Boris the Bear Hunter

A damp wind brushes by your face. You grimace. A warm, pungent musk, evoking thoughts of molten March snow and rotting salmon. An unforgettable smell, unlike anything else in the world, a smoking gun in the wind pointing straight to - "Bear." You snort. You hate bears. Something about their large bulk, their unrefined manner, their rustic way of living disgusts you, burns you to your very core. You stand large as an oak and spit into the wind. It doesnt spit back. "I catch bear," you think to yo...