Johnny and the Wenidgo, Part I

Have I ever told you about my friend, a mechanic by the name of John? Oh, the countless stories that he can tell of the hunting trips that he’s been on. He’s taken down many a whitetail, but most people would be intrigued to know about the time that Johnny tussled with and then ate a god-damned Wendigo! It happened about ten years ago, up north in Maine’s ever-rolling green pines, Johnny was up to bag himself a moose, figured it would be one hell of a time. But on his hunt he got turned all-around, though he still won’t admit he was lost, soon he had eaten all his beef jerky, leaving him starving in cold, northern frosts. It was then in this desperate state that a bizarre sight came to his eyes: A beast that stood on two feet, like a man, though it towered, at least ten feet high. It had clawed hands, and the greyest of skin, on its head huger antlers spread, upturned, its muscles were ropy, not an ounce of fat, canine teeth sat beneath eyes that burned. “Wendigo,”Johnny said at the sight, calling up on all his folk wisdom, a monster that natives once greatly feared, a beast born out of cannibalism. Some say they were men who ate fellow man, and were then cursed with madness, living death, others said they were beasts, roaming around, every hungry for more human flesh. Johnny could see, even from a distance, that this monster had never been a man, as the beast salivated, Johnny brought up the hunting rifle, right into his hand. He felt his stomach gurgle, still empty, then looked at the monster in his way, Johnny said,”Mythical creature or not, when you’re hungry, a steak is a steak!” He fired four shots, straight into it’s chest, turning grey skin into a smear of red, the monster looked shocked, more than angry, then collapsed to the ground and lay dead... CONCLUDES IN PART II.