Don’t you think about eating anyone else. I’ll put holes in your hide bigger’n Albuquerque if you don’t step down and run like hell.

He hollers and hoops and throws rocks at the polar bear. The sleepwalking girl drifts slow across the clearing. He has gotten the bear’s attention. She has not decided which quarry appeals. The easy or the maddening.

-That’s right, you in the blood and gore. Don’t you know red has been out since China nuked Tokyo. Turn your blubbery landmass ass around and skedaddle.

He yells and hops and kicks up dust and rocks.

She wavers as she realizes he doesn't seem to be giving up.

At the flip of a chemical switch she focuses her approach on him. Her eyes gleam to kill and lick his flesh.

She stands on her hind legs. She is a tower of bloodstained fury.

-Christ amighty woman you gotta get outta here and leave me alone. I don't want to have to shoot you.

The bear roars in that upright stance. This might have been the best time to shoot the bear, a broad target not in motion.

But he stands there screaming invective profanity. Getting all worked up like a preacher from the south. He waves the gun around to make points. He keeps his finger clear of the trigger guard. Evry bullet counts.

-You stand there yellin and roarin at me and you don't listen to a word I say. Get the hell outta here. These are not for you to eat.

He reaches his left hand into his hip pocket withdraws a Bic and relights the joint hanging from his lip.

-There you stand a tower of flesh. Begone! Away vile temptress! Great bear whore of Babylon! Out Demon!

She charges roaring. The ground shakes.

In the Arctic the polar bear’s largest visible target is its nose. When hunting or lying in wait they cover their nose with their paw.

He sights on the snarl.

Eight thunderclaps sound. With all the gore it’s hard to tell the new holes at first. As she moves the blood pumps through them.

-If you see a bear it’s not supposed to take this many bullets.

She still charges. She’s all momentum and emotion. The man tosses the gun and arms himself with knife and hatchet.

-Hey Bitch!

The loud piercing yell of a woman scorned. She has a fiery lance and a gleam of certainty in her eye. She glows radiant in power. The polar bear turns to her and bears down.

The girl lunges forth and drives her long spear through the left eye deep into the bear’s skull. She leaps clear of this lance and away from the bear she scurries.

Lily still stumbles around the clearing. Sally stares out the hole the bear made in the tent.

Doris and the man embrace. Their antagonist is dispatched.

He looks at the polar bear doubtfully.

-If there’s a bear in the first act it better be a rug by the third.
-What’s that smell?

He breathes deeply.

-Canned fish.
-What?
-Sardines, anchovies, few squid or so.
-Where’s it coming from? Were you eating sardeeeeenes? Is that why I had to kill this bear?
-Why would I do that?
-Umm... where is it coming from?
-The tent.
-They didn't know about the bear
-We didn't know about the fish
-What happened?
-You were gone. I was watching the fire...
-And then?
-Then she was here barreling into me. Knocked me down. Ate Mark. I yelled once I could stand. The gun. And you came riding in from nowhere with your lance.
-Are you hurt?
-Bruises. Abrasions. Thirsty.
-The others?

He looks up.

-Where were you?
-Looking for wood I found a beaver pond I love to look at the naked wood where they’ve chewed the bark off and it’s the cleanest white and looks soft and ancient.
-The others?
-We keep forgetting them.

Lily sleepwalks naked. She has picked a yellow flower from the glade and she talks softly into its stem with the flower to her ear.

Sally stares.

-You think it’s rare to e attacked by an endangered animal?
-Kind of thing that only happens when you jump in the cage at the zoo with a nine iron.
-Aren’t animals bored in the zoo?
-Sometimes it kills them.
-Well I’m glad she wasn't bored when we killed her

He reaches in his shirt pocket and produces the third joint with a flourish. She smiles and kisses him. They light it.

The fourth joint is for after dark.

[stilltrucking]

He points and holds onto her for the comfort she’ll need.

second time that line jumped out at me.

I hate your writting. I hope you understand how I meant that.

[mindbum]

i'm proud to be so inspirational.

[Axanderdeath]

Youy still have not told me. Do you work in the wild or some shit like that?

[mindbum]

ah right sorry.

i grew up on a farm.

i've seen two or three bears out wild. little black bears are cuter than they are scary. and i'm always so interested when i see things like that. even a skunk is damn enthralling. they're smart and curious little beasties.

i've done my share of camping etc. i like outside.

we just got an aquarium in our house. nature is severity and subtlety.

i like the miniature ecosystem. it's like making a short story. or even a longer story if you invest the time. and it's better than tv. (we dont have one of those anyway) the tank is planted with good growing plants. the fish are comfortable and interesting. we have some freshwater shrimp. the paleatus catfish is like a little speckled dumptruck with a handlebar moustache.